This poem was originally titled “Sneezin’ Jesus.” I was trying to write poems based on the strongest memories from each year of my life. Something like this happened to me in grade school, but not exactly this. I was the innkeeper in the Nativity Play, not Jesus in the Passion Play. It’s funny how in our memories our role in events is always outsized.
People still remember my Jesus
in the Easter Passion Play
at St. Patrick’s Elementary School
in 1993. To play Jesus was an honor
for a geeky, asthmatic neophyte.
On Good Friday, they dragged
the costumes out of storage
untouched since last year.
The centurions immaculate
in their shining armor.
The dusty robes of the Pharisees
were fit with legalist perfection.
My robes, also dusty,
a bit scratchy. My nose
also a bit scratchy.
We processed
from station to station,
suffering as He suffered.
My allergies, suffering.
Did no one wash these
things? Is this a new
kind of incense?
I sneezed, unnoticed
at first. But then,
after three or four
sneezes, the snickering
started. By the time
Veronica wiped my face,
really my nose,
with the Shroud of Turin,
the parishioners laughed
at every uncontrollable
nasal exertion.
I ended with my famous lines.
“Father, forgive them.
They know not what they do.”
And in response, I heard
a choir of angels:
God bless you.
God bless you.
God bless you.
