Wednesday in the Seventh Week of Easter (23 May 2012)

Praying for one another

A Christian community either lives by the intercessory prayers of its members for one another, or the community will be destroyed. I can no longer condemn or hate other Christians for whom I pray, no matter how much trouble they cause me. In intercessory prayer the face that may have been strange and intolerable to me is transformed into the face of one for whom Christ died, the face of a pardoned sinner. That is a blessed discovery for the Christian who is beginning to offer intercessory prayer for others. As far as we are concerned, there is no dislike, no personal tension, no disunity or strife, that cannot be overcome by intercessory prayer. Intercessory prayer is the purifying bath into which the individual and the community must enter every day. We may struggle hard with one another in intercessory prayer, but that struggle has the promise of achieving its goal.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer Life Together (1938) [DBWE 5, p. 90]

Tuesday in the Seventh Week of Easter (22 May 2012)

What it means to be baptised

Today you will be baptized a Christian. All those great ancient words of the Christian proclamation will be spoken over you, and the command of Jesus Christ to baptize will be carried out on you, without your knowing anything about it. But we are once again being driven right back to the beginnings of our understanding. Reconciliation and redemption, regeneration and Holy Spirit, love of our enemies, cross and resurrection, life in Christ and Christian discipleship — all these things are so difficult and so remote that we hardly venture any more to speak of them. In the traditional words and acts we suspect that there may be something quite new and revolutionary, though we cannot as yet grasp or express it. That is our own fault. Our church has been fighting during these years only for its self-preservation, as if that were an end in itself. It has become incapable of bringing the word of reconciliation and redemption to humankind and to the world. So the words we used before must lose their power, be silenced, and we can be Christians today in only two ways, through prayer and through doing justice among human beings.

“Thoughts on the Day of Baptism of Dietrich Wilhelm Rüdiger Bethge”,
May 1944, Letters and Papers from Prison (Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works) [DBWE 8, p. 389]

Monday in the Seventh Week of Easter (21 May 2012)

Work and labour until the evening

After the first morning hour, the Christian’s day until evening belongs to work. “People go out to their work and to their labour until the evening” (Ps 104:23)… In most cases a community of Christians living together will separate for the duration of the working hours. Praying and working are two different things. Prayer should not be hindered by work, but neither should work be hindered by prayer. Just as it was God’s will that human beings should work six days and rest and celebrate before the face of God on the seventh, so it is also God’s will that every day should be marked for the Christian both by prayer and work. Prayer also requires its own time. But the longest part of the day belongs to work. The inseparable unity of both will only become clear when work and prayer each receives its undivided due. Without the burden and labour of the day, prayer is not prayer; and without prayer, work is not work. Only the Christian knows that. Thus it is precisely in the clear distinction between them that their oneness becomes apparent.

…The unity of prayer and work, the unity of the day, is found because finding [God] behind the day’s work is what Paul means by his admonition to “pray without ceasing” (1 Thess 5:17). The prayer of the Christian reaches, therefore, beyond the time allocated to it and extends into the midst of the work. It surrounds the whole day, and in so doing, it does not hinder the work; it promotes work, affirms work, gives work great significance and joyfulness. Thus every word, every deed, every piece of work of the Christian becomes a prayer… “And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus” (Col 3:17).

Dietrich Bonhoeffer Life Together (1938) [DBWE 5, p. 74,75,76]

The Seventh Sunday of Easter (20 May 2012)

Breaking Bread in the Christian community

We have considered thus far the daily morning worship of Christian communities. God’s Word, the hymns of the church, and the prayers of the community of faith stand at the beginning of the day. Only when the community has been provided and strengthened with the bread of eternal life does it gather together to receive from God earthly bread for this bodily life. Giving thanks and asking God’s blessing, the Christian house church takes its daily bread from the hand of the Lord. Ever since Jesus Christ sat at table with his disciples, the breaking of bread together by Christ’s congregation has been blessed by his presence. …The Scriptures speak of three kinds of community at the table that Jesus keeps with his own: the daily breaking of bread together at meals, the breaking of bread at the Lord’s Supper, and the final breaking of bread together in the Kingdom of God. But in all three, the one thing that counts is that “their eyes were opened and they recognized him.”

