Showing posts with label Cross. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cross. Show all posts

Wednesday, 16 September 2015

Staying put - not

You know, it’s funny, but a lot of people used to tell me that I looked quite like him. People mistook us for one another much more while he was alive, obviously, but it continued for a little while after he was executed… which is odd, to be honest.
       Sorry, I’ve got ahead of myself already. I’ll try to tell my story in the right order.
       It was a right old rum do right from the start. Here’s me, earning an honest crust looking after the flowerbeds and mowing the lawns for Jerusalem Parks & Public Recreation Spaces Department. Official title: Horticultural Environment Operative. That’s ‘gardener’ to you and me, guv.
       Anyway, I used to weed and mow and plant and prune and mulch and muck-spread and trim and cultivate, and then they gave me another job, because Tim Hayers, the bloke that used to be in charge, moved to Damascus after his son was healed of blindness. No-one else wanted the job, so I took it. It was worth a bit more money, which is always handy, isn’t it? But I didn’t think it would be too difficult.
       So that’s how I became Senior Executive Administrator (Graves & Tombs). It was down to me to keep the tombs tidy and free from squatters and such-like, and to make sure the rents were paid up and that the private ones were looked after properly.
Well, one Friday (just before Pentecost, actually) this chap who signed himself J O Arimathea strolls in and says his private tomb is going to be occupied from that evening onwards. He looked well, but then I realised he meant it was going to be some other poor blighter that would be occupying the tomb! Silly me!
       So I helped him fill out the form and he said he’d be along on Monday with the payment and to settle every-thing. No problem; that’s how it was usually done. Get the body installed (interred, they call it) as quickly as possible. But they’re not going anywhere – that’s what I always say – although some of them are definitely going off, due to the hot climate. But this one was very different. Weird.
       See, I went away for the holiday weekend, and when I came back on the Monday, the place was deserted. And when I say deserted, I mean that the corpse they’d put in J O Arimathea’s cave was gone! Vamoose!
       The body, which had been put into the tomb and sealed up on the Friday afternoon was a freshly crucified man originally from Nazareth, named Jesus. The Romans knew how to execute people, and yet this bloke had been seriously beaten as well before being put on the cross, so he was never going to survive the ordeal.
       I can only describe it as rum that people started saying they had seen the man alive again, which was impossible. Wasn’t it?
       One of the rumours was that he hadn’t really died in the first place. Yes, some slightly unrealistic folks actually thought he had just stopped breathing for a while on the cross, and hoodwinked the experienced executioners into thinking he was dead. I can’t buy that. If you stop breathing for even a very short while when you are being crucified, you tend to die. On a cross it’s far too painful to pretend anything. And these soldiers would have certainly had some way of making sure their victims were dead – they used to break their legs or do some sort of blood test, as I understand it. Anyway, let’s concede that for a moment. The rest of the theory says that in the cool atmosphere of the tomb, this not-dead preacher revived, and got out.
       Now, consider: this is a man in need of several weeks in intensive care, yet somehow he manages to roll away a ton or more of Palestinian granite, single-handedly, run through the streets of the Capital (on his crucified feet, don’t forget), appear to his followers and convince them that he’s the risen Lord of Life... Yes, it sounds unlikely. But when you’re faced with a dead man alive again, you look for alternative explanations, no matter how implausible.
       It looked bad for JP&PRS. We really ought to be sure that the bodies we bury are actually dead ones, right?
       One of the most-weird stories (spread by people who have never met me, that’s for sure) goes like this: a look-alike (perhaps me, perhaps someone else) was paid off to stand in his place, and that somehow a switch was made between the trial and the execution, and the stunt double was crucified instead. Their story says the real chap was whisked way to safety and is laying low for a while, keeping his mouth shut and his miracles to himself.
       That’s such a wild idea! I mean, how much cash would someone have to be offered to go through that sort of ordeal? How could he ever spend it, if he ends up dead? Perhaps the money went to the surviving relatives? No, no, come on, it’s an extreme suggestion. All the right people would have to be in all the right places at the right time, and all of the wrong people would have to not notice that it was someone else… It’s too much of a stretch.
       And then again, the very ones who cooked up the idea would be the people who are right now making the claims about resurrection, Messiahhood, miracles, and are currently getting it in the neck (and hands and feet) for their trouble. No-one dies horribly with a noble look on his face for the sake of a lie of his own invention, does he?
       Oh yes, and I’d be dead, in my own tomb just now, and I’m not, obviously, so it couldn’t be, they shouldn’t and I’m unlikely to have done so, right? Stands to reason.
       Then a story went around for a while that graverobbers had nicked the corpse, but that was just as unlikely (especially with a squadron of guards) – and we could do without that reputation, either. Look, if the authorities had stolen it, they would have publicly displayed the corpse as soon as the rumours about the preacher coming back to life started. That wasn’t what they wanted at all!
       And I can’t swallow that his followers stole the body. It’s the same problem as when they were supposed to do a switch and get a body-double crucified… it’s a lie and they know it is and no-one goes to their death to defend a complete fabrication.
       So I don’t know what really happened. It’s too complicated for the likes of me. I’ll just get on with the weeding and pruning and mowing and customer liaison.
       How am I going to sort out all the paperwork? There’s Tomb Occupation Form 201 which has to be rescinded by a Raised from the Dead (Surprise Contingency) Emergency Memo J11:25. One of my colleagues had to create that form after incidents in Nain, Bethany and near Galilee, thanks to this Jesus of Nazareth himself.
       There’s the matter of rental of the tomb from Friday evening to Sunday morning, since someone’s got to pay.
       Three days @ D12 per month (3/31sts)       D1.16
       plus tax                                                                D0.16
       plus admin fees                                                  D0.40
       total                                                                       D1.72
       Call it D1.50 for cash.
       And our Grave Clothes Wrapping Service, the provision of Spicy Aromatic Gum and 100% Cotton Freshly Laundered Linen Shroud (with Head-dress) for the Recently Deceased, plus, Tomb Sealing Fee, Flowers, Unexpected Extras, and several other sundries we always factor in to the final bill. And don’t forget the visitors entrance tariff: two denarii per visitor, so that’s three women, two men who ran in and out again, plus the so-called ‘angels’ – I haven’t seen a penny of that, of course. It’s a paperwork nightmare, I can tell you.
       What may or may not become public knowledge is the much bigger problem that befell us on the Friday afternoon of that same weekend. Now, don’t spread this around, or even more of the relatives will be claiming all sots of fees back again – some have started to kick off, as you can probably guess from the way I’m saying this. You see, there was what some describe as a tiny little earthquake, and a number of our tombs were… well, compromised, and one or two (several hundred, to be exact) corpses have – er – gone missing. That’s all I’ll say. No names, no pack drill. Shtum. You didn’t hear it from me, right?
       Anyway, as I said, some people still occasionally mistake me for Jesus, but that’s petered out a bit over the last few months. They seem to think I can make their poorly little children better or stop their sons from foaming at the mouth or improve the weather or recover their brothers from the palsy, or provide a never-ending buffet with vintage Merlot for their impending nuptials, starting with only a big jar of water.
       But the rumours of Jesus of Nazareth being raised from the dead haven’t died down at all.
       Neither has he. Rum, indeed.

