Of rumour and bribery

And you would have thought that would be the end of it. When someone is crucified by our trusty team they’re dead. Stone cold, clinically dead. They’re not getting up and singing anywhere. And that’s what the ‘whole break the legs’ ‘stab the side’ thing is all about. To make sure that the crim on the cross is really dead.

You go back to the Dodgy Brothers Inn, have a few goblets of their finest. The memory gets fuzzy and the clinging grime of your grubby conscience is washed away.

But it wasn’t the end of the story with the carpenter guy. The one who I smashed the nails through his feet and hands. The one who seemed like he was actually relieved to finally lie down on the cross. The one who didn’t prolong his death so we didn’t have to bust his legs. I just rammed a spear in his side and the goop ran out. It ran spattering down onto the dusty ground and formed a small pool at the bottom of the cross. Evaporating as quickly as it had arrived.

I mean… that’s pretty final and convincing right?

But no… it seems that Jesus had said that he would rise again after three days and in order to make sure no one comes and steals the body, something that happens more times than what you’d think,  Festus and I get orders to roll a severely  big boulder in front of the tomb. It took the both of us a lot of sweat and grunt to get it into place. I don’t care how well you’re built or how many fig pancakes you’ve had for breakfast there ain’t no one going to be able to move that big fella out of the way.

But the job still isn’t done. Gonzo, Festus and I get orders to stay up all night guarding this tomb just to make sure no one comes to try and move the rock and then steal the body.

And I’m thinking ‘Really?’ This is a corpse, a dead person. And in front of him is a mega boulder and in front of the mega boulder are the three of us. Couldn’t we all just nick off down to the Dodgy Brothers Inn and have a bit of R & R?

But no, orders is orders. Gonzo negotiates a good deal for this extra over time, but in the middle of the night you wonder why you signed up with Caesar and whether this was really a good career move. I can think of lots of other things I would rather be doing on this frosty, eerie night. Festus has brought a skin of wine to warm us up but it's not like snuggling down under the blanket and catching a few well earned snores.

So we drink a little, tell lewd stories, snore a little, until the first false light of dawn arrives.

And then everything happens. The earth moves around, an angel appears and us fearsome, fearless  boys run away. None of us is really what sure happened, but as I look back over my shoulder I can see that the boulder we worked so hard to put into place is rolled aside. I know that we are officially in lots of trouble. Our job was to guard the grave and here we are running away like frightened shepherd boys.

It’s Gonzo’s idea to fess up because everyone knows we were the ones sent to guard the tomb. Cornelius is surprisingly understanding. I guess that he is just protecting himself as well.

“Look lads” he says.. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

“I’ll  give you each a large sum of money  and you spread the word that His disciples came and stole him away while you were asleep.”

It’s the easiest 30 pieces of silver I have ever made and while I accept the cash, it just doesn’t sit right. I know what I saw, I know what I heard and just as sure as I saw Jesus breathe his rasping, gasping  last, so too I know the last time I saw the tomb it was open.

On the way home we start spreading the rumour that the carpenters’ groupies came and did some grave robbing. We start with Flavia who runs the fig leaf lingerie shop. She loves to hear a bit of gossip and thrives on telling anyone who will listen. She will add her own unique twist to the story. We call her the O. B. P. Official Broadcasting Person. There’s one in every town.

Job done. By the time the sun is high in the sky the story will be spread around quicker than Matilda can wink.

I sleep off the exhaustion, the fear, the nightmare, the fatigue that comes with everyone you murder.

I get up from my stretcher and wash the blood off my arms. It’s dried and congealed into  crusty brown streaks by now and as it runs down I see the 30 silver pieces out the corner of my eye. Somehow it still isn’t right. Not quite sure what I should do with it but for the first time I realise that the choice is mine.

I guess I could keep the money and squander it in the usual places in the usual ways. Where’s Matilda when you need her?

Or

I could get up tomorrow, put on the uniform, extort, belittle and intimidate, have a great time… …

Or

I could…

The wise old priest and I  were looking deep into the flames in companionable amiability. That unspoken bond whenever two or more people gather around a fire. It’s been going for centuries now. The fire… a meeting place… a cooking place, an eating place, a safe place.

He was senior to me in years of age and certainly years of ordination, so I was respectful and said little. When I did speak I tried to choose my words very, very… carefully.

He looked up mischievously from over the flames caught my eye and  simply said

‘I like fires Fr. David’ I think the right response for a junior cleric was ‘Oh yes’. Neither agreeing or disagreeing. You see how clever I thought I was.

Then in a flat monotone “Yeah… they remind me of hell’

Now I wasn’t really quite sure what the correct response should be. In fact I actually can’t quite remember how I replied, so dumbfounded was I by this bizarre turn in the conversation. I think he just giggled and I tried to chortle along with him… unsuccessfully. I mean, how did he know that hell was full of fire. Had he visited lately?

Palm Sunday

You’ll recall that I helped to arrest this Jesus guy in the garden. We then marched him off to meet some friends called Gonzo and his goons.