…The breaking of bread together has a festive quality. In the midst of the working day given to us again and again, it is a reminder that God rested after God’s work, and that the Sabbath is the meaning and goal of the week with its toil. Our life is not only a great deal of trouble and hard work; it is also refreshment and joy in God’s goodness. We labour, but God nourishes and sustains us. This is a reason to celebrate. …God will not tolerate the unfestive, joyless manner in which we eat our bread with sighs of groaning, with pompous, self-important busyness, or even with shame. Through the daily meal God is calling us to rejoice, to celebrate in the midst of our working day.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer Life Together (1938) [DBWE 5, p. 71-2,73]

Saturday after Ascension Day (19 May 2012)

Being Together, Being Alone

Whoever cannot be alone should beware of community. Such people will only do harm to themselves and to the community. Alone you stood before God when God called you. Alone you had to obey God’s voice. Alone you had to take up your cross, struggle, and pray, and alone you will die and give an account to God. You cannot avoid yourself, for it is precisely God who has singled you out. If you do not want to be alone, you are rejecting Christ’s call to you, and you can have no part in the community of those who are called. “The confrontation with death and its demands comes to us all; no one can die for another. All must fight their own battle with death by themselves, alone. I will not be with you then, nor you with me” (Luther).

Whoever cannot stand being in community should beware of being alone. You are called into the community of faith; the call was not meant for you alone. You carry your cross, you struggle, and you pray in the community of faith, the community of those who are called. You are not alone even when you die, and on the day of judgment you will be only one member of the great community of faith in Jesus Christ. If you neglect the community of other Christians, you reject the call of Jesus Christ, and thus your being alone can only become harmful for you. “If I die, then I am not alone in death; if I suffer, they (the community of faith) suffer with me” (Luther).

We recognize, then, that only as we stand within the community can we be alone, and only those who are alone can live in the community. Both belong together. Only in the community do we learn to be properly alone; and only in being alone do we learn to live properly in the community. It is not as if the one preceded the other; rather that both begin at the same time, namely with the call of Jesus Christ.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer Life Together (1938) [DBWE 5, p. 82-3]

Friday after Ascension Day (18 May 2012)

Thankfulness in the Christian Life:

Thankfulness works in the Christian community as it usually does in the Christian life. Only those who give thanks for little things receive the great things as well. We prevent God from giving us the great spiritual gifts prepared for us because we do not give thanks for daily gifts. We think that we should not be satisfied with the small measure of spiritual knowledge, experience, and love that has been given to us, and that we must be constantly seeking the great gifts. Then we complain that we lack the deep certainty, the strong faith, and the rich experiences that God has given to other Christians, and we consider these complaints to be pious. We pray for the big things and forget to give thanks for the small (and yet really not so small!) gifts we receive daily. How can God entrust great things to those who will not gratefully receive the little things from God’s hand? If we do not give thanks daily for the Christian community in which we have been placed, even when there are no great experiences, no noticeable riches, but much weakness, difficulty, and little faith—and if, on the contrary, we only keep complaining to God that everything is so miserable and so insignificant and does not at all live up to our expectations—then we hinder God from letting our community grow according to the measure and riches that are there for us all in Jesus Christ.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer Life Together (1938) [DBWE 5, p. 37]

Oh God! I don’t believe it! They’re back again! In the middle hours of the night, when all respectable, God-fearing people should be in bed with the door locked and windows closed, and only bandits, graverobbers and Romans are out and about, there’s a mutter of whispering and shuffling on the staircase outside my bedroom window. It takes me a bleary-eared couple of heartbeats to work out that those are Galilean accents, and I recognize one for sure: Big-Lump, the super-spy who’d come with the Galilean Rabbi on Thursday afternoon. My heart sinks. I had hoped to have seen the last of them when they left my furnished dining room on Thursday night, and even though Judas, the only decent one in the whole party, never showed up on Friday to pay the account, I would rather take the financial hit than deal with that lot again.