A look-alike gardener tries to balance the books

Which Bible stories can you identify in this chapter?

What explanations for the resurrection of Jesus truly fit the evidence?

Why do you think people asked the gardener to come to their weddings or do other miracles?



Tuesday, 14 July 2015

Nearly too late

No, it wasn’t the best day of his life. He didn’t feel proud or pleased with himself. But at least he was able to make some tiny positive contribution to the otherwise entirely negative scene. His shoulder will probably always show the scars where the splinters embedded themselves. And the sheer weight of the wood rubbed the skin raw, but he undoubtedly thinks it was worth it.
       He went down to Jerusalem from his hometown of Cyrene a few days before the Passover, to catch some of the flavour of the capital; especially the old town. He told everyone he thought the night-life might be cool, and knew there was a chance of bumping into one or two old pals he hadn’t seen for a few months.
       He’d also heard a bit about this Jesus of Nazareth character, and thought he might catch one or two of his lectures before attending the temple for the Passover rituals. But when he arrived in Jerusalem, he met an old friend who lives just outside the city, named Nathan. He was deeply dischuffed, because his best donkey had been stolen from outside his house at the weekend. Honestly! You have to lock everything up these days!
        ‘Some chap with a beard and smelling of fish came along,’ Nathan explained, ‘grabbed Stubnazzar’s reins, declared The Lord hath need of it, and took off with the animal! I wasn’t too thrilled, Simon, I can tell you. I’ve had to look into getting some sort of alarm system to make sure my next best donkey doesn’t go the same way. There are several about, you know – there’s a CrookLok which fits across the animals’ front legs, or SteadyNeddy and EeyoreBeSecure, which are bell devices. I’ve considered BurroNoSorrow and CoolMule, but they seem cheap and not all that effective. The most expensive is the own-brand one from MulesRAss. These opportunist thieves…’
       Even as Simon was listening to Nathan go on and on about it, a chap turned up with Stubnazzar, returning him with thanks. The animal was fine, and the bloke who brought him back seemed very grateful for the lend. So old Nath calmed down a bit.
       Simon found out later that Jesus of Nazareth had entered Jerusalem riding on Nathan’s donkey Stubnazzar (he wasn’t a mule, but he was sometimes as hard to persuade as one, hence the name). The people had welcomed Jesus, waving palm fronds, making a fuss and shouting Hosanna – which means save now! Funny how these things happen.
       Anyway, back to the story. In the vicinity of the temple, on the Thursday of his trip, he saw a notice saying there was going to be the traditional prisoner release that morning, so he decided to check it out. That’s a thing they do round here: one prisoner is released just before the Passover. It’s a sort of amnesty. Regular, apparently, too.
       So, he joined the crowd and saw right off why he hadn’t been able to listen to Jesus or find where he was doing his lectures. He’d been arrested! Less than a week after riding through the streets on a hijacked donkey, he’d been hauled up before the Beak.
       He was there, looking very beaten-up, on the platform along with Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor. Pilate addressed the crowd and explained what he would do: set one of the prisoners free. The choice was Jesus of Nazareth, described as a political activist, folk-hero, Pharisee-basher, magician, poet and rabble-rouser; or this other nasty-looking character, Barabbas, also a political activist, but actually also a murderer.
       There was no contest as far as Simon was concerned.
       Set free someone who hadn’t committed any crimes except to irritate the Romans and question religious self-righteousness, or set free someone who’d murdered another man and almost certainly incited others to do the same? He felt sure Jesus would be released and would be able to give his lecture that afternoon.
       But some priests were moving through the crowd, along with some other men, handing out money and doing deals with people.
