The Trials of an American Dilettante

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Thirty-Three

I was walking home from the British Embassy after the 1-1 World Cup England/U.S. tie when I turned thirty-three.

I dread birthdays for the self-aggrandizing aspect of them. Yes, its supposed to be the one day you’re allowed to be selfish, but it oddly seems extra wrong to make a fuss about it. After all, it’s a celebration resulting from merely staying alive.

And speaking of staying alive (as well as self-aggrandizement), Jesus was thirty-three when he died. I first learned that after visiting La Sagrada Familia and overhearing a guide talk about the magic square on the Passion façade. Each column, row and diagonal adds to 33, Jesus’ death age.

1-14-14-4

11-7-6-9

8-10-10-5

13-2-3-15

Years later, I was on Costa Rican beach when a Tico explained to me why Bob Marley was so important. “He came from nothing; he was man like you and me. And he ascended to greatness, his music saving us all. And he was 33 when he died, like Jesus.”

As it turns out, Bob Marley was 36 when he died.

But who cares? Why is 33 significant at all? Why isn’t it just a number?

According to Christian tradition, 33 is the age of perfection. Not young, not old, 33 is the balance point. In heaven, they say, we will be 33 forever. Of course, the average life expectancy in the 1st century was about twenty, making the balance age ten. And today, it would be about forty-three.

Scoffing at the idea, I told my friend Abeer that Christians believed 33 was the perfect age of man. Abeer, in all seriousness, agreed. “No, we Muslims believe this as well. In paradise, we will be 33 forever.”

Well, we have a year to find out.