And anyway, who said that innkeepers have to be insurrectionists as well? I keep rooms in which Passovers may be eaten— hospitality for pilgrims is my business. I didn’t set out to be a base for every bandit in Judea to plot and regroup. I thought, on Thursday night, that they were just a bunch of stuck-up and slightly thick provincials. The usual crowd to make money from. And then, after what happened on Friday I realise that this lot are dangerous. “We’re leaving to continue our worship somewhere else,” said the high-handed Rabbi to me. “We don’t want to be disturbed.” Well he did me a favour according to all accounts. Temple guards and Roman soldiers arrested them in their prayer meeting, and the drippy Galilean was taken off to Caiaphas’s house. Can you imagine the complaints from the neighbours if the soldiers had come here? “Oi! It’s the night before Passover! Can’t you keep the noise down?” “Sorry, sorry,” I’d’ve had to shout back. “Not my fault I rented rooms to revolutionaries” !

Thaddeus told me that the Rabbi had been executed on Friday. Pincer movement between the High Priest and the Governor. Don’t like seeing anyone getting killed by the Romans, even a stuck-up sneak like that Galilean, but I like bodies in the street even less. I remember the last insurrection. Not pleasant, I can tell you, and if the death of one (or two!) Galilean rabbis means we don’t have to live through all that again, well— it’s a price worth paying.

But now they’re back! I stick my head out of the window and look at them milling pathetically around in the courtyard below. “What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss. “Go away!”

“We’ve got nowhere else to go to,” says one, not Big-Lump, who I can see standing to one side, arms wrapped around himself, staring into space.

“Not my problem. Go away!”

“Please! We need somewhere to rest. We’ve been on the move for two days.”

I’m about to swear at them when I see shutters beginning to move on the other side of the squares. Which is worse: neighbours or Galileans? Hard choice, but without really knowing why, I go downstairs and lift the bolt from the door, and let them in.

“Quickly” I hiss. “Before the neighbours hear.”

“Thank you, thank you,” they all mutter. Their gratitude makes me cringe more than the drunken arrogance of two days ago.

“Yes, yes, quickly. Inside.”

I take them upstairs, back into the large dining room I had hired to them for the Passover. Hired, but not been paid for. “You can stay here for the moment,” I say. “But I want to be paid for the dinner. Judas was supposed to pay me on Friday. Where is he?” There’s an embarrassed pause, and the one who spoke to me outside answers.

“Judas is dead. Killed himself. Buried in the potter’s field.” I sigh.

“With or without his money?”

Another pause: “Without. The temple priests took the money back from him.”

“Temple priests? Why did they have his money? My money? No, don’t tell me. I think it’s safer for me to know as little about you lot as possible. Two of you dead in two days. What do you reckon your chances of survival are?” At this Big-Lump shakes himself out of his stupor.

“Survival? Not good. Not good at all. We will not survive. We don’t deserve to survive.” Another pause.

“Well,” says I, business like. “I’m glad to see the party mood continuing. You can stay the day. Then I want you out at night-fall, and I suggest you get out of the city then. You can usually get through the Dung Gate before the curfew sets in. But that’s your problem.” There’s no response from them, but they all just collapse on the cushions on the floor. They look as if they have slept since Thursday night. Well, trouble-making is a tiring business. And if I sound unsympathetic, then that’s because I am.

There’s peace and quiet for a few hours, but I can hear, before the city’s cockerels begin their usual cry, feet running to the foot of the staircase. There’s a thump, thump, thump on the door— not strong or insistent enough to a soldier’s demand to be let in— and then the door opens and there’s a hurried, babbling conversation. I make out a“I don’t believe it!” and I sympathise.

“I know what you mean, legate. I let you back in on the condition you keep your heads down, and before the sun is up you’re drawing the attention of the whole neighbourhood to my inn. I don’t believe it, indeed.”

As I’m getting my robe on, more furious whispering and the door bangs shut, and I hear feet running away from the inn: three or four people this time.

By the time I get to upper room all the provincials are awake and huddled in gossipy debate. I look out the one who took the lead in the night.

“What is it now?!” I don’t mind showing my irritation.

He looks at me, and shakes his head. “It’s the women. They’ve come back with some kind of cock and bull story about Jesus.”

“Jesus?” I ask.

“The rabbi.” Funny. I had never heard his name before then.

“What about him? Still dead, is he?”

