Eye-Witness Testimony: A Short Story For Easter 2018.

"I knew his voice right away, but it was only when he spoke my name, ‘Mary’, that I was sure."

“SHE WILL SEE you now. Follow me.”

There could be no doubting the Hebrew origin of the middle-aged woman who led me into the central courtyard of the villa. Her dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin were the common inheritance of all the peoples living around the Middle Sea, but her curiously accented Latin was unmistakable. To hear its like I had merely to open my own mouth. Clearly, the graceful figure in front of me was one of my own stiff-necked race.

And there weren’t many Hebrews in this part of Rome’s empire. Southern Gaul is a long way from Palestine, and the city of Massalia isn’t the least bit like Jerusalem. But, here she dwells: a thousand leagues from her homeland; Mary, the companion of Yeshua Ben Joseph; the man Rome crucified 40 years ago but who stubbornly refuses to die. The man called Jesus by his growing band of Roman followers. The god-man about whom the Emperor Vespasian wishes to know more – much more.

“Titus Flavius Josephus – you are as far away from Judea as I am. Or, do you now call Rome your home?”

No, Lady, I was born a Jew – and will die one. I am prepared to admit, however, that Rome is now a good deal safer than Jerusalem for people like ourselves.”

“Oh Jerusalem, the time will come when not one stone will be left on another; every one of them will be thrown down.”

The old woman’s voice had taken on a different timbre; her eyes were fixed on things I could not see. Shaking-off her reverie, she turned towards me and smiled.

“That’s what he said. About the fate of the Temple. He foresaw its utter destruction.”

“You are speaking of your friend? The rabbi, Yeshua Ben Joseph?

“Yes, Josephus, I am.”

“I have been told, Lady, that you were among the last people to see him alive.”

“That is true, Josephus. Although, you could also say that I was the first person to see him dead.”

Sixty years and more she may have lived upon this earth, but her eyes could still twinkle mischievously. She knew why I had come.

“Tell me about that encounter, Lady. For the events of that day, the third after his crucifixion, are spoken of – by the members of the religious sect I have been tasked with explaining to the Emperor – with a mixture of reverence and awe.”

“And rightly so.” It was the first time the younger woman had spoken. “It is the heart of the mystery. The whole point of the story.”

“Resurrection? The whole point of the Orpheus myth – and the myth of Osiris. He that was dead shall live again.”

“Did you know Orpheus personally? Were you acquainted with Osiris before his unfortunate demise?”

The older woman was teasing me.

“Yeshua Ben Joseph was not a character from a fireside tale, or a temple play, Josephus. He was a carpenter from Nazareth. A flesh and blood man, with callouses on his hands and the word of God on his lips. Your friends, the Romans, nailed him up on a cross for the unforgiveable crime of speaking to large numbers of people in a way that made them want to listen. Oh, how that man could talk! The stories that he told. Small and homely they were: filled with all sorts of everyday things; and yet, somehow, also containing the whole of God’s wisdom – and his purpose.”

“Are you hungry, Titus Flavius Josephus?” The younger woman set down a platter of bread and a jug of wine.

“Thank you, not yet. Tell me about that morning in the garden.

“He was there. What more can I say?”

“He spoke to you?”

“It was as well that he did, for until he spoke I wasn’t certain it was him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said: ‘Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?’ I knew his voice right away, but it was only when he spoke my name, ‘Mary’, that I was sure.”

The two women sat in silence, their dark eyes upon me. Only then did it strike me that I was looking at a mother and her daughter. As I broke the bread and poured the wine, I couldn’t help wondering who the father might be.

This short story was written for publication during Easter 2018.

Good Friday Meditation: The End Of The Line?

Breaking Free: The God of Israel’s story was not one of endless repetition. Each human life was to be understood not as the fleeting rehearsal of a drama whose essential plot was unchanging; but as a step, however small, towards an end that humankind itself was fashioning. Jehovah’s representation of the world was historical, not cyclical. We, his human creations, were headed towards something that had not happened before.

DEATH AND RESURRECTION lie at the heart of the Easter story. But Christianity’s preeminent religious festival also echoes a much more ancient celebration; that of Spring’s triumphant overthrow of Winter’s deathly reign. Viewed from this perspective, Jesus of Nazareth is but the latest in a long line of divine revolutionaries whose sacred lives are bound, irretrievably, to the slow-turning wheel of the seasons; the relentless cycles of birth, death, and rebirth.

 

Where Christianity departs so decisively from the nature religions that preceded it is in its claim to have broken free of their circles. Jesus’s startling message held that the ferociously jealous sky father, Jehovah, was a linear god. The God of Israel’s story was not one of endless repetition. Each human life was to be understood not as the fleeting rehearsal of a drama whose essential plot was unchanging; but as a step, however small, towards an end that humankind itself was fashioning. Jehovah’s representation of the world was historical, not cyclical. We, his human creations, were headed towards something that had not happened before.