       Before Simon knew what was happening, the crowd started to shout for Barabbas to be released and for Jesus to be crucified. He thought at first they’d just got the names muddled up, but then realised there was something odd and dangerous and mysterious and rather evil going on.
       It didn’t take long for that man-pleasing, self-serving Governor Pilate to give in. He took a large bowl of water and publicly washed his hands, showing the crowd that he was blaming them for the decision he was about to take. Talk about hedging your bets! He sent Jesus down, setting Barabbas free.
       Simon was not at all peaceful about any of this, but what could he do? He went back to his hostel-room and had dinner.
       The next day, he was in the bazaar doing a little sightseeing and looking for souvenirs for young Rufus and little Alex, when he heard a lot of fuss going on in the street outside. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd, and was amazed to see a troop of Roman soldiers marching up the pavement, with three sorry-looking characters behind them, each carrying large wooden beams on their backs.

      With a start, he realised one of them was Jesus of Nazareth, being led away to be crucified. He couldn’t help feeling pity for him. He was in a dreadful state, as he’d been beaten already and these soldiers really know how to do their job of inflicting pain. It was very clear to Simon that Jesus’ reactionary, anti-establishment, rabble-rousing adventure was over. There would probably be another preacher along in a while.
       But just as Jesus came past, he stumbled and fell to the ground with a quiet groan. The timber hit the deck with a thud – it was a huge bit of wood for a weakened man to carry. Simon could see his back and legs were badly cut up by the whipping from the cat o’ nine tails, and his face was red raw. He’d obviously been spat on repeatedly, and the large thorns of the mock crown were digging into his forehead, which was bleeding. One eye was puffy and he looked completely stricken by God; utterly afflicted.
       Before he could do anything about it, a soldier grabbed Simon by the arm.
       ‘You! Carry the wood.’
       ‘What? No, but I…’
       ‘Carry the wood.’
       There was no arguing with him. Actually, Simon didn’t really want to refuse. Jesus was in a mess and Simon supposed this was the least he could do to try to make his last few hours a tiny bit less horrific. He didn’t stop to think at the time that this could also be interpreted as actively contributing to the execution.
       The wood, of course, was the horizontal beam of the cross on which Jesus would die.
       Simon didn’t complain, because the prisoner needed the favour. Jesus was staggering along in front of him, and looked dreadful. Great drops of sweat splashed down onto his ragged clothing and the roadway, along with blood from his many wounds, making the cobblestones slippery.
       It was a serious bit of wood, Simon quickly discovered. And it was a long way out of the city, through the gates and up to the top of that Skull Hill. He almost fell himself a few times, and he was shattered by the time they arrived. He looked at Jesus as they both half-fell, half sat on the grass, panting for breath. Neither said a word, but suddenly Simon felt awful, having participated, in a way, in the torture Jesus was about to face.
       But an amazing thing happened. Instead of sneering, or staring at him to make him feel worse, Jesus, this man of sorrows, just smiled, everso slightly.
       Perhaps it was simply an acknowledgement of assistance. Maybe it was gratitude that Simon had relieved him of some small part of his punishment. Could it have been a friendly gesture of connection? Or something more than that? Simon suddenly felt like his trip from Cyrene wasn’t accidental, and the timing of the visit was more than coincidence. There was a divine plan behind it. Or is that just an over-dramatising of the circumstances?
       He had no intention of staying to watch the execution, but suddenly, right in front of him, the soldiers grabbed Jesus, stretched out his arms and started to nail him to the beam Simon had carried. The sight was appalling, but compelling. He hadn’t yet recovered his strength for the walk back to the city, so he was still sitting there as the horrific scene unfolded in front of him. Jesus was hoisted up, and the long ordeal of crucifiction began.

