Dear John

Dear John, Every few years a messiah arrives in Jerusalem, shakes hands, makes demands and promises to make peace in our time. Then when the whole thing blows up in his face, he throws up his hands and flies back blaming the ungrateful Jews for not embracing his vision. You must have known this would happen. So many false messiahs have come before you, squinting against the bright sunshine, muttering under their breath to aides and assistants, pounding the table at meetings, downing martinis and fantasizing about the Nobel Peace Prize that they were sure was waiting for them at the end.