What might happen if a fairy tale witch visited the new born baby
My gift for the child:
No wife, kids, home; No money sense. Unemployable.
Friends, yes. But the wrong sort –
The workshy, women, wimps,
Petty infringers of the law, persons
With notifiable diseases,
Poll tax collectors, tarts;
The bottom rung.
His end?
I think we’ll make it
Public, prolonged, painful.
Right, said the baby. That was roughly
What we had in mind.
Wednesday 16 December 2009
Saturday 5 December 2009
Ups and Downs
“Who do people say that I am?”
It seemed a strange question to ask: he’s Jesus, the Teacher. It’s obvious who he is. Yet I felt that there was more to it than that. There was a look in his eyes, which made me think his, apparently, throwaway question was anything but throwaway. Something was coming. I didn’t know what, but I felt uncomfortable, uncertain. Someone was going to end up looking stupid. I didn’t want it to be me, so I kept my mouth shut and tried to find a natural way to avoid any sudden glances. I listened, I observed, but I wouldn’t be drawn into it.
Some of the others replied, sheepishly, “Some say John.”
“Or Elijah.”
Confidence was faltering.
“Or Jeremiah.”
Confidence was almost gone.
“Or… another prophet…”
Sometimes, it’s strange being amongst a bunch of Galileans – their accent’s strange. Half of them are fishermen, at that: I’m much happier with my feet on dry ground. But when they start snatching at answers like that, it affords some relief: it keeps the attention away from me.
“But you. Who do you say I am.”
Rats. The pressure was on again. Everyone glanced at each other. No one dared shrug shoulders, but… pregnant silence. Someone had to break it. Of course, Peter couldn’t take it much longer. You could rely on him. He’s an impetuous fellow. He doesn’t do uncertain silences for long.
Then he blurted it out: “You are the Christ.”
Everyone’s head swung to stare at him.
“The Son of the living God.”
His head spun to receive one gaze after another.
“Don’t go overboard, Peter.” That was me, but I didn’t dare say it: I just thought it, silently.
Now, this felt humorous: waiting for Peter to get dealt with again. He had a habit of putting his foot right in it. He always knew he’d done it, too. You could see from the way his lower lip wrinkled.
“Simon, son of Jonah…”
Here it comes.
“You are blessed, indeed.”
What?
“No man told you that. It was my Father in heaven.”
Blow me down. Peter landed on his feet, for once. And weren’t we going to know it? He managed to suppress the beaming grin, but he stood up straight, that little bit taller than usual and his chest stuck out - only a tiny fraction of a cubit, but I think we all spotted it. The Teacher seemed quite content with that.
He carried on, “You are a rock and on that rock I will build my church. Death, with all its power, won’t beat it down. I’ll give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven. What you stop on earth will be stopped in heaven. What you allow will be allowed in heaven.”
So much for looking stupid.
Then the Teacher’s attention scanned around the group, sometimes lingering on chosen individuals. At times like this, he seemed to be drilling a hole in our minds. “Don’t tell anyone that I am the Christ – no one, do you understand?”
That’s weird. If he really is the Christ, then why not shout it from the rooftops? Use it, or loose it. Up to him, I suppose.
He changed the spell. “We must go to Jerusalem.”
I couldn’t get the connection. Geographically, too, it seemed a bit of a U-turn. We were north of Galilee, going in the opposite way.
“I have unfinished business there. But I warn you: it won’t be easy.”
There were a few worried looks as he continued, “The authorities plan to make me suffer.”
Several people glanced at each other.
And then, plainly, “In fact, they’re going to kill me.”
Gasps, heads spinning, shrugged shoulders, wild gestures, mayhem. Everyone was talking at once. The Teacher carried on, now reassuring, but by this time, no one was listening. It was a storm that wouldn’t be stilled.
Then, Peter strode to centre stage, raised his frame in authority and with a hand on each of the Teacher’s shoulders, shrieked above the hubbub, “Never, Lord, this shall never happen to you!”
With that everyone quietened for the man of the moment, just in time for the Teacher’s caustic reply, “Get behind me, Satan! You get in the way. You don’t think like God, you think like men!”
Silence. That was harsh. Satan? Where we come from, that’s the last thing you call anyone.
I studied Peter. I thought he was glaring at the Teacher, but that surly fisherman was left motionless. Eyes fixed, he just stared. I realised that he was focused on infinity, his face muscles limp, his arms hanging as if paralysed; his mouth dropping a little open; I couldn’t even see him breathing. It was like he was dead on his feet. I didn’t know how long before he’d collapse. I watched for movement: usually, his chest would shudder, slightly, as he sobbed, silently, or his lip would quiver, but this time, nothing.
We were all numb, except one woman, who went, quietly, to Peter and embraced him, to comfort him. She was tiny against his enormous, rough, fisherman’s frame and yet, was there anything else holding him up? Then, one tear trickled down his cheek – one only. He couldn’t even cry. Never before, nor since, did I see Peter like that.
The Teacher moved, sat on a stool and continued. Now, against the stark silence, his words seemed to echo as in an amphitheatre.
“If anyone wants to come after me, deny yourself, take up your cross and, then, come, follow me. If you try to save your life, you’ll loose it for sure, but if you loose your life for me, then you’ll discover real life. What good would it be, if you win the whole planet, but loose your soul – the heart of who you are? Can you buy your soul back, again? But I’m going to return, in God’s glory – with his angels – and then, I’ll reward every person as he, or she deserves. Some of you won’t die before you see me arrive in my kingdom – believe me!”
It was a speech, which could have rocked whole nations, but we were crushed. There was nothing left to respond with.
