Thinly-veiled game

When the invitation arrived, it felt like the greatest honour that could ever have been paid to us. My wife Louise was thrilled. She went out immediately and spent a very great deal of money on clothing and shoes for both of us and a handbag for herself; she booked us both in at Scissor’s Palace for haircuts, and herself in at The Body Beautiful, where she had manicure, pedicure, massage, exfoliation and a colonic irrigation, for reasons that escape me.

       We talked about it for weeks at the baths, at the shops, in the temple and at the Forum. No less a person than His Majesty the King, yes, Herod Antipas, ruler of Galilee & Peraea had graced us with a wonderful three-fold invitation. We were invited to view his beautiful palace, along with high officials, military commanders and other leading men of the province; we were invited to meet the King and his wife and their daughter personally; and we were invited to attend a grand banquet in honour of the King, for it was his birthday.

       Louise spent hours in the market and the Souk, looking for the ‘perfect gift’ for us to give to Herod. Glassware? Livestock? Porcelain? Clothing?

     In the end, she settled on woodwork from Joe’s WoodULike: a beautifully turned and painted bowl made from cedar wood, with fine marquetry inlaid detailing. I knew it was a quality item, not just from the look, smell and feel of it, but from the pricetag.

       ‘Wasn’t there anything more expensive?’ I asked, with a slight tone of sarcasm.

       She didn’t seem to notice. ‘Actually, I decided to buy this, not because it was the most expensive item, but because Joseph told me this was a special piece made by his boy. You know, that Rabbi Jesus. Apparently, this was his last piece of work, and it shows all his many skills and great craftsmanship. It’s got to be his best piece, and his last! Very valuable!’

       I smiled and placed it gently back in the folded tissue, within the card box, nestling in the straw which filled the wooden casket, which slipped into the embroidered silk sack. This thing had cost us a small fortune, but I reckoned it was worth the risk of overspending our budget, as Herod was powerful and we valued his favour.

The day of the King’s birthday dawned bright and still, and we dressed in our new finery with a sense of anticipation and nervousness. Neither of us had hob-nobbed with royalty before, and while we had researched the correct behaviour and courtesies (we knew practical matters such as always facing the King and eating small morsels, not great mouthfuls), but we were still a little unsure about the depth of bow or curtsey required, or how and when to ask to be excused for calls of nature etc.

       We were pleased that the ride to the palace was uneventful, as one splash of mud or burst of unfortunate-ness from the rear of the donkey might have been calamitous for our clothing; this had been just one more thing to worry about. I held out my arm for Louise to link hers through, and we stepped up to join the queue of the great and the good, to have our invitations inspected, and to hand over our birthday gift.

       Then we were escorted through the outer courtyards of the Royal Palace to the Most Sanctified Rooms, where we sat in rows, awaiting the audience with the King. He was running late, but he seemed to be in a good mood. He sat on his throne, and we all lined up to the official audience with him. Now, Louise was a bit disappointed with the way this turned out to be just a rushed tilt of the royal head as each of us were announced, when she was expecting ‘a chance for a chinwag.’ I cannot imagine for a moment what she thinks she has in common with royalty. A complete disregard for hard-earned wealth, perhaps?

       Anyway, this part was soon completed, and we were herded through to the banqueting hall for the royal Birthday feast.

       The menu was astonishing, with a wide range of meat, fish, seafood, game, vegetables and breads, along with broths and pies and stews and casseroles and pasta dishes and tureens of soup and copious quantities and varieties of wine, followed by a range of fruits, creams, chocolate cakes, puddings and pastries, some with ornate sugar work and all with cream or sauces. The cheese was incredible and the quality of service immaculate. We ate our fill as the daylight faded.

       Then it all started to go wrong. It had been nearly perfect up to this point (apart from the salami-machine style ‘audience’) but the musicians were instructed to play a particular song Louise has never liked, and I wasn’t all that fond of it, either. And the dancing started – a form of dancing which didn’t seem to be fitting to the occasion.

