By Sander Peters
“Look, it’s Jesus,” shouted another group filed into the customs line. The scene at Ben Gurion had been filled with characters that day. My favorite: The woman walking two miniature chihuahuas, both sporting matching kippot. But now that Jesus was in my presence, the lingering thoughts of the hasidic dogs subsided. Never in my life did I think I would witness a resurrection first hand, let alone in Israel. Looking around in an attempt to spot the mysterious messiah, I saw that all eyes were focused on me. Now I’m accustomed to the murmurs of gossiping youths and didn’t think much of this sentiment until my friends turned towards me and began examining my face as if I was the man reincarnated himself.
Days later, in a kibbutz pool, I sat on the edge, soaking up the shabbos sun, when two Israeli girls swam up to me. In between giggles the girls choked out, “Can you walk across the pool,” giggling “because you’re Jesus” before swimming away. I was beginning to think there was a group meeting I missed.
Coming to Israel, I had a singular construct in mind — renewal. I’ve been to the holy land with my family before but being there with a chavura of Jewish teens was an utterly different experience. Away from my parents, I felt I could gain a better sense of my Jewish identity in connection to the homeland. Yet, what occured could not have been farther from the sort. Expecting renewal, I was granted complete rebirth.
Back at the hotel I took a long look in the mirror, seeing if I could spot any thousand-year old wrinkles. Maybe it was the long blonde hair, I thought, or the blue eyes that propelled such a parallel to be drawn. I’ve gotten some grief in my life for being the most Aryan looking Jew you could find, so it wouldn’t be a total shocker if these were my most Jesus identifying characteristics. Stroking my righteously unkempt summer beard, I realized that it must be the basis of this comparison, but that’s where I thought the similarities ended. I didn’t think I looked like Jesus. I mean wasn’t it Jesus of Nazareth? We just visited there the other day, and I was by far the whitest person around. There’s no way I looked like him, definitely not wearing the fashion I was sporting in this heat.
It was 120 degrees in the Negev that August. The sweat came easily, cascading down our arms and backs. Every material we touched immediately fastened to our bodies. Getting up from a chair meant slowly peeling yourself off, hearing the de-sticking noise of the fabric releasing itself from the surface to reveal an outline of sweat, a shadow self left behind.
Wearing any extra clothing was too daring a feat to undertake, so I decided the male crop top was about to make a major comeback. Most days I would be caught sporting my tank top fashioned into a crop top with a rubber band, as I heard they donned in Biblical times.
This statement immediately caught on with the other boys on my Israel trip and soon everyone was rocking the crop.
However, not everyone was a fan. I would be lying if I said disrupting the peace of every Orthodox group we encountered, regardless of religion, didn't bring a smile to my face. If these various groups couldn’t band together for anything related to their country, religion or politics, maybe they could come together over the hatred of our belly buttons.
The muezzin of the Jerusalem Orthodox Mosque stood outside the door taking long drags on his cigarette. When we came into his sight, he dropped the half-lit cig on the ground, continued to stomp out the extinguished ash while aggressively glaring, then slammed the doors shut. The Christian monks were not fans of ours either, squinting their eyes at us in disgust as we walked past. Depending on the sect, you could hear their disapproving murmurs in several languages, though I was partial to the Greek gossiping. If only they had known they had one third of the trinity in their presence. The rabbis only shook their heads and contemplated where they went wrong. The most forward, a random woman we encountered and offended at the shuk, who screamed at us in broken English, “Lo, lo, lo you need to cover in the name of Hashem.” The woman's directness was appreciated. Her message was not.
Most conservative religions and cultures have a hangup on the blaspheme that they believe the body to be. Yet I didn’t understand why I should have to cover myself. I am made in god's image, aren’t I? I’m certain even this distraught woman would agree with my statement. So why would my creator be offended by my body? I don’t believe he would, but in the eyes of the people who have mistaken their opinion for god’s, the profanity of my hips was too much for their holiness to bear.
This wasn’t the only time my fashion choices were the cause of turmoil. In Jerusalem, we visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Jesus’s tomb resides. I was pretty excited to see the resting place of my namesake, to meet the man himself. I had a couple things to hash out with him and wondered what advice the previous Jesus could teach me about being Jesus now. After some consideration, I believe Jesus was an avid supporter of the crop top. He must have been in order to survive in such desert heat. I imagine Jesus browsing an ancient Hot Topic of sorts, pondering which crop would best suit his biblical bod. Then he would swing by the accessories, to take a gander at the spiked chokers and dangly cross earrings before deciding they were a bit after his time.
Also I was pretty curious about the turning water into wine gag. This must have been a sick party trick he pulled off at Kappa Kappa Galilee. Jesus was known for befriending all peoples, sinners included: sorority sisters, frat brothers, prostitutes – for this reason now we call them sex workers, respectfully. I had some questions myself seeing I wanted to be a polite guest. Was it a BYOB situation or the full Jesus experience, holy water included? I made sure to bring my Hydroflask just in case.
I walked up to the tomb and prepared myself to walk in. The great marble structure resided in a greater marble room, a little ramp leading to the private entryway. First impressions are everything so by this point I’m desperately anxious. As I approached the tomb, I practiced introductions, whispering potential greetings under my mask. The nerves got to me and I couldn't settle on a greeting after realizing “shalom brotha” may be a little informal. Thinking inspiration would strike in the moment, I crouched in order to enter the single person room when a distant scream fulfilled my greatest nightmare.
I saw the tomb keeper rapidly approaching, practically floating across the room, his garments dragging royally on the floor behind him. “You cannot go,” he said, pointing to my bare legs. We had been told to dress modestly, and I had assumed shorts below the knee would suffice. Following my previous encounters, I guess it was bold of me to assume that my calves were holy enough for Jesus despite my beliefs on his fashion. It looked like I was wearing my grandmother's gardening capri’s -- if anyone was supposed to meet Jesus that day, it was me. Surely the tomb keeper was mistaken. But to my dismay, he was not. He held the power here. I exited the building never learning how to enact a miracle.