One afternoon in Jerusalem, I bought Jesus a Diet Coke. I had run into the bearded and barefoot middle-aged man in white robes several times in the narrow alleys of the Old City. We had a nodding acquaintance, but I was always rushing off to my next interview, and he was usually on his way to Mass at the Holy Sepulchre.
This time I invited him into a nearby Arab café. A Detroit native, he lived without money and depended on the kindness of strangers for food and accommodations, and had long been a fixture in the Old City. He seemed like a gentle soul who followed in the literal footsteps of his savior.