Simon has sat and pondered that smile so many times in the years that have gone by since that dreadful morning. But what did the smile mean?
       While Jesus was actually on that cross, as he died, he asked God to forgive his executioners. Simon contributed to his execution, so he’s included in that pardon. He knows Jesus forgives him for providing the cross on which he died.
       What an attitude! What a guy! And yet, Jesus didn’t deserve to be there at all. No-one had brought any serious criticism or accused him of any real crime… Why did he just take it all?
       Simon knows that if he had been in Jesus’ place, he’d have made a right fuss, spoken up about innocence and brought in lots of witnesses to explain what a great bloke he was. Why didn’t Jesus do that? And why didn’t he complain? And where were all his disciples and friends and groupies? And why were the Romans involved in what could only have been a religious issue, since he was accused of blasphemy? Doesn’t add up.
       Simon hasn’t been back to Jerusalem since that day.
       He really couldn’t stomach it.

Press-ganged to carry the cross of Christ (or was he willing?)

Why did Jesus borrow the donkey? Why Stubnazzar?

Why did Pontius Pilate send Jesus to be flogged and crucified?

If it had been you watching Jesus on the cross, what might you have seen in his eyes? Sadness? Pain? Resentment? Pity? Judgement? Anger? Resignation? Love? Anything else?

Is Jesus’ forgiveness limited to the soldiers who physically crucified him? Or could it include Simon? Pilate? Barabbas? Or even reach as far as you?






