I’m eating a Santa Fe Omelet at 12:15am in a Waffle House by myself.
These mounds of fluffy egg on my fork are soaking in a thin layer of ketchup. The jalapeños are so soggy they barely crunch. It is all REALLY good.
And then I try to mash this very real moment down and through a gospel-shaped hole, but it won’t seem to fit. Why does the reality of this omelet exist in a pocket of my brain that seems so separate from, and unaffected by the pocket of stuff I’ve learned in Sunday school, like the trinity, the sinner’s prayer, and no sex before marriage?
And yet Jesus and his story are supposed to be at the root of EVERYTHING.
No, Ross. You’re thinking too much.He is simply as real and as close as the slight crunch of a limp jalapeño in a bite of moist egg.