Bethesda. Where grief and mercy meet. Charmed pool where the chewed and broken await a miracle cure. An angel’s kiss for blind eyes, paralysed minds, twisted bone. Where Heaven may touch Earth’s forgotten. If they beat the rush.
A Crippled Cathedral for those with nowhere left to turn. No more shots. No answers. Just desperate, clawing hope. Where Jesus chose to be. Instead of a feast. To meet a man. To make him an offer. That he makes to us all. In one way. Or another.
2013. An abandoned warehouse on the lost side of town. Where the flotsam of the i-gen pool for healing. Divine recycling. Soul rebooting. From the One who might see in us some hidden worth. Tentative followers of the Vagabond Messiah, Christ of misfits. Those world and churches reject or just can’t handle.
“Do you want to get well?
Half-light. Empty space. Rotting plaster, brickwork, beams. Dust. High above columns of light cut through small broken windows.
Bread and wine received from a punk. Passed to the girl with the wicked scar. On to the alcoholic. Some huddle together. Others alone, slumped in shadow. Backs to walls. Eyes closed in prayer or guilt.
And the preacher recalls the words, that echo in space. Through time. To now. That speak to us in ways we may understand.