Ginger Jesus and the half-Black Madonna. Are Harry and Meghan the Second Coming?
As a man who yearns for the comfort of a once-vibrant faith, I have long sought the wonders and signs of reassurance that the Lord has not forgotten humanity. Who among us in a world ravaged by war and pandemic has not hoped that divinity would one day again descend from a realm on high to walk among us? Dare I hope that those signs flicker before our eyes and the time is nigh, for I believe Harry and Meghan are indeed the Second Coming.
Like the First Incarnation, Harry’s mother rode his father’s ass to a dwelling with stables where she brought his second heir into this world, and into a lineage that is traced back in ancient texts to the first ancestral king of his people. He was attended to by wise counsellors who brought him riches, and by servants unworthy to touch the hem of his garments. His mother shone like a new star in the electronic firmament, radiant and serene, knowing her second born would bear suffering and tribulation from which he could not escape. Little is known of his youth before tragedy struck and darkness surrounded him, until that fateful day in Toronto, home to “a mystical northern race dressed like Scottish bankers,” as writes the scholar.
Like Our Lady of Fatima, they appear everywhere. Photonic, immaterial projections without substance, material only to high priests, evangelists, and rulers. Him, gleaming with pearly innocence, translucent and blue-eyed like the icons in MAGA churches of the American heartland, WASP-y and scrubbed. Her, by his side, the Morning Star of Suits, who suffered stones cast first by those with sin, transcendent of race, neither one nor the other, like the singularity that was us before being scattered from Babel. He, despis’d and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, staring down the guns of Afghan chess pieces with the cold heart of a warrior, yet shedding tears before his disciples over family aggressions more egregious than those of the Taliban, manly and womanly. Together they are wondrously all peoples of the Earth, appearing as one and speaking as one, as though sharing one brain. Man, woman, 1%, beggarly, Royal, common, Black, White, and Ginger, correctly and perfectly re-mixed for the salvation of the post-binary age.
The Profit tells of the signs. Moneychangers gather in retail temples to behold the light proclaiming “H&M” to the nations of the world. Redemption on sale with loyalty points. Masses line up to receive the prolix words of the Spare, promoted by whatever Mount will host their tele-evangelical sermons and welcome us into the confessional. Countless holds on library copies, the indigent and the stingy, hungry for comfort, forego a copy of their own, knowing that a new society of Gideons will distribute it for free in luxurious Vrbo™ dream rentals. In no time, the entirety of the scripture will be read and quoted online, the original order of no consequence, punctuated by pop-ups for Pamprin™ and other varieties of irritant relief.
What is his/her mission, and why have they come now? To save his father, heir to a thousand-year dynasty, who rules by the Grace of God, who rules as the Defender of the Faith, who rules as the Supreme Governor of his church. He comes knowing, in his own grandiloquent words, "that I will get crucified for this.”
If you still doubt, then meditate on what the old-school scriptures say about the End Days. There will come earthquakes, disease, famines, great storms, lightning, and thunder, hailstorms that will destroy the crops of the earth. Nations shall rise against nations, kingdoms against kingdoms, brothers against brothers and sons against fathers. And if you seek a miracle to allay your doubt that H&M are here to herald the new age, then heed the scientists who declare that the sky will runneth over with ozone as at Creation. Divine intervention for the Ginger Californian so vulnerable to sunburn and premature aging.
So let us erect a shrine, Where Harry met Meghan, near the site of the Roman Invictus Games, in Toronto the Good whose beatitude reads, “Blessed are the poor, may they stay south of Bloor.” Yes, build it under the soaring barrel vault of the Eaton Centre where the lost come to find hope and savings. Build Jerusalem, in Canada’s cold and unpleasant land.