Showing posts with label Mary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mary. 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?



Saturday, 25 July 2015

Vacancies? No Vacancies

I can tell you, it’s a busy life working in a hotel. It’s like that variety show novelty act where the bloke keeps plates spinning on those long, flexible sticks.
       Table seven wants two lamb cutlets, a chicken salad and a shish kebab; table nineteen’s complained about dirty cutlery; the couple on table three have changed their minds again and now want one soup, one smoked salmon; and the rowdy hooligans on table twenty six are ordering yet more red wine!
       Waiters are calling across the general noise of the kitchen, where the six chefs are working hard, trying to supply all the food orders that have been taken in the last few minutes. They’re blanching, sautéing, par-boiling, griddling, searing, poaching. They were sweating freely and scurrying frantically with frying pans, wine-skins of cooking sherry, fish heads, legs of lamb and trays of roasted vegetables. They were trying not to spill scalding pots of reductions, different sorts of soup or cooking oil. They were de-glazing, stacking, sprinkling, drizzling, garnishing, refining, presenting and calling for ‘service!’
       Add up the hotel business for yourself: the chefs; the food and wine waiters; reception staff checking people in; bar staff serving drinks; chambermaids changing bed linen and cleaning and preparing rooms.
       Then there’s others readying the banqueting suite and the ballroom for the jollifications later; bellboys, staircase attendants, doormen. Our Reservations Manager is not popular tonight due to overbooking; and our Conference and Entertainments Managers are overstretched as well.
       Can’t complain, you know. It’s great for business that ECA[1] has called for this census and that the place is suddenly flooded with people wanting rooms. You’d be surprised how few make reservations: they seem to think that turning up on the off-chance will do. Usually, they’d be right. But tonight, we’ve had to turn away quite a few.
       There was a party of six members of the Jericho Tentmakers Association, a dozen or more from the Capernaum Carpet Cleaning Company and a family who’d travelled all the way from Tyre. They were exhausted!
       But we’re fully booked – over-booked, as I say. That’s the hotel business for you. One week you’ve got ten guests rattling round the place, and the next you’re heaving and having to send people up the road to the Jolly Rabbi, over the bridge to Goliath’s Head, or out by the river at The Red Lion of Judah. I don’t feel right about sending them randomly to the Pig & Whistle – at least, not Hebrew folks.
       Take that family that turned up unannounced at about 9 o’clock. The man begged me for a place to stay since his young wife (or so he called her) was about to give birth. I took pity on him in the end and sorted out a Z-bed for them in the laundry. I knew they would be okay in the Napery Manager’s office, because he’s had to go to Bethany to register for the census himself.
       I looked in on the couple a few minutes ago, and she was right in the middle of actually having her baby! I quickly called for a midwife, and left them to it. I couldn’t get involved, you know, partly because I’m squeamish and mostly because it’s inappropriate for hotel management staff to stand around watching teenagers giving birth. And it would have taken too much time, and that’s something of which I’ve got not a lot.
       So I go back to the kitchen and supervise the junior chefs in getting the salad garnish arranged in the bowls and then get called away because the bar staff are running low on small change. Then I go back to the kitchen to double-check that the serving staff were all busy, getting the dinners out into the restaurant with maximum efficiency.
       Some of the waiters have to be reprimanded because they’ve become distracted by some sort of a light in the sky – I expect it was a weather balloon or a reflective cloud, and not a UFO, as they claimed.
       No sooner I get back to reception, than a party of yokels arrived from the hill region, some carrying lambs and hymn-sheets. One of the pesky blighters had done a whoopsie (I mean a lamb, not a shepherd) just inside the front door, which was a nuisance.
       I tell the country bumpkins there’s no room for them, but they insist they are there to visit one of the guests. I check the names they ask me to find: J Davidson-Carpenter, of Wood-U-Like Crafts; Marie de Nazareth; and JCS O’God, but none of those names are on our register. They start going on about a star, but the only celebrities in the place are the E-list Magdalen sisters, who have been hired as a kissogram, I think, and have a booking to do a striptease later in the evening. It finally occurs to me that the yokels might be looking for the people in the laundry, and as it turns out, I was right.

      Just a little while afterwards, there are yet more characters looking for guests who aren’t on the list. These ones are nicely dressed gentlemen from the East, and one of them tries to bribe me with a few pieces of gold, because I couldn’t help noticing that they smell distinctly (and, it has to be said, rather unpleasantly) of camel. They’re looking for someone called Christine Judea. It makes little sense to me, but I send them to the laundry as well, just in case.
       I also send in a tray of finger food (smoked salmon & avocado vol-au-vents, caviar blinis, tiny samosas, sun-dried tomatoes on parmesan crisps, with some crudités and dips – you can guess the rest), and add it to the bill.
       I don’t go in myself: it doesn’t seem right to bother the girl after she’s just delivered her firstborn son among the troughs and washing equipment.
       There’s no room for them in my inn, so she has to lay the baby near a mangle.

Augustus’ decree impacts mid-winter hospitality businesses

Why did Mary & Joseph settle for a stable? What other choice 
did they have in a place like Bethlehem at such a busy time?

Consider the many sacrifices the Kings made: comfort, security, 
life’s little luxuries, etc, as well as bringing gifts. 
Why were they willing to give them up? 
What were they hoping to gain, do you suppose?

What’s Christmas like for you and for your family? 
Busyness, distraction, gift-frenzy, food, drink, entertainment, 
over-indulgence; or taking appropriate time to welcome Christ incarnate?





[1] Emperor Caesar Augustus






[1] Emperor Caesar Augustus