“That’s just it,” he says, half-way between smiling and crying. “The women went to his tomb this morning, to finish off the funeral rites. They didn’t have time on Friday, what with Sabbath beginning, and the storm, and the Roman soldiers. They say,”—  he put emphasis on ‘say’— “that when they got to the tomb, the stone was rolled away and the body gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“They don’t know. They just came back here to tell us, and Simon Peter and John have gone to check.”

“Very wise, legate. Sounds like a typical woman’s story to me. Wrong tomb, wrong grave yard, wrong body. Wrong everything. Unless… You haven’t already nicked the body have you? I won’t have graverobbers in my inn!”

“Not us! We couldn’t have anyway. The Governor put a guard on the tomb. We’d never have got passed the soldiers.”

“Soldiers! So where are they now then?”

“I have no idea, but I tell you, unless I see it for myself, I’m not going to believe it. Too much has happened this week for me to get my hopes up.”

Just as he is speaking Big-Lump arrives back, with the Handsome one in tow. They’re out of breath. Big-Lump has woken out of his stupor then.

“They’re right,” he says. “No body there. No guards. Just the grave clothes folded neatly in the corner.”

“And…?” says the one I was speaking to.

“And what, Thomas.”

“Didn’t you look for the Master’s body? Where’s it gone?”

“I have no idea, Thomas. All I can say is that it isn’t there.”

“Peter! You are hopeless! That is no answer.”

All I think is that I am glad the revolution isn’t dependent on this lot. They can’t even keep track of their Master’s body. As the argument develops between the group, some following Thomas and not believing a word of it, others following Peter and John thinking that something, anything, has happened, a woman slowly slips into the room, and stands there. I’m the only one to notice her, at first, but gradually the argument quietens down. She is red in the face, and obviously moved in some way, and equally obviously, trying to keep her emotions under control.

Peter finally notices that everyone else has shut up, and turns to the woman. “Mary. You’re back.”

She catches her breath, and then it all come out. “Peter. He’s alive. I have seen him, almost touched him. He spoke my name. He tells me to tell you all that he is ascending to his Father.”

All this in a room of absolute stillness. She finishes and the silence continues for a moment, and then pandemonium.

“Alive!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“He’s dead, Mary. I saw his body on the tree!”

“There were spears, and nails. Of course, he’s dead!”

“A woman’s witness! What’s that worth!”

In all this, I notice something strange. Mary doesn’t attempt to argue or explain. She doesn’t find more words to describe what happened. She doesn’t join in. She just stands there, as sure as she would’ve been if she had told them that the sun had risen that morning. They could disagree all they liked, but the sun would still have risen, and its light would still be in the sky.

Despite myself, I’m getting involved. I don’t say anything. Rather, I find myself caring. Perhaps this woman is right. Perhaps the Galilean rabbi is alive, risen from the tomb. What would that mean if he has? What would that mean for me? For Jerusalem? What would that mean for the world? As I think these thoughts, such unexpected ideas, I find myself overwhelmed with excitement, no, not excitement, a joy like a meal with good friends and the birth of a child and the wonder of dawn and the songs of a high day in the Temple, all rolled into one. This means everything, I think. If only it were true. If only it wasn’t just a story told by a woman.

And as I think that, the noise of arguing men fades away, and the room grows warm, like the heat of a summer’s morning burning off the dew, and a sweet breeze blows through the stuffy and scruffy upper room, and he stands in the middle of the swirling group, and as I fall to my knees, the light and joy disarms me and all I hear is his voice, saying, promising, bringing: “Peace.”

“It’s a dirty job”, they usually say. But then they add, “and I’m glad it’s not me that has to do it.” And without a hint of gratitude. No: “and I’m glad that somebody does it”, or even: “and I’m glad that you do it, Bartholomew.” I mean, I don’t expect much in this world, and I know that I live in hard times in a hard land, but just occasionally, it would be good if a little word of thanks could fall like refreshing rain onto my path.