       First, a professional troupe, all rehearsed and co-ordinated, did their thing, which was fair enough, if a bit raunchy.

       Then the King waved them off the dancefloor, and brought on some much less skilful dancers, who were seriously underdressed and only knew how to establish three steps or connect four moves – thrusting themselves, being sensuous in a clinical way that did nothing for me.

       Finally, the King became less interested in them, and he clapped again to dismiss them. One final dancer stepped up. She was a young teenager who wore a flimsy costume of see-through fabrics, somewhat vulnerable to draughts, and gave a performance as inappropriate as it was enticing. I watched with a growing concern, knowing she was suggesting sexual allure and intimate promise, and directing this at the King, as various layers of muslin were shed and strewn around the dancefloor. And then, with a start, I realise Louise was nudging me.

       ‘You know who that girl is, don’t you?’ she whispered.

       ‘No,’ I answered, genuinely.

       ‘It’s his daughter.’

       ‘What?’

       ‘Well, his step-daughter. Salome.’

       I was already thinking it was a saucy performance for any teenager to present, but for a relative, it was downright perverse.

       Louise added ‘She’s also his step-niece, I think, or something, on account of his second marriage.’

       ‘She’s his relative, twice-over?’ I asked, incredulous. I looked at Louise, and tried my best not to look at the girl any more, as she had removed far too much already and any modesty she retained was being protected only by a couple of flimsy…

       The dance concluded with yet another discarded veil.

       King Herod’s lusty response was warm applause and cries of ‘bravo!’ and ‘wonderful!’, followed by his outstretched arms towards the girl.

       ‘My dear, my dear, how lovely you are! I love how you make the most of your beauty and dance so very sexily. Oh, yes that was splendid! I am delighted! You deserve a reward for that. What can I give you? It needs to be something really worth having. Go, on, ask me. Ask me for whatever you want? What would you like?’

       ‘My lord, your applause is sufficient reward…’ she said.

       ‘No, no, don’t say that! I want you to have something, something special! What would you like?’

       ‘Well, my lord, a goblet of wine would be nice…’

       ‘No, no, girl, you don’t understand. Have a little ambition! I am offering you up to – say – half my kingdom. Use your imagination, and, by God, I firmly promise that I shall give you whatever you want, as I say, up to that limit. I wish to be generous to you. Go on, ask me for whatever you want.’

       The girl stood there, almost undressed, nonplussed. ’My lord,’ she said, falteringly, ‘ may I go and seek advice?’

       The King smiled, and gave a gesture of dismissal. ‘Go, then, but don’t be long!’

       All the guests began to discuss what had happened, and as servants distributed more wine and nibbles, Louise offered me her opinion.

       ‘She should ask for something like Galilee. Or large quantities of precious stones. He’s not often in such a good mood, so she should strike while the iron is hot. Her dance was disgustingly alluring, and he’s out of his mind with lust! She should make the most of it!’

       I was about to reply, when the girl ran across the dancefloor towards the throne. She hadn’t stopped to put on a robe or even another of those flimsy veils. She stopped in front of the King, and knelt before him. As she did so, she glanced at the doorway from which she had emerged, where her mother Herodias stood. The Queen nodded encouragingly at her daughter.

       She spoke so softly that I didn’t catch her words.

       Louise nudged me and whispered ‘What did she ask for?’

       I shrugged my shoulders in ignorance.

       The King seemed somewhat displeased displeased with the request.

       ‘What’s he upset about?’ Louise wondered.

       ‘Probably she’s asked for something he didn’t expect, and now he can’t back out of his promise – not in front of the whole crowd of us!’ I suggested.

       He slowly nodded to one of the servants, who went to act upon the order. The girl smiled to herself and ran out of the hall (hopefully, in order to put some clothes on).

       The King’s advisors approached him, and they discussed the situation. I was able to hear the conversation.

