Portrait of an Ordinary God

by Michael Mark

Maybe Jesus never wiped the sweat
from his brow with his forearm
in the dusty shade of an olive grove

or loosened the knot on his robe
for comfort.  And consequently such moments
are not memorialized in museums

on our Grand Mediterranean Vacation.
More likely, everyday acts
of a deity, between

giving sight to the blind and feeding
the masses with two fish pulled from the sand,
are not the stuff of masterpieces.  But

wouldn’t it be refreshing to see
a Tintoretto of the Son of Man stretching out
those lithe arms, not to embrace

all humankind, but just to ease
some cramped muscles after a night
washing lepers’ sores?

Call me a cranky peasant, but every painting
in every village church or Pope-blessed
basilica shows the same two poses:

suffering and forgiving.  After three countries
in five days, I get it.  All I want
is one portrait of the King of the Jews,

sandals slung over his shoulder, cooling
his feet in the Galilee, one Renaissance tapestry
of Him on his back,

looking at clouds, daydreaming.  Jesus
may never have skimmed stones
on the water’s surface while pondering

original sin, but couldn’t you see him
give a thumbs up to his flock, letting them know
it’s not only going to work out in the end,

it’s going to be awesome, dude!
I’d buy that 15 Euro poster, tack it up
over the couch in the den, so when the wife says

the gutters need cleaning,
I’d execute that gesture with practiced perfection.
Maybe even release a pained, saintly sigh

before I lift and shoulder the ladder.