Then, suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. My head swung round so fast, I ricked my neck. It was another of the women. She must have read my feelings. With a slow, reassuring, kind nod, she spoke, though no sound came out, only her lips moved: “It’ll be all right, Judas.”
Oh no, it wouldn’t.
Steve Wilkinson
It seemed a strange question to ask: he’s Jesus, the Teacher. It’s obvious who he is. Yet I felt that there was more to it than that. There was a look in his eyes, which made me think his, apparently, throwaway question was anything but throwaway. Something was coming. I didn’t know what, but I felt uncomfortable, uncertain. Someone was going to end up looking stupid. I didn’t want it to be me, so I kept my mouth shut and tried to find a natural way to avoid any sudden glances. I listened, I observed, but I wouldn’t be drawn into it.
Some of the others replied, sheepishly, “Some say John.”
“Or Elijah.”
Confidence was faltering.
“Or Jeremiah.”
Confidence was almost gone.
“Or… another prophet…”
Sometimes, it’s strange being amongst a bunch of Galileans – their accent’s strange. Half of them are fishermen, at that: I’m much happier with my feet on dry ground. But when they start snatching at answers like that, it affords some relief: it keeps the attention away from me.
“But you. Who do you say I am.”
Rats. The pressure was on again. Everyone glanced at each other. No one dared shrug shoulders, but… pregnant silence. Someone had to break it. Of course, Peter couldn’t take it much longer. You could rely on him. He’s an impetuous fellow. He doesn’t do uncertain silences for long.
Then he blurted it out: “You are the Christ.”
Everyone’s head swung to stare at him.
“The Son of the living God.”
His head spun to receive one gaze after another.
“Don’t go overboard, Peter.” That was me, but I didn’t dare say it: I just thought it, silently.
Now, this felt humorous: waiting for Peter to get dealt with again. He had a habit of putting his foot right in it. He always knew he’d done it, too. You could see from the way his lower lip wrinkled.
“Simon, son of Jonah…”
Here it comes.
“You are blessed, indeed.”
What?
“No man told you that. It was my Father in heaven.”
Blow me down. Peter landed on his feet, for once. And weren’t we going to know it? He managed to suppress the beaming grin, but he stood up straight, that little bit taller than usual and his chest stuck out - only a tiny fraction of a cubit, but I think we all spotted it. The Teacher seemed quite content with that.
He carried on, “You are a rock and on that rock I will build my church. Death, with all its power, won’t beat it down. I’ll give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven. What you stop on earth will be stopped in heaven. What you allow will be allowed in heaven.”
So much for looking stupid.
Then the Teacher’s attention scanned around the group, sometimes lingering on chosen individuals. At times like this, he seemed to be drilling a hole in our minds. “Don’t tell anyone that I am the Christ – no one, do you understand?”
That’s weird. If he really is the Christ, then why not shout it from the rooftops? Use it, or loose it. Up to him, I suppose.
He changed the spell. “We must go to Jerusalem.”
I couldn’t get the connection. Geographically, too, it seemed a bit of a U-turn. We were north of Galilee, going in the opposite way.
“I have unfinished business there. But I warn you: it won’t be easy.”
There were a few worried looks as he continued, “The authorities plan to make me suffer.”
Several people glanced at each other.
And then, plainly, “In fact, they’re going to kill me.”
Gasps, heads spinning, shrugged shoulders, wild gestures, mayhem. Everyone was talking at once. The Teacher carried on, now reassuring, but by this time, no one was listening. It was a storm that wouldn’t be stilled.
Then, Peter strode to centre stage, raised his frame in authority and with a hand on each of the Teacher’s shoulders, shrieked above the hubbub, “Never, Lord, this shall never happen to you!”
With that everyone quietened for the man of the moment, just in time for the Teacher’s caustic reply, “Get behind me, Satan! You get in the way. You don’t think like God, you think like men!”
Silence. That was harsh. Satan? Where we come from, that’s the last thing you call anyone.
I studied Peter. I thought he was glaring at the Teacher, but that surly fisherman was left motionless. Eyes fixed, he just stared. I realised that he was focused on infinity, his face muscles limp, his arms hanging as if paralysed; his mouth dropping a little open; I couldn’t even see him breathing. It was like he was dead on his feet. I didn’t know how long before he’d collapse. I watched for movement: usually, his chest would shudder, slightly, as he sobbed, silently, or his lip would quiver, but this time, nothing.
We were all numb, except one woman, who went, quietly, to Peter and embraced him, to comfort him. She was tiny against his enormous, rough, fisherman’s frame and yet, was there anything else holding him up? Then, one tear trickled down his cheek – one only. He couldn’t even cry. Never before, nor since, did I see Peter like that.
The Teacher moved, sat on a stool and continued. Now, against the stark silence, his words seemed to echo as in an amphitheatre.
“If anyone wants to come after me, deny yourself, take up your cross and, then, come, follow me. If you try to save your life, you’ll loose it for sure, but if you loose your life for me, then you’ll discover real life. What good would it be, if you win the whole planet, but loose your soul – the heart of who you are? Can you buy your soul back, again? But I’m going to return, in God’s glory – with his angels – and then, I’ll reward every person as he, or she deserves. Some of you won’t die before you see me arrive in my kingdom – believe me!”
It was a speech, which could have rocked whole nations, but we were crushed. There was nothing left to respond with.
Then, suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. My head swung round so fast, I ricked my neck. It was another of the women. She must have read my feelings. With a slow, reassuring, kind nod, she spoke, though no sound came out, only her lips moved: “It’ll be all right, Judas.”
Oh no, it wouldn’t.
Steve Wilkinson
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