I saw Jesus today. She drove up in front of my house at 6:35 this morning, jumped from her smoking Ford van, and ran over to hand me my newspaper. She wanted to tell me a story about my dog. I listened and nodded without hearing a word. But I remembered to wave before driving away.
I saw Jesus today. He was ringing a bell outside the “B” entrance at Fred Meyer. He had a moustache and a denim jacket. He asked about my day. I walked away.
I saw Jesus today. He stood on the corner of 6th and Burnside, holding a sign: “Visions of a hamburger.” He’d grown a beard, and it was graying. I thought about buying a burger when I saw him smile, but I kept walking.
I saw Jesus today, and I was too busy to stop, too embarrassed to care, too indifferent to offer help.
On the day that baby was born, covered in rags and placed in a feed trough, shepherds came to worship. But I went shopping.
I was too busy to stop, too embarrassed to care, too indifferent to offer help