I must have been the first Jewish boy for about 2000 years to have been given the first name Jesus. Given, note, not Christened. Jesus is not my Christian name.

My Pop, bless his soul, had read how they kept finding these graves, ossuaries they called them, in Jerusalem, in the Holy Land, with the names Jesus Joseph and Mary engraved on them. The experts said they couldn’t have been the Jesus Joseph and Mary because they came from the Gallilee so wouldn’t all have been buried in Jerusalem, and in any event, and this was the bit that got Pop, Jesus and Joseph and Mary were common Jewish names in those days.

Well thought my Pop, if Jesus was a good Jewish name and we’re talking about the times of the second temple here, then I’m going to call my little puppy Jesus. A good Jewish name. In any event, it was a common name in Latin countries, as my Pop knew from his love of Cuban music and cigars, and it might prove an invaluable insurance policy if the bad times came again. What bad times he was thinking of I was never rightly sure. Maybe another inquisition.

And so I was named. To the rabbi I was Jesse, father of David, but to everyone else, I was Jesus. Jesus Goldblatt.

I’ve got to hand it to my Pop. At least he was consistent. He called my sister Mary.