“Is Jesus the Son of God, or a mortal man?” I asked Kahlil Gibran, seated to my right in this small bar in the remote town of Lander, Wyoming. The twentieth-century prophet was centuries away and miles removed from his homeland of Lebanon.
He took a drag off his cigarette, thought silently for a moment, blew the smoke into the air, and turned to me with deep knowing in his eyes.
“I know a little secret,” he confessed.
“What is that secret?”
“Once every hundred years Jesus of Nazareth meets Jesus of the Christian in a garden in the hills of Lebanon. And they talk long; and each time, Jesus of Nazareth tells Jesus of the Christian, ‘My friend, I feel we shall never, ever agree.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“Jesus is often misunderstood.”
“Yes, He told me so tonight in this bar. But is He Divine?”
“There are three miracles of our brother Jesus not yet recorded in the Book: the first that He was a man like you and me; the second that He had a sense of humor; and the third that He knew He was a conqueror though conquered.”
“You said He was ‘a man like you and me’. So He was a mortal after all?”
“I didn’t exactly say that,” Kahlil remarked, shaking his head. Then he pointed to a small crucifix that was behind the bar, partially concealed between the cash register and a bottle of Jamaican rum.
“What do Christians see when they look at a crucifix?” he asked.
I studied it for a moment. “They see a man dying on the cross for the sins of mankind,” I answered.
“Yes. And they see a man in great agony, suffering as he clings to life, do they not?”
“I would assume most do.”
“And every year on Good Friday, the anniversary of His death, humanity honors him with funeral orations, lamentations, and weeping. Perhaps humanity would do well to see a great spirit wearing a crown of thorns, holding out his arms to the infinite and gazing through the veil of death into the depths of life, conquering death through death, and giving life to those who lie in their tombs.”
“So, He is the Son of God?” Again, I was comfused.
“I am merely saying that humanity all too often sees in Jesus a man who was born poor, who lived like a wretch and was humiliated like a weakling, crucified as a criminal. I say Jesus did not live in poverty or fear; neither did he die suffering or complaining. But he lived in revolt, was crucified as a rebel and died a giant.”
I turned to the corner of the bar where Jesus was engaging Sigmund Freud in a friendly game of pool. He walked gracefully to the head of the table, gently placed the cue ball on its mark, lined up His shot, and suddenly turned to me. He smiled. He stared at me, kindly. And without even turning His eyes back to the table He struck a thunderous blow.It was like the sound of thunder inside the bar. I looked at the pool table. In remarkable fashion, every ball went in on the break! Another miracle shot! He was definitely on a roll tonight.
Moses, Muhammad and Buddha congratulated him. Freud expressed his disbelief and disgust. I smiled, and turned my attention back to Gibran.
“As I was saying, Jesus did not come from beyond the blue horizon to in order to make suffering a symbol of life, but rather to make life a symbol of truth and liberty. He did not come down from the supreme circle of light to destroy dwellings and build church steeples and monasteries over their ruins, nor to persuade men to become priests or pastors. He came to breathe into the air of this earth a spirit as powerful as it was new, with the strength to undermine the foundations of all the monarchies erected over the bones of mankind. He came to demolish the palaces constructed over the tombs of the weak and to destroy the idols erected over the corpses of the poor.”
“So, He was the Son of God?”
“Jesus did not come to teach men how to build huge cathedrals and opulent temples alongside humble cottages and cold, dark hovels. He came to make the heart of man a temple, his soul into an altar, and his spirit into a priest.”
“Was He God or man?” I insisted.
Kahlil sighed. “You won’t let it go, will you?”
“No, I won’t.”
“As I said earlier, I know of only one great truth.”
“What is that one great truth?”
Kahlil took a long, purposeful drag of his cigarette, and followed it with a sip of drink. Then he looked directly in my eyes for a few seconds, as if trying to make sure I was fully ready to comprehend the depths of the words he was about to speak. When he finally spoke, it was with authority and conviction.
“If what Jesus preached was beautiful and true, does it matter?”
I was stunned by the profoundness of the reply. He repeated it again to make sure I fully grasped its essence.
“Really, if what Jesus preached was good and came from a Higher Source, does it matter whether He was God or man?”
Kahlil was absolutely right. Jesus spoke of Love and Truth. He inspired millions to live a better life. Isn’t that all that matters? And maybe it’s a more compelling story if He was a man who attained god-like acumen while on this earth as opposed to a God who became imprisoned in flesh and blood. Still, I didn’t have an answer to the age-old question. Just then I looked across the bar where Jesus was standing with The Others. He smiled at me and winked, as if He knew the question of His true divinity, for this moment, still remained a mystery.
“I must be going,” Kahlil said, rising.
“So soon?”
“Yes. I can’t focus on this baseball game on TV with all your incessant questioning.”
“I’ll stop asking questions until the game’s over. I promise!”
He smiled. I knew he was only teasing.
“Actually, I don’t want to worry my wife,” he confessed, “I told her I was just going out for a pack of cigarettes and it’s been over an hour.”
“You have a wife on this side of life?”
He chuckled. “Half of what I say is meaningless. I say it so that the other half may reach you.”
We shook hands. He wished me luck on my journey, and reminded to always remain humble and to keep a fertile and open mind. Then, quoting The Prophet one last time, he left me with three lines of wisdom.
“Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
“And when you reach the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
“And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.”
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