Of course, I know all the reasons why I get ignored in this way. Everybody dies, and no one wants to be reminded of it. Everyone, in the long run, is dead, and nobody wants the long run to be shortened. It’s funny, it’s as if being reminded of death, or coming into contact with death will somehow shorten their lifespan. “That’s not the case,” a Rabbi once told me, with a scarf wrapped around his face in case he forgot to keep away from me. “Being near the dead does not shorten our lives– it just shortens our useful lives. Coming into contact with the dead is a good thing, when we are performing the duties required of us towards our mother and father. But even then, it means that we become ritually impure, and are thus unable to worship God in the way he requires. Cleansing ourselves of such impurity takes times, and that is time away from the study of God’s word, away from worshipping God in synagogue and Temple, away from sacrifice. Life is too short to miss out on the important things.” And then he threw a copper coin at me, and told me to go away in most unrabbinical language.

So, if you haven’t guessed already, I deal with the dead. A Jew who spends his day among the unclean bodies! I may as well have been a pork butcher. But like I say, someone has to do it, and it may as well be me. Of course, I don’t say that I am a gravedigger (because I’m not), and I’m not like those barking mad Egyptians, with their nose-tools and jars of body bits and wrapping and spells and endless coffins. I like to describe myself as a gardener— I just happen to be a gardener among the tombs. Even the dead like flowers, I sometimes say, but not when anyone is listening. I think that is probably blasphemous. No rabbi I’ve heard of says that there are flowers in Sheol, and the shades of the dead don’t have senses to smell the blooms. But, even so, I have to have something to keep me going.

It’s not that the Tomb-Gardening business is dying out (hah!). It’s a growth business. Everyone dies sooner or later, and with the Romans and the insurrections, it appears that the fashion is for sooner. This used to be a nice quiet quarter of the hill. Well outside the city and above the valley of Gehenna (the hell-hole of the dead, my old dad always used to say). It’s not quite fifty cubits from the city walls, as that old law used to demand, but that’s because the city walls keep moving outwards. However, it was peaceful, and the rock was soft for cutting the tombs into. No pretentious burials here: no mock houses, or palaces, no one thinking they’re Mausolus, or what ever that Persian king was called. Just shelves, in the caves, in the rock, and, if they’re feeling flush, or frightened of grave robbers, then a stone to roll in front. And me outside, keeping the paths swept and the flowers watered and the garden lovely.

That’s how it was. Then the Romans came and decided to do a bit of “urban re-zoning”. This convenient mound just outside the city, with “good sight lines in all directions”, well, that’s ideal for a killing ground. Up with the crosses and the gibbets, and all of a sudden business takes a nose-dive. Who wants to be buried near the Roman crucifixion ground? You’re coming to transfer the bones of your dear mum into an ossuary, and you walk slap into the middle of the execution of twenty zealots. Puts a bit of a damper on the whole day, you might say. That’s why I was grateful to Joseph from Arimathea. A real gent. Old school. His family have used tombs here for generations, and he had reserved one of my nicest new developments for himself. Didn’t mind me letting people know, either. “Oh yes, Joseph of Arimathea will eventually be buried here. You know him? Member of the Sanhedrin? A counsellor? A righteous man. That’s the class we get here.”

Put not your trust in members of the Sanhedrin, as my old dad used to say. Because yesterday, Joseph let me down. The nicest new development, that freshly cut tomb, complete with window slits and a rolling stone that was going to be His Honour’s, got used. And not for Joseph. For an execution burial.

Bit of a rush job, if I’m to be entirely fair. And perhaps Joseph didn’t have much choice, with it being the eve of the Sabbath as well, but why did he make the burial his responsibility. As far as I can tell the dead man wasn’t a member of Joseph’s family. Galilean by all accounts, and not from a good family either. I know that even good families can get caught up in Roman justice, but I don’t think that was the case here. The dead bloke was caught bang to rights. Upset the Sanhedrin and the Romans, simultaneously.

