Unholy Trinities

Hope, resilience, no diet Coke. The key to happiness, at least according to a fitness instructor who, as far as I can tell, is always happy. Easter is not my holiday, but I'm always open to new ideas, especially if they promise a giant step on the road to Nirvana.

Father, Son, Holy Ghost. What little I know of Christianity comes from the Italian Renaissance art class I took when I was a sophomore in college. It was the class that gave me some modicum of hope (and, come to think of it, resilience) while I came to terms with the sad truth that I would never become a doctor because I just could not grasp the relevance of -- much less memorize  -- even the most simple hydrocarbons.

To this day, I would not recognize an organic compound if I tripped over it, but I still remember the  stories that inspired the vivid ancient depictions, the uncanny juxtaposition of allegory and realism. Ascensions, Assumptions, Annunciations, infinite Pietas. No more far fetched than the stories I had been fed in a Jewish Sunday School, of dictation from a mountain top and parting seas and burning bushes, but more fascinating, if only because these stories had been kept from me for so long.

I had entered a college of "Arts and Sciences" committed to the latter -- to that which is quantifiable, empirical, and, I suppose, exact. But a combination of laziness and a desperate need for wiggle room led me away from organic chemistry and dashed my pre-med dreams. I gravitated toward the inexact. I realized how much I liked bullshit.  And, by that, I mean my own bullshit.

It's carried me through, this affinity for the gray areas, an acceptance of the inexplicable. I rarely expect things to go as planned, and though I am fully capable of experiencing a wide range of reactions, I am rarely surprised. This political season has tested me, but I still await that second coming, an utterance that will literally knock my socks off. Until then, I will continue to watch CNN well into the wee hours, and wait.

Easter got in the way last night, and even CNN took a break from non-stop coverage of presidential candidates and terrorism (talk about a juxtaposition of, well, not so much allegory and realism as ridiculous and tragic). Finding Jesus: Faith, Fact, Forgery. A six-part series devoted to an intellectual verification and/or debunking of various stories and relics, with commentary from brilliant and thoughtful theologians and reenactments starring really pretty people. I admit it -- and I mean no disrespect here -- I would follow the guy who played Jesus just about anywhere. Sensitive, soft-spoken, and devastatingly handsome. I get it.

I also have to admit I drifted in and out, and only half paid attention. It was engaging, fascinating, and instructive. I didn't feel as if I needed a shower after listening to the various viewpoints. There were no insults hurled -- at least not while I was awake. Faith, fact, forgery? Yawn. Spiritual exploration be damned, I yearned for a more entertaining trinity --  misogyny, immaturity, inarticulate bombast. Religion suddenly seemed way too scientific and tangible. I craved bullshit. The odd juxtaposition of reality TV and sad reality. The ridiculousness, apparently, is what fuels my soul. Even in the wee hours of Easter Sunday, when resurrection and ascension seem far more believable and mundane than what we see, these days, in the news. And, let's face it, believable and mundane do not sell.

Hope, resilience, no diet Coke. Hope is easy -- there's no other option. Resilience, a little tougher, but, again, the alternatives suck. No diet Coke? No way. That's as ridiculous as saying Donald Trump could be President.