       ‘My lord, I fear you have made a promise that you may not wish to keep.’

       ‘Yes, yes, of course, but a promise is a promise.’

       ‘My lord, will you go through with the request? After all, it is a lot less than having to give the girl Galilee or having to share the rule of the province with her…’
        What could she possibly have wanted? I wondered.

        All of a sudden, Louise shrieked and turned towards me, burying her head in my shoulder. Passing my wife, through the assembled crowd of birthday party guests, came a servant carrying a large platter. Dripping off the side of the silverware was a steady flow of blood, falling onto the servant’s tunic, dripping onto the floor and splattering some of the guests.

       On the platter was the severed head of John the Baptist, lying on its side. It was hard to say what was more shocking: the sight of hacked, torn skin around his throat; the bits of bone laid bare among various blood vessels and fleshy tissue; his bloodied hair; the wide-eyed stare of a painful demise; or the change in the atmosphere from one of deferential discussion to the damage of a deadly decree.

       The servant stood before the King, and waited while other servants cleared some of the food plates from the table. Then he slid the platter into the space. The King looked away in horror at what he had commanded, at the same time signalling that the girl should be summoned.

       Blood continued to drip from the platter, onto the tablecloth. The eyes of the preacher continue to stare at the King, who tried not to meet his gaze. Herod continued to look horrified at what had occurred.

       The girl and her mother re-entered the banqueting hall, approaching the table as the King’s conversation with his servants continued.

       ‘We all know you have some sympathy with John the Baptist, my Lord, as you have listened to his preaching several times. You said you liked to listen to him.’

       ‘Be quiet, you fool! Executing this man of God is a most serious matter, and I have promised myself into a corner. I had no way out of this…’

       One of the advisors duly held his tongue, but another was bold enough to press the point. ‘He did criticise you, my lord, and that deserves punishment.’

       ‘All of these so-called prophets and holy men, despite his fascinating ideas, he was stuck in the past.’

       ‘My lord, he criticised your relationship in principle, not you personally, and certainly not the lady Herodias.’

       ‘He said our relationship was offensive. That’s personal.’

       ‘Yes, my lord, but he was suggesting that no-one should take their half-brother’s wife to bed.’

       ‘Well, I was angry with him, and that’s why he’s been kept in the prison in the dungeons of the palace.’ The King was visibly annoyed at himself. ‘The lady always had it in for him, and now my rash promise means she got her way.’

       ‘You have greatly respected John’s insights, my lord.’

       ‘Indeed.’

       ’He has many disciples; the one he said would follow him – the preacher Jesus of Nazareth – has many more.’

       ‘I shall cross that bridge when I get there.’ Herod tried to ignore what he considered to be religious politics; he had a kingdom to rule[1]. The conversation went on and on, with various advisors agreeing the King was right to keep his promise, and other sandal-licking behaviour. In the end, Herod turned to the dancing girl. ‘Take your reward away with you!’ the King whispered. ‘Give it to your mother.’

       The Queen smiled in victory, and instructed the servant to remove the head from the hall.

       ‘This isn’t going to end well,’ Louise murmured. She has a habit of stating the blindingly obvious as a way of covering up her feelings of awkwardness.

       Well, it seemed everyone else had the same impression, and the party broke up at that point, as you might imagine. We were quickly ushered out of the banqueting hall, and soon we were out in the courtyard. We could see the tables laden with the birthday gifts provided by the many guests.

       I immediately regretted having given this foolish, evil man anything. But I could not bring myself to join in when some guests started to sort through the birthday presents, in order to remove the ones they had brought, while the two servants who had been guarding the table were trying to stop them. I could not lower myself to scrabble about, attempting to withdraw my gift.

       After all, I thought, it had been handled, fashioned by Jesus, and who knows, some of what he represents might rub off on King Herod when he opens his present; when he unties the drawstring on the silk sack, lifts the lid on the casket, rummages in the straw, opens the card box and unfolds the tissue, to discover the crafted bowl turned, fashioned, designed, smoothed, inlaid and varnished by a master carpenter. 