From what I hear, and it is all second and third-hand, there was a bit of a ruckus earlier in the week when he upset the apple-cart in the Temple. No, not a real apple-cart, I mean all the stalls and businesses there. It was Caiaphas’s idea, the old high priest. Tidy up the merchandising of the Temple, clear out the mess, make things more efficient and stream-lined. Get the policies right and the profits will follow. Apparently Caiaphas had decided that the Temple would only accept pre-approved sacrifices. All sacrifices from lambs down to pigeons had to bought from stalls that sold Temple-priest assessed stock. Seems reasonable to me. People used to turn up with some ropey old beasts. Wouldn’t be acceptable for a shepherd’s brothel let alone for sacrifice to the living God. Then there would be ructions, back-and-forths, between the peasant with his mangy dove, who thought it was good enough for Gideon, and the priest who wouldn’t have touched it with a Roman spear. Now under Caiaphas’s plan when people bought the lamb they knew it came with priestly approval. Neat. Tidy. Efficient.

Which was what the Galilean upset. Stalls flying, money rolling, animals squawking, priests shrieking, and him in the middle of it, threatening the Temple’s very existence. Nut job.

The Roman s wouldn’t have liked that anyway. P&Q is their motto: “Peace and Quiet”. ’Cos that leads to “Profits” and “Quotas”. But then the Galilean, or some of his lunatic supporters, started mentioning the “K” word. Now, I’m a tomb gardener, lowest of the low, and even I know that Caesar in his palace in far-off Rome, is the only person who gets to decide who is, or isn’t, a King. Once you start letting any John, Luke or Quintas claim that he is a king, you’ll end up with insurrection and all-out war. And all-out war isn’t good for business. I can’t bury in a day all the bodies that a Roman legion can crucify in an hour. And people tend not to want to pay for burials then.

So between the Temple and the Romans the Galilean’s week was spoiled. Quick arrest, quicker trial, quick execution. All done before the Passover is over, and before the trouble could get out of hand. Say what you like about Annas and Caiaphas, they know how to act quickly. And old whatshisname in the Praetorium, Pilate, he doesn’t muck around either. Bish-bash-bosh, trouble-maker stopped and my nice new tomb filled.

I suppose it is, as my friend Levi says, a cost-benefit analysis. I’ve lost a tomb, and a good family connection to the tomb. That’s cost. On the other hand, the Romans have stopped short of an all-out massacre, which means I can carry on selling tomb spaces, one at a time. That’s benefit.

Oh, and one other thing. For some reason, killing him stone dead wasn’t enough. The Temple and the Praetorium didn’t want the body to disappear either. They’ve posted guards on the tomb. Bit of a slur on my name and reputation. This isn’t the kind of burying ground where the gravediggers sell access rights to graverobbers (and I could mention some by name). Never had a body go missing in fifty years of business. That’s cost. However, Roman soldiers get very thirsty sitting in the sun, and I’ve got rather a nice vintage from Carmel I can sell them. Benefit! I don’t mind working on the Sabbath. As they say, someone has to, and I’m glad it’s me.

Tomorrow will be another matter. The family will come and finish off the burial rites. If they don’t have all the ointments they need, I can always supply what’s missing. And I suppose I’ll be able to have a word with Joseph of Arimathea. I need to know when I’ll get vacant possession of the tomb again.

Apparently, it’s a holiday. Although, to be honest, most days seem to be a holiday here. And not the sort of decent, joyful, singing-in-the-street sort of holidays we’re used to back home. Here the holidays go on for days at a time, and everyone stays indoors, only emerging to look stroppy and bad-tempered and ready for a fight. Too much religion and not enough wine. Something to do with their miserable mountain god, I suppose.

Anyway, I hate holidays in Judea. Holiday for the Jews, double overtime for the soldiers. You never know when the empty streets will suddenly fill, for no apparent reason, with crowds looking to roll-over a legionary. There are forty crosses on a roadside in Galilee which I filled after the last holiday: I know I told the legates it had been an insurrection, and it probably was, but in my book, as soon as a sword or a club or a rock was lifted towards a Roman, I don’t care what the motivation is. I’ve been a centurion for long enough to know that Pax Romana is not concerned with fine distinctions, and neither is the Governor.

But now here I am, in the capital, for the longest and worst holiday of the year. Appropriate, I suppose, for this is the smallest and worst capital in the Empire. Stuck high up on a desert mountain, where water is short and the air is thin, and nights are freezing cold. The olives are wizened and the wine is worse. All in all, I almost prefer being in Britannia. And the crowds!

