On high

A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar, and the priest is crying, he’s at the only pulpit he can find. All the saints I know are dead. You tell him you know something about loss and the miracle of a body of memories that just won’t rot. You’re wearing your halo and its burning above your head, scorching the ceiling, a fever you haven’t felt for years, and you’re another misused martyr in a dive bar. The rabbi is mourning. I’ve never even met my messiah. You tell him you know something about waiting and the difference it brings between having faith in someone and what they say. You’ve been here before and you’re trying to swallow the only thing you think can bring salvation, but nothing poured over ice has ever been a successful candidate for transubstantiation. This priest is holding on to an old promise that his savior will be back and the rabbi wants to meet his redeemer, and maybe like you, they think they can find them here, and maybe like you, they think they are the same person. A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar, and their problems meet yours, and you tell them. If Christ was a carpenter, then maybe he built his own cross.

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