 

In the pre-industrial world that Jesus and his followers inhabited, it is difficult to overstate how radical this idea must have seemed. To people whose very existence depended on the orderly sequences of sowing and reaping; engendering and slaughtering; the notion of individuals stepping away from the relentless cycles of the world must have seemed, at best, fanciful, and, at worst, blasphemous.

 

Once grasped, however, it is easy to see how this idea might encourage notions of being among God’s chosen people. To embrace Jehovah’s linearity was to become a being in history – a shaper of events, rather than their inevitable victim. It’s what makes Jesus’s trade such a potent metaphor. For what else is a carpenter but a person who shapes things to a purpose? Someone who builds things to a plan?

 

The overwhelming image that emerges from all the Jesus stories is that of a man on a journey. The great events of his ministry are but stations: points which he is at once moving towards and departing from; points on a line.

 

Reading the Gospels it is impossible not to see Jerusalem as the city of endings: the inescapable terminus of Jesus journey; the place towards which every step he takes is leading him. It’s as if he knows that in this great crucible of faith and politics – of faith as politics – all the twisted threads of his life will be pulled, finally, into a single bloody knot.

 

Only in Jerusalem will he have an answer to the question that has been dogging him ever since he set out from Galilee. Is Death the end of the line?

 

Crucifixion is Death at his most cruel. We read that in the last, agonising moments of his earthly life, Jesus cried: “My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” And then: “It is finished.” As if, in the brutal reality of his own demise he finally understood the futility of his faith in straight lines.

 

From the perspective of Calvary did Jesus realise, at last, that space is curved? That what we perceive to be a straight line is, in fact, just a tiny section of a circle so vast that the brief span of human existence is simply too short to comprehend its immensity.

 

Or did he, hanging up there against the sky, understand that life is both linear and circular? That the quest for understanding, for meaning, leads us always straight on. But, also, that the quest itself is repeated endlessly. That every generation is driven forward by the power of all the lives lived before it. Like those voyaging spacecraft, flung ever further into space by the gravitational heft of the planets they pass by.

 

And isn’t this the true meaning of Jesus resurrection? That the all-too-human truths he wrenched from his own life lie waiting to be rediscovered in every generation. That the carpenter’s invitation, to step outside the dull circles of our lives and shape the world to some purpose, is one we all hear, but by no means all of us heed.

 

Perhaps only a God born in the desert could place such faith in the act of journeying. Where water is abundant, it is easy to forget how far people are willing to travel to quench their thirst.

 

This essay was originally published in The Waikato Times, The Taranaki Daily News, The Timaru Herald, The Otago Daily Times and The Greymouth Star of Thursday, 2 April 2015.

Barabbas - An Easter Story

"All I know is that he died and I live. Maybe it’s what lies at the heart of that day."

 

“YOU’RE A HARD MAN TO FIND!”, exclaimed the sharp-featured young fellow, setting a jug of wine upon the table. “I’ve had no end of trouble tracking you down! Some said you were dead, others that you had been sold into slavery. But I said ‘No, the people who each played a part in Our Teacher’s last hours upon this earth must surely enjoy the Lord’s protection’, and here you are, safe and sound, in Alexandria!”

 

“Safe and sound, you say? Can a Jew ever be truly so? Still, there are many of us here, safe among the Greeks – if not the Romans. So, tell me, boy, what has brought you all the way from Judea – no, don’t look so surprised, your Greek is good, but I’d recognise that accent anywhere – what do you want with this old grey head?

 

“I want the memories inside it, Yeshua Bar Abbas. You were there the day he died. While they still live, I am recording the testimony of all who witnessed the events of that day.”

 

“The day who died, boy? I have seen many men die – and I have to warn you, I do not remember very much about any of them.”

 

“You will remember this man, Yeshua Bar Abbas. Even though it happened thirty years ago. He was called Yeshua, too. A Galilean. From Nazareth. A teacher and a healer who preached the coming of the Kingdom. He was put to death by Pontius Pilate. You were involved in some way.”

 

“Yeshua of Nazareth? Oh, yes, I remember him.”

 

“You met him? You knew Our Teacher? Tell me what happened.”

 

“The truth is, I don’t know. We were both being held in Pilate’s prison. I’d already been condemned as a rebel – was scheduled to be crucified in a few hours. I do remember that I was feeling pretty sorry for myself – pretty low. Then they brought him in. The guards laughed when they heard his name, insisted on introducing me to my namesake. They told me I should bow, because this fellow was the King of the Jews.”