The whole of Judea is here, and swarms of people from all over the Empire, pouring into the tiny city as if their lives depend on it. And for such a strange religion as well: a cruel and capricious and changeable god (only one!), who makes demand after demand on his people, and never allows them anything in exchange. Such an exclusive god as well. I’m a well-brought up Roman citizen, and I’m perfectly prepared to offer libations at the altar of Mithras and Zoroaster and Toutatis and Lud. But when I arrived in Jerusalem I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I am NOT to go to the Temple, and I am NOT to attempt to pay respects to the Jewish god: “a jealous god” they call him. Psycho, more like.

And now dumped into mopping up duties. Mopping up after another religious-political mess up. A man who claims (or doesn’t claim) to be a holy man; claims (or doesn’t claim) to be a prophet; claims (or doesn’t claim) to be a political leader; claims (or doesn’t claim) to be a rival King to Caesar. Honestly the story isn’t straight, and I don’t think it ever will get straight. Any little respect I might have had for the Jewish religious leaders, and the little respect I have for legates and governors has long gone. The naked pursuit of private agendas is one thing: how else did Pax Romana get to be Pax Romana without it being imposed so decisively? What really annoys me is the incompetence shown by the priests and the Governor. This trouble-maker could’ve been arrested long before the holiday, or he could’ve been “disappeared” until after the crowds dispersed. But a public trial and a public execution on the day before the holiday when the city was at its most volatile? … well! If you want a problem solved, best call the Legion VI Ferrata!

The execution spot, just outside the city walls, is prepared. Golgotha, the Jews called it (barbarous tongue): Calvary to civilized folk. We’ve had executions there regularly, the last three days ago, and the bodies have been taken down this morning. There are four crosses ready, although we’re only going to need three: one for the Galilean political, and two for ordinary criminals— robbers? bandits? something like that. The next problem to sort out is getting to the execution ground. The streets between the Governor’s palace, the Antonia, and the nearest gate to Calvary are narrow, and bound to be crowded. Short swords might be needed, but clubs will be more effective for close-up work. Better make sure that the detail are issued with them. I’ll pick up the execution party (party! Great name for it!) at the Antonia, and lead them through. Should I ride? No, that’s foolhardy in these streets. I’ll have more control on foot. Easier to get to miscreants at their level.

The robbers are not pleased to see me: one swears, one cries. The “political” says nothing, and just stands there. Is he too dazed to know what is going on? His face and back are certainly streaked with blood and bruising. Let’s see when I order them to shoulder the cross-bars. Hmm… he’s looking around him, like he’s examining the guards who will accompany him to Calvary. He knows what’s going on. More than that: he thinks he’s in control. He’ll learn soon enough.

The streets are tumultuous, but there doesn’t seem to be any resistance. In fact, the crowds are out to jeer at the prisoners. That’s unusual. Jews don’t normally take against the subjects of Roman justice like this. A man could be a rapist and a murderer, but if he was being killed by Roman law, then he immediately turns into a hero for the crowds. But I know enough Aramaic to recognise an insult when I hear one. Ugh! And the air is filled with curses and spit. “Watch it, you! Improve your aim if you don’t want to end up on a cross!”. Better keep a close eye on the political. No reaction. He’s staggering under the weight of the cross bar, banging its outstretched ends into walls and corners and people. But he’s not answering back. His eyes are focussed on the man ahead of him. Sometimes he’s looking into the crowd, like he’s looking for someone in particular. He’s not going to find them, not in this mob. They are always disappointed. No rescue crew coming. He still hasn’t said a word, though. Nice quiet prisoner.

There’s space to breathe outside the city walls, and the air is fresher. Fresh enough for a rain storm? Dammit. I wish I’d brought my long winter cloak. I’m going to get soaked through on this exposed hill waiting for the prisoners to die. I’m going to get a brazier and break their legs after four hours if they aren’t dead by then. No point in prolonging my inconvenience.

