The Zealot is God’s mailman. He delivers the word no matter the weather, but safety is paramount. He never wears his white robes in the snow and keeps his arms circled in reflective tape while a cycler’s red flashing beacon persists upon his hips. He has no need for an iPod as hip-hop hymns play in his head and he dances to a mental beat. He brandishes his beard with pride, having never shaved since the day he met the lord face to face. Perfect pearly whites are the only things that shine behind the grayed fall of facial hair, and they’re always smiling. Locks of granite hair drip from his brimless churchat bringing the casual observer eye to eye with black rimmed spectacles. His eyes are vacant and see the world only for what it is: a godless and forsaken society that he will be free from come death, and he would like nothing more than to take a few of us down with him (casually of course). He is a sheppard with no sheep.
He shakes his Jesus born cross at the passing traffic and smiles, for he knows. Drivers toot their horns in recognition as he waves them on by. Maybe these people rethink their lives, particularly after they pass the A&W bible quote marquee. Most take it for the spectacle it is and laugh to themselves, only building the hilarity as they approach the Interstate. The Zealot does not see these ones, he is only there for the joy he himself experiences, running a marathon in dance on the side of any street.
Some say he was hit by lightning or dosed himself silly on LSD, but nobody stops to ask unless it be the butt of some inside joke. I don’t stop to ask, I just smile to myself, knowing he is he and I am me and we can be what we want to be.
