Did Jesus dream?
Were his dreams oracular, spectular, unconsciously omniscient, encompassing future and past, nebulae and black holes?
Were there days when night hung from his shoulders, unlight, leaden remnants of memory or premonition?
Did Jesus delight in the absurdity of dreamscape?
Was he ever afraid to close his eyes?
Did he crawl into bed with his father and mother, wrapped like a warm loaf, dreaming a knock at the door, importuning,
“Friend! I want only a piece of your bread …”
I ask as one in search of rest, tired of caterwauling chaos.
Jesus, did you dream that it would come to this?
You are Emmanuel.
From the milk dream of the infant barely aware of world beyond the womb to the tremor of the cross, the absent vision of the grave, you have harrowed humanity, our conscious and unconscious need,
and hallowed it.