It was in this place that he finally ceased wandering. No longer content to mull among the goatherds and incurable nor to pace the gilded marble of the Vatican’s sepulchred halls. His lamb’s heart stiffened from the cold contents of grubby subway sleeping bags, the slick varnished desks of the city. No longer did people weep with tears of blood, enraptured only by the Word—today’s miracles aren’t worth the receipts they’re printed on. Rousing Lazarus from his wormy bed, routing demons to a squealing frenzy of sea-drowned pigs— only so much myth and fairytale. Old tricks reduced to bookish curio, drowsy seminar in a lifeless tongue. Seeing this, Jesus knew he’d seen enough. Now his only neighbours are a whitewashed nursing home and a proud old magnolia that shades a fountain filled with dessicated leaves. Each Sunday he fatherly ushers a small but dedicated flock of floral women, their sons and husbands dressed to make a good impression. For the men, etern...