Saturday, 4 July 2015

Join the professionals

Oh, yes, it’s a man’s world in the CXXVIth Legion of the Roman Army. The training is IIugh – really IIugh – and the centurions are truly horrible, foul, CXLIV people II be around. Nothing beIX, merciful or Xder about them, I can assure you.
       My IIur of duty began when I was posted II the armpit of the world which we called ’Tine, where it was wall-II-wall crucifictions. I had a few months on cross manufacture, several weeks with the nail requisition crew and all the while having II get my hands – and, frankly, my soul – dirty by participating in the executions themselves.
       Then suddenly I was switched II guard duty.
       It was my Ist time, but I’m IIld it was unique. I’ve been seriously bribed and sworn II secrecy about what really happened (so don’t expect any M, fancy revelations here) but there were nasty rumours circulating about us, which were pretty unpleasant, I can tell you. How could all XVI of us have drifted off II sleep at once, when the rules about that were so severe? The officers would have come down on us like a C of bricks.
       But be that as it may, we couldn’t have slept through an earthquake, could we? No, these rumours don’t fit the facts. But it’s still the official sIIry of what happened II the Judean troublemaker from Nazareth, the IVmer junior executive from World of Wood, Inc.
       Now listen. You and I know that if a Roman soldier goes II sleep while on guard duty, the rules are plain and simple: everyI who is on duty with him is punished.
       In fact, regulation CCXIV part VI section (viii) subsection XVI paragraph (ix) states that the sleeping guard should be set on fire, and the others should be hacked about with swords IV a while. Oh, I know it puts it in vague language with lots of aIVmentiIds and thereafters, but when the iron rims meet the Roman Road, then I’d have II say, yes, that’s how they run things around here. But I suppose it’s a brilliantly effective way of making sure that everyI takes responsibility IV keeping everyI else alert. After all, if someI nods off, I’m in trouble, so I’m going II make jolly well sure that Revulsis Quadriga Lucuster [Latin for Rip Van Winkle: literally Reed Chariot Lobster] stays awake, aren’t I?
       So it just couldn’t have happened the way they say it did. There must be some sort of official cover-up or fakery. The officer in charge was resting on a grassy knoll, I suppose.
       Anyway, once the fuss had settled down, they marched us all off II different parts of the Empire. ‘Primus per sinister, velocitur ambulo! Sinister, sinister; sinister, dexter, sinister!' [Latin for By the left, quick march! Left, left, left, right, left].
       Marcellus went II Gaul and was never heard of again, and Gianni ended up fighting across Germanicus. The others probably went II far-flung places such as Persia or Turkey… Some must have gI back II work on those Greek XLifications; or were very badly treated and got sent II Britannia! That would be truly rough.
       I got lucky and came back II Rome – my guess was that I was up IV the chop. I was made responsible IV administration at the I/IVmaster’s sIIres, and then got a posting at the local VII-XI grocery and general goods shop as a security guard. 
       After a while in the SenVIII buildings, I got what I thought was a seriously cushy number.
       Figure it out IV yourself. My routine, which I’ve been following now IV the best part of II years, goes like this: I work a pattern of IV days on, III off, followed by IV nights on and X off, which means I get a week II myself pretty much every IIIrd week. Can’t complain at that. But the best part is that the days (and nights) when I’m actually working are fairly relaxed, II. Here’s a typical day:
       • Get up at about VII or so.
       • Report IV duty at VII.XLV anti meridian at Tarsus IIwers. Secure II my belt, by chains, Paul O’Tarsus.
       • Sit around all day, welcoming visiIIrs, chowing down (on meat and potaIIes or fish and pasta  – all with fine wines – which means I’m gaining wVIII), arrange appointments, read letters and take a bit of dictation.
       • End of the day (we knock off at XVIII.XXX hours), remove the chain, and put the day’s correspondence in the mailbox on my way home II the wife and kids.
       That’s what I call light duties!
       Strange thing: this chap Paul O’Tarsus is waiting II be seen by Caesar, but in the meantime he’s made some interesting friends and they have amazing discussions. I get II hear them, because he’s chained II me all day!
       He’s got inII this new ‘Christian’ religion, and people are enthusiastically beating a path II his door. And I mean all day, from morning II night, he’s excitedly talking about Jesus of Nazareth – how, apparently, this god that Paul believes in raised Jesus from the dead – and how this isn’t just a Jewish thing but IV everyI and how we can be IVgiven and saved and become children of God and find hope and purpose in life.
       That’s the main weakness in what he has II say, if you ask me – the bit about Jesus being raised from the dead. How could that happen? I haven’t IIld Paul that I was, hitherII, part of the guard protecting that particular IImb. We all know that anything protected by a Roman guard is thoroughly protected. At least, that’s the official line. And I’m a well-disciplined soldier, and what my commanding officers say happened (and have bribed me to say the same, II) is what I’ll believe, right, even if I might wonder sometimes how they could know better than me, when they weren’t there and I was. But I know enough II give a salute and answer ‘Yes, sir, whatever you say, sir.’ (Between you and me, I know what I saw, but I’m choosing II hold my IIngue and IIe the line, if you understand my meaning. After all, why rock the boat with something as incendiary as the truth, eh?) Throw me a bI.
       What’s strange is that most of Paul’s visiIIrs don’t seem II have a problem with the ‘raised from the dead’ thing. Their beef is about his claims that ‘Christianity’ – which is a nickname some dissenters used II describe this new faith, but which Paul has adopted – is IV everyI: Jews, Greeks, Macedonians, Ethiopians, Mesopotamians, Turks, Gauls and even Romans. And BriIIns!
       I’m not paid II think. I’m paid II guard this harmless hebrew, and keep my mouth shut about what really happened back in ‘Tine, so that’s what I’m doing. Maybe I shall give Jesus and his claims further consideration once the dust has settled, or when I’m LXIV, reaching retirement age.
       Meanwhile, I’m going II ride this gravy train all the way II the terminus, and that’s the Latin IV finiII!

A tale of execution & guard assignments                          

How many times did this soldier manage II become involved in incidents in the Bible?

What might the soldier learn by lisXing II the wVIIIy conversations and discussions Paul was ofX having?

When will you make time IV giving consideration II the claims of Jesus?







[1] Latin for Rip Van Winkle (literally Rend Chariot Lobster)
[2] By the left, quick march. Left, left; left, right, left