So what’s scarier: a grown man dressed in a bunny costume, an actual adult-sized Bunny, or whatever chemicals comprise these things?
Or, you know, this “bunny”.
Or Jimmy Stewart and his imaginary companion (which is more disturbing: that his friend is invisible or that he’s a bipedal rabbit?); did he eat too many Peeps, read the Bible too much (or not enough), and is this some deep allegory about faith (or the more mundane and secular realm of schizophrenia)?
Which begs the question: what is ultimately more difficult to comprehend: the plot of Donnie Darko or the concept of a man who wasn’t really a man; who was the son of God, but really God, who is nailed to a cross, dies and is resurrected to save us from eternal damnation because of the sins committed by two naked humans eating an apple in a magical garden? And that in order to redeem ourselves, we eat his body and drink his blood? I’d say it’s a push.
Then there is this, which always makes me so happy that it almost compensates for the Catholic upbringing.
For all those concerned about my immortal soul, two things: don’t worry about it and, I’m pretty certain that The Big Guy upstairs has as much empathy for sinners like myself as He has a sense of indignation about cretinous proponents of Creationism who insist the Bible (written by men) proves that Christ lived with the dinosaurs because, you know, the Earth is only six thousand years old.
On the other hand, I’m down with the King:
But enough about Run DMC.
I’m on board with concept of Christ, even as a fictional character. Seriously.
Assuming J.C. is just a top tier model of literary inspiration, it’s hard to find a better guy to follow. (And by follow I mean the example and not the whole drop everything and squeeze through the Eye of a Needle. I’ll leave that between God and the wizards of Wall Street.) Christ, aside from being the Endless Enigma, is (if considered a fictional creation) the most fecund source of fictional creations. Art, literature, music and movies. Especially movies. Some of the movies have actually been satisfactory.
Others, not so much:
But that is the problem when overly earnest believers foist their visions of Christ on others (in artistic venues and less artistic venues of performing arts, like churches): it is propaganda as opposed to honest product. Or worse, it’s an endeavor that reveals the mastermind’s honesty in stark, unavoidable strokes. In Mel Gibson’s case, his hate-mongering, anti-Semitic, bullying and backward conception of Jesus Christ is long on the sadism and short on the compassion. It’s a useful illustration of weak craftmanship backed by a strong wallet, resulting in a blatant advertisement (albeit an unintentional one) for an individual’s bigoted sensibility. It also begs the question of just how deeply repressed Gibson’s homoerotic impulses are. Based on his work on and off the screen, he is straining credulity.
Speaking of which, Christians would do well to embrace the reality that Christ (the man, the myth) was not a honky.
But we can probably all agree that this guy is the Antichrist.
Yet far be it from me to hate on this Holy weekend. The ’70s did not suck!
In conclusion, it is with considerable confidence that we can assert Jesus was black and he had game. In fact, He wore number 15:
Earl “The Pearl” Monroe (AKA “Black Jesus”). That’s some gospel I can get down to.
I’m not certain about any ultimate answers, but as always, I’m content to let Bill Hicks have the last word.