Que Sera Ist Sehr Gut

by on December 31, 2023 :: 0 comments

photo "Whatever Will Be Will Be Something Else" by Tyler Malone

There are loud bangs and whistles, screaming reds and greens bursting overhead. We stand among the masses, shoulder to shoulder, bum to bum. Gluhwein and champagne slosh over onto our frozen fingers. It’s a divine ablution meant to cleanse us in holy preparation on this New Year’s Eve for the coming of the King. Music pulses over head-high speakers, cameras roll from platforms suspended high above the streets, recording the historic event. The crowd pulses, too, a multitudinous amoeba anticipating the arrival of Jesus.

We believe he must be coming in the clouds, among the fireworks, bursting universes of white and blue. To greet him, we sing the popular songs of the day and some from the days when we were children. We await his coming, “He belongs to me like the name that’s written on my door.” He is ours. We await him. We want him to appear.

“Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see.” But we are wishing, straining hard to make him appear, to bring to us a New Year, a new era, a world without end, amen! We are impatient lookers for Jesus.

The after-vision of blasting lights, the reds, the whites; flowers and hearts in the winter sky. The falling snow, celestial works, falling back on us. We are momentarily blinded. Throbbing techno-atonal melodies surround us. We are deafened. The divine light, the heavenly chorus, is missed by every one of us. But Jesus has come (we think). He is here (someone said). He’s somewhere among the crowd, disguised as one of us. We are looking for him, looking for Jesus.

We press forward. We’re human corpuscles in this crowded urban artery. Somewhere upstream there is a huge, pulsing source, propelling us in rhythm to the beat. “He is at the Brandenburg gate!” No, some think he is behind us. The artery clogs. No one cares.

By side streets and luck, we circumvent the gate, but still, no one has seen him. Yellow, blue, red; red, blue, yellow lights sequence, synchronous with the beat. Our faces turn color together. Yellow, blue, red. A conga line appears, snaking through the jumping crowd. Jesus is at the head of the line (someone said), or maybe at the end (said someone else). No one is sure.

Now we wander through a war zone, remnants of battle blanket the streets; red, white, and brown jackets of left-over incendiary wrappers; broken champagne bottles, flattened beer cans, and a misplaced fraulein; we tell her she can board the U Bahn at Friedrichstrasse. Perhaps it will lead her to Jesus.

We can’t find him. Perhaps he arrived. Probably he did not. No matter to us, now.

We stumble through the frozen Berlin night, picking our way through patches of ice. We are looking… not for Jesus. Maybe he is around, but we are looking to make our way through our own New Year. World without end. Amen!

editors note:

We’re here! But where is he? He who made this. He who made us. He who made this for us. Maybe, just maybe, it’s just us. Maybe us and this place is Heaven. Maybe that’ll never be enough. ~ Tyler Malone

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