To be fair, he went out of his way to tell me he was not Jesus.

It was nearly the first thing he said. But he looked like Jesus. Well – you know – he looked like the depictions of Jesus by all the people who have never seen Him. And it doesn’t matter that, as far as I know, there is not one indication in the Bible of what Jesus looked like. Except that is kind of odd. Tall, short, plump, long face – you’d think there would be something. But he looked like what we accept Jesus looked like.

He was standing on the boardwalk of Halifax harbour. It was late evening in the off season. There were few passerbys, either Samaritans or Levites or priests.

And he smelled like Jesus. That is, he smelled like Jesus if Jesus had partaken of a lot of that water he had turned to wine for the wedding. A lot of it. I suppose Jesus would have been as cheerful, too.

“Look!” He pointed toward a dock jutting into the water. “Crosses.”

I turned to look.

“One.” He started counting. “Two. Three!” He sounded pleased. “Four.” He sounded disappointed.

If you looked with forethought, you could decipher some large crosses among the wooden posts and boards which made the docks. Not that I’m sure I could point them out to anyone else.

He said that crosses were important. 

I did not argue.

He said that people look down on the disadvantaged.

I did not argue.

He said that people called them names and that they were really as good as anyone else and why did people make fun of them and keep avoiding them.

I could have answered, but I did not.

“Can ya help me out?” This is where he again told me he was not Jesus. He said that I might as well call him Mike. He pointed at the crosses again. “Ya gotta believe.”

I helped him out.

I said: “Here you go, Mike.”

He burst into laughter.

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