Guests at Herod’s party witness John’s execution

Do you think Louise found a suitable gift?

What are the dangers of saucy dancing (beyond the evident lust-inducements)?

Is it possible (or instructive) to untangle the soap-opera of relationships between husbands, wives, brothers, lovers, divorceés, daughters and uncles?

Which specific sins led directly to the death of John the Baptist?

Can you identify the names of six games secreted in the text?

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[1] Later Jesus was sent to Herod for trial; the King asked questions, and was keen to see a miracle, but became enraged when he would not perform for him. He mocked Jesus and sent him back to Pilate. Check out Luke 23:7-12

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?

Fog of memory

The old man smiled gently, as if being careful not to damage the paper-fragile skin on his cheeks. ‘Being of great age isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be, right?’

       Despite the painful joints in his knuckles (as well as in his knees, toes, hips and shoulders) he ticked off the list on his fingers, settling himself against the pillows, propped up in his bed.

       ‘For a start, your body begins to let you down as your flesh goes all wrinkly and your eyes and ears fade dramatically. Your hair drops out, except for the hair in your nostrils, ears and eyebrows, where it grows with extraordinary vigour. I don’t feel all that old, but even now I have to walk with a stick, and need help to get out of this bed. It’s hard for me to participate in the activities at the temple, too.’

       ‘It’s a shame,’ said his companion, a woman perhaps forty years his junior, who smiled sympathetically. Behind her eyes she was slightly concerned; she knew this might be the last time she would be privileged to have the old man’s attention, and she wanted to be sure she remembered as much as possible.

       Her goal was to keep a good record so that his experience, wisdom, and character might be preserved for the benefit of future generations.

       ‘But that’s enough moaning for now,’ he continued. ‘I should be happy to have reached this time of life. I can only look back, since I’m not long for this world. And I can reflect on faithful service, honouring God and being at the centre of community life as it revolves around the Temple. As you know my dear – oh, are you comfortable? There’s a cushion if you need it?’

       ‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Gramps.’

       ‘Good. Good. Nothing worse than listening to an old man when your buttocks are numb!’ He chuckled at this extreme coarseness of language that he had decided to allow himself in his latter years, now that he would be able to get away with it. But the chuckle quickly gave way to a rasping cough of retribution. Once it had subsided, he gasped for breath, and then continued.  ‘I was born one hundred-and-five years ago next month, and have been a priest here in Jerusalem for the greater part of that lifetime – eighty one years, to be exact.’

       He smiled as he looked into her face. ‘Yes, your calculations are right; I was in my early twenties when I came to the priesthood, having completed my studies and been selected. As you’ll be aware, my dear, one has to be a part of the right family in the first place. Then there are lots of studies that must be completed and other people to satisfy. But I managed all that and at the age of twenty-four I donned the priestly robes. H’mm. I took the name by which everyone knows me – Rabbi Rabinovich. And then I began the long journey… one which isn’t over yet but which is very much nearer its end than its beginning.’

       He paused for a moment, took a sip of wine from a goblet, wiped his lips absent-mindedly on the long sleeve of his tunic, closed his eyes for a moment, and continued. The woman took the goblet from his trembling hand, and put it safely back on the bedside table. She knew most of this background material, and patiently smiled and sat in silence as the old man continued. It was clear he had assumed she was ignorant of her heritage and culture, of his story, and was not entirely confident of her identity, either. But she listened, hoping there might be fresh insights, previously untold anecdotes or new details revealed.

       ‘I used to help the older priests with the ceremonies, observing and learning style and technique, holding the books of the Torah while they read from them, sorting the right robes for each of the gentlemen who took part and selecting the doves and other animals for sacrifice. There were plenty of others who would do some of the duties, but everything needed a priestly approval, and some of the tasks were too menial for the older priests, so it was down to us, the younger priests in the Temple. We were less experienced but were well able to make most of the judgements required. We weren’t yet caught up with the deep theology or with the ceremonial oversight, but we could make the smaller decisions and get on with temple life in the normal way, with the honour and respect due to the priesthood.’