 

“Did he speak to you?”

 

“He smiled. Shook his head. Spoke softly. ‘I am no king’, he said. We talked for a long time. He seemed to know a lot about me. About my attacks on the Roman columns protecting the tax collectors. About the plot to cut down the Emperor’s standard above the Temple. I asked him if he was one of us – one of the Zealots. He shrugged his shoulders. Told me that there would always be Caesars of one sort or another. The trick, he said, is to recognise what can safely be surrendered to earthly authority, and what cannot. Doing what you’re told, he said, is much less important than doing what is right. I remember snorting with derision at this meek little man and wondering what on earth he was doing among the real revolutionaries.”

 

“What happened then?”

 

“A Centurion came and took him up to meet Pilate. He wasn’t gone long. Then a message came down from the Governor to release the man called Yeshua. I wasn’t surprised – at least, not until someone hauled me up and struck-off my chains. The guard had changed, you see. I was the only Yeshua they recognised. I couldn’t believe my luck! But then I recalled the Galilean’s words about rendering unto Caesar what was Caesar’s and unto God what was God’s. I hesitated, was about to speak, but he was standing right in front of me, telling me with his eyes to remain silent. He leaned forward and whispered: “Go in peace, Barabbas. Some things belong both to Caesar and to God.”

 

“What? You’re telling me Our Teacher’s death was a mistake!”

 

“No. I don’t think it was a mistake. I don’t think that anything about Yeshua was mistaken. There was something unfolding in that prison, something beyond my understanding. All I know is that he died and I live. Maybe it’s what lies at the heart of that day. What’s your name, son?

 

But the young fellow was already gathering up his tablets and stylus. He looked angry.

 

“My name is Marcus, and I’m sorry I found you Yeshua Bar Abbas. The story you’ve told me cannot possibly be true. I pray the Lord sends me a better one.”

 

This posting is one of a series of representations of the Christian story carried on the Bowalley Road blogsite every Easter and Christmas.

Guard Duty: An Easter Story

The Tomb Was Empty

“THAT’S QUITE A STORY, Marcus Petronius.”

My sergeant was a big bear of a man in his early 40s. He’d been soldiering for more than fifteen years and still had ten to go. He was a true Roman; the son of a butcher from the Transtiberium district. It was a lineage he used to good advantage with raw recruits. “Never been afraid of blood and guts!”, he’d bellow. “Been around them all my life. So long as it’s not yours, you’ve nothing to fear from the contents of a man’s belly!”

That was Antonius Caedere – whom some called “The Rock”. Because he was a rock. The sort Rome’s enemies broke on. A man to put your back against when things got ugly. Solid, dependable: a real soldier.

“How did you come to be guarding a Jewish corpse in the first place? Last I heard you were on crucifixion duty.”

“That’s right, Sergeant. Up on Golgotha. Two thieves and a political – nothing special.”

“So, what happened?”

“Well, it’s hard to say. The Governor’s guard had beaten the political pretty bad. Some wag had even woven him a crown of thorns – called him “King of the Jews”.”

“Risky title, I would have thought.”

“Yes. I think it’s what got him killed. Some Jewish legend about the coming of a mighty king – the ‘Messiah’. You know what these people are like. Anyway, their High Priest, Caiaphas, thought it safer to be rid of him and handed him over to Pilate as an enemy of the Emperor.”

“An even more risky title. Did he die well?”

“He died quickly, I can tell you that. Cried out for his father, which was a little odd, because usually all they want are their mothers. Still, the two thieves were very much alive, so our job was far from done. The hours passed, the day was wearing away, when this wealthy Jewish fellow bustles up with a message from Pontius Pilate, no less. The duty officer reads the message, frowns, reads it again, and then orders Cassius and me to cut the dead political down and hand him over to this Jew for burial. When we’ve done this, the officer reads the message over again and orders us to go with the body and stand watch over the burial tomb until relieved.”

“You were absent without leave for two nights, Marcus Petronius. You and Cassius Gaius. Guarding the corpse of a dead Jewish political? Two nights, and no one relieved you?”

“Well now, that’s the thing. Someone did relieve us. An officer.”

“Who?”

“I didn’t recognise him, Sergeant. Neither did Cassius. Strange. I thought I knew all the officers in the Jerusalem garrison. Not this fellow, though. He was very tall, wore a white cloak that seemed to shimmer in the dark, and spoke so softly we could hardly hear him.”

“And he relieved you? An officer relieved a couple of privates?”

“It’s hard to explain, Sergeant. He didn’t seem to be alone. Both Cassius and I got the impression that there were others present, in the shadows. Though we couldn’t really see them – it was so dark.”

“And what did this ‘officer’ say?”

