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On Easter Sunday morning, in the year two thousand twenty, Anno Domini, many Christian houses of worship in America will, alas, be empty. The believers who ordinarily sit rump-to-rump and shoulder-to-shoulder upon benches in American churches on this holiest Sunday of the year will be elsewhere today, exercising prudence in accordance with the recommendations of medical doctors who have attempted in recent weeks to put the fear of God into them.
The admonitions of some of those dedicated doctors have been presented to the public from a podium shared with elected officials who, by and large, in sermon after sermon, day after day, have softened and diluted the doctors’ apocalyptic pronouncements, by preaching instead an unrelenting, possibly well-intentioned message of hope and optimism. They lavish praise upon their deified leader, who restrains himself, generally, from touching others, but continuously and gratuitously pats himself upon his own back. Frequently these televised displays lead to editorials remarking upon “these unpresidented times in America.”
I write today to wish my readers a blessed and safe celebration of the Resurrection, or of the Passover, or of another ritual of gratitude for the perceived goodness of God. On this occasion I pass on to you a joke that I find pertinent, insightful, and inspiring:
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On a Wednesday morning in Rome, some months ago, the Pope and Donald Trump stood together on a balcony above St. Peter’s Square. An enormous crowd filled the square.
The Pope leaned toward Mr. Trump and said, “Do you know that with one little wave of my hand I can make every person in this crowd go wild with joy? This joy will not be a momentary display, like that of your followers, but will go deep into their hearts and for the rest of their lives whenever they speak of this day, they will rejoice!”
Trump replied, “I seriously doubt that, with one wave of your hand? Show me!”
So the Pope slapped him.
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