Strip the prisoners naked, throw them to the ground, lay them upon their cross bars in front of the uprights we’ve already fixed into the ground. Arms stretched out. Legionaries! Get those nails in! Hope the cross-bars haven’t been used too many times before. Sometimes it’s hard for the nails to grip in stained and splintered wood as they go through the prisoners’ wrists. Two of the three cry out. Ah! A grimace of pain from the political! Still alive then, and not drugged out his suffering by some friendly supporter. Thread the ropes through the hooks on the back of the cross bars and over more hooks on the tops of the stake. Drag the prisoners upright. Pull them to the tops of the stakes. No, I don’t care if their bodies dangle in the air for a bit whilst you get things sorted, legionary! You’ve made sure their arms are tied to the cross bar as well? I don’t want them dying of suffocation too quickly. That always happens if it’s just nails. The people need to see Roman justice, and that takes time.

All three prisoners make it to the cross alive. Practice and professionalism! Final nails into the feet! Push their legs up into a crouch. Just enough purchase to lift their bodies up when they feel their lungs being crushed. Longer to die, and longer to bring the message home to the people about Roman justice.

One last job for the political. Get me a ladder against the political’s cross. Climbing up, I can see the crowds, a decent, and safe distance away. Hand me the titulus. No, that wooden board. A last nail to fix it above the political’s head. “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”. So that’s his name. Some Jewish VIPs shout at me as I climb down the ladder: “You can’t put that up there!” “Speak to Pilate.” “But, he’s not our king!” “Speak to Pilate.” “Put ‘He said he was king of the Jews’”. “Speak to Pilate. And don’t speak to me again.” This last with my hand on my sword. They shut up.

Not for long though. They turn their attention to the political. Abuse and curses and religious language, I suppose, though I have no idea what most of it means. They must really hate him. The political says nothing for a long while. The screaming continues until one of the robbers joins in as well. Even on a cross you can find someone worse off than yourself. Eventually the political opens his mouth. Finally! “Father, forgive”! In barely a whisper. It stops the abuse for the moment. Everyone looks slightly bemused, as if surprised to find themselves where they are, in a boneyard, screaming at dying men.

The sky’s clouded over. The storm is coming. Good job I ordered that brazier. Three of the lads are playing dice in its warmth. The crowds have thinned now, sensibly enough. The political isn’t going anywhere. Two people remain, standing as close to the cordon of soldiers as they dare. The political is speaking to them, a man and an older woman. Something about looking after each other. You should’ve thought about your will before you got into trouble, sonny.

One of the robbers has already died. The other is close to it. A hour inside my timetable. Good job too, because it’s now as dark as pitch, and the rain is lashing down. Only the political is still going, pushing himself up on his nailed feet, stretching towards the heavens. “I have finished…” (true enough, sonny). “Father, into your hands, I commit my spirit.” And then the political shudders, and dies.

That’s odd. What’s was that all about? Have I missed something in all the events of the day. Perhaps, all in all, this man really was righteous? Even so, righteous or not, he’s dead.

Thank the gods that was over. Mopping up successfully accomplished. Time to get the body down before sunset. Let the relatives have him, and then we can forget all about him. I wonder if the water is hot in the barrack bath house?

How many ways can we find to explain, rationalise, rationalise away, the crucifixion?

Strange way to start a revolution
Strange way to get a better tan
Strange way to hold a power breakfast
Strange way to show your business plan

Strange way to test if wood would splinter
Strange way to do performance art
Strange way to say ‘I’ll see you later’
Strange way to leave behind your heart

Strange dissident of meekness
And nurse of tangled souls
And so unlike the holy
To end up full of holes
It’s a strange way

Strange way to hang around for hours
Strange way to imitate a kite
Strange way to get a view of Auschwitz
Strange way to represent the light

Strange way to watch for stormy weather
Strange way to disprove gravity
Strange way to go around fund-raising
Strange way to sing ‘l am liberty’

Strange dissident of meekness
And nurse of tangled souls
And so unlike the holy
To end up full of holes
Strange way

Strange way to test for haemophilia
Strange way to spend a happy hour
Strange way to down a bitter cocktail
Strange way to merchandise your power

Strange way to reassure your mother
Strange way to finish your world tour
Strange way to pose for countless paintings
Strange way to gather in the poor

Strange dissident of meekness
And nurse of tangled souls
And so unlike the holy
To end up full of holes
Strange way

The world is too much with us
Could we not now just elope?
Strange way to hold us closer
Strange way to give us hope
Strange way…