“He just said they had come for the one who was in the tomb. He smiled at us. It was the uncanniest thing. I remember exchanging glances with Cassius – and the rest is just a blur. Cassius said there was a blinding light, but I think it was just the rising sun shining through the leaves. Because it was morning, Sergeant, and the great round stone that we’d rolled into its slot at the mouth of the tomb was lying in pieces on the ground – like a broken egg. And the tomb gaped wide – like an open wound. And Sergeant, it was empty.”

“Like I said, quite a story. And you know I’d have the hide off you both if I hadn’t heard a very similar story not two hours ago from a member of the Sanhedrin. He left me gold in return for my – for our – silence in this matter. So, we’ll say no more about it – ever. And if anyone asks what happened to the political, you tell them that his followers came in the night and stole his body away. Is that clear Marcus Petronius?”

“As the risen sun, Sergeant.”

This short story was originally published in The Otago Daily Times, The Waikato Times, The Taranaki Daily News, The Timaru Herald and The Greymouth Star of Thursday, 5 March 2012.

The Arrest

"Whom seek ye?"

I AM an old man, now, but still they pester me for the tale. Every Passover it is the same. “Malchus”, they cry, “tell us the story again. Tell us what happened in Gethsemane.”

It’s thirty years and more since that night. And the truth of the matter is, I’ve told and re-told the story so often, I’m not entirely sure which parts of it actually happened, and which are the sort of embellishments contrived by all storytellers to satisfy the clamouring of children and, more lately, grandchildren.

But the bones of the experience are strong enough – even now. Though mine are bent and brittle, the story’s limbs stand straight and true. How could they not? It was a night to remember.

It began with the unceasing chatter of Judas, my informant. Honestly, the man never stopped talking – though whether it was to me, to himself, to his master, or to God, I was never quite sure. An impassioned monologue nonetheless; as if he was summing up a case in the courts of law: marshalling his facts; setting forth his arguments; drawing his conclusions. And every few moments he would turn to me, his eyes wide and wild, and clutching at my cloak he’d say: “You understand, Malchus, don’t you? You must understand. He left me with no other choice!”

Oh yes, I understood alright. I recognised an uneasy conscience when I heard one. And I wanted to tell him: “Judas, we always have a choice.” But he was in such obvious pain that I bit my tongue.

Our destination was Gethsemane, the garden of a wealthy merchant. By the light of the waning moon I identified olives and cypresses, myrtles and bay trees. The air was rich with the scent of herbs. A path of flagstones took us into the shadows. All around me I could hear men adjusting their harness, loosening swords in scabbards; tightening their grip on the truncheons of spears.

The path ended in a circular clearing ringed by tall cypresses. Mute beneath the stars, they seemed to be standing guard over a tangle of cloak-swathed sleepers. Even the tongue of my loquacious companion was stilled. The silence welled up out of that clearing like a mist. I hardly dared to breathe.

“Whom seek ye?”

The speaker had emerged from the shadows directly opposite us on the other side of the clearing. His white robes glowed in the moonlight like dull fire.

“Jesus of Nazareth”, I replied, though my voice seemed strangely altered – hoarse and harsh like the rattle of gravel.

“I am he.”

At this point everything becomes confused. I remember Judas striding across the clearing followed by the Sanhedrin’s soldiers. The Nazarene met him halfway and the two men kissed. But, before the arrest could be made, a big burly fellow, one of the sleepers, had leapt up brandishing a lethal-looking sword. I rushed forward and the whole right side of my face was suddenly engulfed in pain. A hot flood of blood gushed down my cheek.

Then the man, Jesus, was speaking: “Put it away, Peter. Have I not said that all who live by the sword shall die by the sword? Sheath it now. My Father has filled this cup and I must empty it.”

Then his eyes fell upon my wound and he lifted his hand.

I felt as though I had fallen into a swollen river and was being carried fast by currents I could not resist. I thought I saw a great curtain rent in two and the Temple shaken to its foundations. The river itself seemed to be made of blood and fire, and with a roar to wake the myriad dead it crashed against the gates of Hell itself and they burst asunder.

When I opened my eyes the pain and the blood were gone. The Nazarene’s face was close to mine and he was smiling. With a surgeon’s eye he surveyed my ear and nodded in satisfaction.

“Guard me well, Malchus” he said, throwing a strong carpenter’s arm around my shoulders. “My Father’s cup must not be allowed to fall.”

Who led whom out of the Valley of Kidron, I cannot rightly say. All the way back to Jerusalem, though, his eyes were fixed upon the Eastern sky where, fast and bright, the sun was rising.

This essay was originally published in The Timaru Herald, The Taranaki Daily News, The Otago Daily Times and The Greymouth Star of Thursday, 21 April 2011.