       ‘H’mm, that’s what I’d heard already, Gramps, but we were going to talk about Zechariah being struck dumb – do you remember?’

       ‘Oh, am I rambling a little? So sorry, my dear. Please just tap me on the arm if I go on and make no sense or just repeat myself or start to get dull or, indeed, repeat myself. That’s just another thing about being a tired old man ready for a long lie down in a carefully-prepared sepulchre dedicated to the glory of God. Oh, yes. That will be nice…’ He paused slightly, allowing his imagination to enjoy the scene he was envisaging. ‘Anyway, when I was a young man, just starting my on-the-job training for the priesthood, two extraordinary things happened in my first few weeks at the Temple.

       ‘One of the older Priests, by name Zechariah, a man well struck in years, was selected to go and burn the incense, which he did, but everyone was distracted from their prayers when he took an exceptionally long time at the altar. And when he came out – well, my dear, his life had been changed.

       ‘He explained he’d been spoken to by an angel, who had told him that he and his wife would have a son, despite their great age. Like Abraham. The angel had promised the boy would be great – you know, important spiritually. He would be full of the Holy Spirit, and make ready a people prepared for the Lord. And he told us all of this through the gift of handwriting, since the angel had taken from him the power of speech. This seemed odd, but we sent him home to be with his wife. Well, in the fullness of time nature took its course and she gave birth to a boy, and they brought him to the Temple when he was eight days old, for the usual reason. The priest in charge invited me to observe as part of my training, and when the mother presented the boy, the priest was a bit previous, double-checking the name the boy was to have.

       ‘”There’s no-one else in your family called John,” he said to the mother, quite forcefully, “so why would you want to call him John? I’ll tell you what, I’ll call him Zechariah, after his father,” he told her. But she said “No! Ask his father.”

       ‘So they did ask his father, and the old chap wrote down His name is John. I think it must have been what the angel had told him. Anyway, as soon as the boy was named, the old man’s tongue was loosed, and he began to praise God with a great song, which some called Benedictus, for some reason. I could sing it for you, if you like…?’

     Floccinaucinihilipilification is the father of time-saving, she thought to herself, somewhat grandly. Fortunately, when she spoke, her words were a little more straightforward. ‘Not just now, Gramps. I don’t want to tire you too much.’

       ‘Oh, it’s no trouble. Now, how does it start?’

       ‘Perhaps in the morning…’

         ‘Yes, yes, I shall entertain the whole family with the song in the morning. In the morning.’ He reached for his wine again, but it was beyond his reach. The woman assisted him, and he sipped, slopped, mopped and handed the goblet back to her. ‘A few months after Zechariah’s incident, I was promoted from observing at the ceremonies to participating. I really looked forward to getting stuck in. My first morning as a fully-functional, official, honest-to-goodness Priest was quite memorable too! You see, a young couple came to me with their boy child. I did the business with the knife and gave a blessing to them. I did a reasonably good job of it, if I may say so, considering it was my first time not practicing on a chilli – foolish arrangement, that was: wrong colour, wrong texture, the wrong size and nothing like the real thing at all. No, quite, quite different. I’m not allowed to do it these days, as my hands shake a little.’

       His expression betrayed the regret he felt for the conversation he had with the Priests in Charge when they told him his Eighth-Day Ceremony officiating was to be curtailed, following a most unfortunate incident.

      But then he remembered he was right in the middle of a story. ‘It was my first time, which is why I recall it so clearly, I think. And I had been double booked, so another young couple turned up at the same time with their boy. I had to ask one of my colleagues to serve them. He did so but also sent them to see old Simeon, who was wondering about in the courts. The booking system was a bit of a shambles and I considered later how to improve it to ensure no-one was sent away disappointed.

