I found Jesus in Spain.
Over several agonizing months I searched for him because at some point, I started to sense that he could change my life. One day he appeared holding his cross outside the Cathedral of Seville. So I ordered an espresso at a cafe across the street and waited. His hair fluttered in the breeze but he never moved, almost never blinked. Even from a distance, his eyes pierced me.
When he shifted the weight of the cross off his shoulder and began to lower it, I paid for my coffee and ran over. He pulled a white filter from his pocket and set it between his lips, then a folded paper into which he pinched tobacco. Up close I could see that he had fashioned his crown of thorns from coaxial cables and had drawn lipstick blood down his forehead into his eyebrows.
Stefan was from Poland, and not sure of his English, so I only learned a little. He averaged 100 Euros a day, working three hours. All he had to do was stand still, which he excelled at. I asked if people ever treated him like God, ever confessed anything. He said all the time, but that whenever that happened, he just disappeared into stillness until they left.
I asked why he did it, and he looked at me confused, then rubbed his fingers together and answered, “The money.”
I couldn’t help but push. “Are you a Christian? Is faith some part of this too?” He seemed lost in thought at first, but when I saw that his eyes were looking straight through me, I realized he had gone back to work. So I dropped a 2 euro coin in his suitcase with a clink and left.