      ‘Now, let me tell you about Simeon – yes, that’s right, the elderly devout Hebrew famous in the Temple. I count it a privilege that I was introduced to him. He was a strange old coot, between you and me and the Beautiful Gatepost, always muttering to himself about the Messiah, and he cannot have been less than the age I am now when his big moment finally came. I’m glad he had the opportunity because only a few weeks later, his legs packed up and he could no longer get about – actually, my dear, I think I might be right in saying that he passed away a little while after.’

       ‘So,’ interrupted the woman, ‘can you put a date on this?’

      The old man continued as if he hadn’t heard her, since he hadn’t heard her. ‘Apparently, he’d been absent from the Temple for a few months, but had a funny feeling he should be there on that one particular day (or so he told me), and it so happened that this was my first day on circumcision duty.

       ‘But I remember clearly the way the old man’s face lit up! He was presented with the boy child of the couple who were double-booked, and oh, it was a wonder to behold! He took the child in his arms (which was slightly risky, truth be told, but he didn’t drop the baby, thank the Lord) and blessed him and shouted stuff to heaven as if God is deaf. I didn’t catch the first bit, but people have since told me that – ‘ He indicated for the goblet of wine, and the woman helped him. ‘H’mm yes, the temple was a wonderful place to work. Simeon was very old and perhaps a bit crazy, but he knew his Torah and claimed that God had promised him that he would see the coming Messiah, but his eyes were fading fast when I knew him. Like mine now. And my ears.’

       The old man fell silent, as if demonstrating what it was like to lose hearing; or perhaps to re-order his memories. After a moment or two, he began again.

       ‘Oh, yes, I was telling you about the day he held that boy child. Nunc Dimittis they called it. That’s all Greek to me, but I knew he was thrilled to high heaven with this boy, and told the parents… oh, yes, a pretty young girl, she was – just like you used to be – and her husband with his bandaged fingers (don’t know why I remember that detail, ha ha!) – that the boy was a sign and a revelation from God and that he was a light for the Gentiles and glory to Israel. Old Simeon died believing he’d seen something special. And maybe he had, but it was hard to account for it.’

       The woman chose not to take offence at the remark about the toll that passing years had taken upon the way her Grandfather viewed her attractiveness. Perhaps she attributed his comment to his failing eyesight, unable to detect the radiance with which she knew she still illumined the room…

       ‘Oh, you know, my dear, I could tell you so many stories from my life as a Priest in the Temple. You know the boy Zechariah had? Well, he grew up to a bit of a wild child, or so I’ve heard, and ran through the wilderness and lived on locusts and honey and preached about the Messiah and gave various folks a wash from time to time – and publically, too!’ He stopped to try to picture the scene. A frown passed across his delicate forehead as he wondered if he had been telling his story in the right order. Nonetheless, he continued.

       ‘We would do the sacrifices and the blessings and sing and pray and have a life of service and worship and discussion. I used to enjoy the discussions, you know, oh yes. My mind was razor-sharp in those days, my dear. Oh, razor, yes.

       ‘We’d discuss all sorts, some of it a little bit heretical in places, no doubt. There were several groups of us, setting aside one day each week for the cut-and-thrust of informed, educated theological conversation. My group of teachers was fascinating. We sometimes would allow members of the public to listen in, especially around Passover time, when there were people who had made their special journeys to the Temple. Oh, yes, there were some good discussions in those days.

       ‘One year, one of the other consultation groups had a bit of an incident with a twelve-year-old boy who seemed to bamboozle them. He must have asked them something they’d never thought of before or something. They always refused to explain what the issues were. I think they were a little embarrassed about it, as he was just a lad.

       ‘Although, ha ha, I recall they were annoyed about it too, as his mother turned up and gave the boy a wigging for spending time in the Temple with these teachers when he should have been on the road back home. My colleagues implied she was blaming them for engaging the boy in conversation. She admitted that she’d assumed the boy was travelling with them but they hadn’t actually checked, and there was some doubt about who was supposed to give him instructions… But the Priests were teachers of the Law and yet they were clearly being taught by the boy! We did chuckle about it between ourselves. Imagine! A teacher of the Law listening to a boy explaining the meaning of the Law! Oh, the shame they must have felt, ha ha!’ His cough troubled him again.

       At this moment the door to the bedroom flew open and a small girl aged about three ran in, not waiting to be asked to speak, but holding out a rag doll to the woman. ‘Great-Grandmama Persis, goodnight kiss for Lillibet! Please!’

       The woman kissed the doll and gently spoke to the little girl. ‘Nearly time for your bedtime, too, my dear. Why don’t you ask your dad to read you a bedtime story? Run along, now then, won’t you? Please leave me and Gramps – ah, Great Three Gramps Rabinovich – to finish our talk, there’s a good girl? Oh, thank you, sweetheart!’ This last comment was directed at her granddaughter, who had come to fetch the little girl and remove her, which she did, without banging the door. Persis turned back to the old man. ‘She’s such an imaginative one! Please do go on, Gramps.’

       ‘Is she one of yours?’

       ‘No,’ Persis laughed, choosing this time to be flattered by the confusion that he considered her young enough to be the mother of such a small child. ‘That’s my grand-daughter’s girl. There’s quite a lot of us in the…’

       But the old man was more bothered by something he had said a few moments before the interruption.

       ‘Or do I mean inferred? Oh, one of those. But yes, we had a laugh at their expense some days. There were a few wild goings-on in the Temple in my time, too. Oh yes, what about the day the goats escaped from their pen? No-one laughed at the time, as it was a problem. But I had to smile once it was over. And one of the old Priests used to get in such a muddle when we were rehearsing for the special ceremonies, forgetting which was the right knife or book or incense for each part of the procedure and which colour robes to wear and just making a shambles of it all.

       ‘Oh, yes, my dear, and we had a lot of fuss on that day when a lunatic got into the temple courts and started going berserk in the courtyards with a whip and shouting about prayer and thieves and threw the money around and set all the doves free. He was a troublemaker, we decided.

       ‘Later on, of course, there was a rabble-rouser who threatened to destroy the temple, which was heresy but he was sent down, I think. Don’t know what happened to him.’

       Suddenly he stopped, smacked his lips, signalled for the goblet of wine once again, and then waved Persis from the room. ‘Oh. I do feel tired now. That’s enough for today, my dear.’

       She obediently got up, kissed the old man on the forehead, mopped the spillage of wine from his beard and blew out the candle. ‘Sleep well, Gramps. We can talk some more when you have the strength. Your memories are precious – not only to you, but also to me and the rest of the family.’ She smoothed the bedclothes fussily, and turned towards the door.

       But he had more to say. His voice was soft, and his delivery had slowed considerably. There was a great sadness in his tone.

       ‘I’ll tell you this. In all the years I’ve been a Priest in the Temple, never has there been a day like today, just three weeks after I was stood down and gave up my role as a Priest. Never.

       ‘Those Italians should know better than to insult the temple in the way they have done today. Yes, yes, yes, my dear, I have to admit that this is a bad time to be a priest. And now, thank the good Lord in heaven for his eternal mercy, I seem to have escaped like – well, like a brand from the burning! Oh, yes. It’s a dark day to be a priest.’

       Persis smiled in the dark, raising her voice slightly to be sure the old man would hear, now she was no longer right next to the bed. ‘But it’s a wonderful day to be full of years and loved by all your family. Goodnight Gramps! We can talk more tomorrow.’

       But it was not to be.

A dying priest fails to recognise what he has seen

Which Bible stories did this Rabbi almost appear in? Why didn’t he recognise John the Baptist or Jesus?

Why was Simeon so pleased to see the baby Jesus?

In what ways can serving and church activities distract us from reflecting on the realities and the more important spiritual truths?