They are exactly as they sound. Rough, tough and ready to give a bit of biff, Henchmen par-excellence. Their job is to make the person before us so unrecognisable, that when it comes time for crucifixion, the thing before us will not look like a human being. It’s easier that way. We will be just putting something out of its pathetic little misery. We are actually being humane and doing it a great service.

This task is accomplished by a bit of sport, a bit of imagination, a bit of teasing, a bit of tomfoolery, a bit of muscle. It’s incredible to see how quickly the shift occurs from being a living, breathing person, to an object which is demeaned and disfigured.

Gonzo and his goons also have a great talent for making the punishment fit the crime. So a thief will often have his fingers cut off … one at a time.

The crime for Jesus is that he claimed he was a king… of sorts. Very well. Let the games begin.

Gonzo starts the party by weaving together a very crude spiky crown of thorns. He does this precariously because the spikes are long and sharp, but he has no hesitation in ramming it on Jesus head as hard and as fast as he can. His scalp is pierced and blood begins to trickle down his forehead and cheeks.

Now then, a couple of slaps never hurt anyone and Jesus head snaps quickly first from one side then to the other as the relentless blows continue.

“Hail king of the Jews”.

He’s not looking like a king now, in fact he’s looking pretty mushed, what with Pilates 39 lashes and the bruises that are blossoming on his face.

I’m watching all this and it’s  surreal. I can see it’s happening, but its like a dream and I know that tonight when I close my eyes what I am seeing now, will be replayed in vivid detail. You can’t un-see this sort of stuff. You can’t un-hear the crunch, the groan, the sickening thump of flesh striking flesh.

Next it’s time to play dress ups. They totally strip this guy of his clothes and put on a purple robe, all the time mocking and insulting. ‘There ya go your royal highness, check this out. Specially made for you.’

Oh, and no king is complete without a sceptre. Someone brings in a gnarly bit of wood and sticks it in his hand.  Gonzo kneels down ‘Your worshipfulness free yourself.. you have the power ‘ But it is all Jesus can do just to breathe and stay on his feet. He is beginning to totter and swagger. A little unsteady.

Several of the goons join in quickly hitting him from different sides “Who hit you king of the Jews? Prophesy for us”. And then the spitting starts.

I’ve been a soldier now for 3 years. I’ve seen this sport almost on a weekly basis now, but somehow I never quite got my head around it.

There’s still no response from Jesus and the energy of the sport inevitably ebbs away. I mean, how much can you do to someone that just stands there. Jesus doesn’t give back into the  sport. He just takes it all. The game would go on longer if he tried to retaliate; but he doesn’t and now I think he physically couldn’t, even if he wanted to. But that doesn’t seem to be his plan and in fact I’m not sure what his plan is, or was, or if he even had a plan.

So his old clothes are put back on him and they lead him away. All of Gonzo's party games are exhausted and it’s time to play with the next victim who I lead in for the sport. You can see the terror in his eyes especially when he spots the blood on the ground. He tries to make a run for it.  There are yelps and howls of pleasure as Gonzo and his goons swiftly run him to ground. His escape is unsuccessful. Very unsuccessful.

As soon as I can head off to the Dodgy Brothers Inn to try to wash away the gore of the day. A bit of wine to numb the edges. Sometimes I reckon I should have been a flower arranger. Matilda gives me one of her alluring looks but I am in no mood for treats. I return home and sure enough as soon I close my eyes, the torture of Jesus is re run … again and again. It’s not just the ghoulishness of Gonzo and his goons that sticks with me, it's the placid way that Jesus just drank in all the hate, all the evil, all the anger. Almost like he sopped it up until there was none left.

Tomorrow life will go on… I’ll get up, put on the uniform, extort, belittle and intimidate; maybe even watch Gonzo and his goons play some more games. I’ll  have a great time… … and yet… and yet… now,.. now it’s my turn to cry.

So we come to that day of days when we’re really not quite sure what we’re supposed to be doing. Like, we know that we should be doing something, but just how do you mark a day when God dies at the hands of humans.

Well, you tell the story, you remember, maybe weep, give thanks… maybe just allow some silence to work it's healing.

We do all of these things on Good Friday. There is also a moment where folk come to honour the crucifix. Some will embrace it, some touch, some just simply look. It’s just like a regular funeral where some will want to touch while others can only and simply look. There’s no right way when all are respectful and supportive of each other.

As far as we can tell The Master Carpenter died on the wood with nails through his hands and feet at about 3pm. It matters not if we are little out and something got lost down through the centuries, the important thing is that we come and honour and pray and we receive communion.

So at 3:00pm on Good Friday at Christchurch Hamilton we will gather with that familiar bewilderment and ache, the thanksgiving and the tears. All are welcome. We gather with the hope and the knowledge that this is not the end. There is something more after His Good Friday and there will be something more after my Good Friday.

I’ve always struggled to find the right words for Good Friday so I’ve pinched someone else's to conclude.

So hold me that I fear not
In deaths most fearful hour
That I might be befriended
And see in my last strife
To me your arms extended
Upon the cross of life.

This year it will happen on Thursday April 14th at 7:30pm.

It’s the night before Good Friday and in a stunning, sublime act of worship, the priest takes a towel and a bowl of water and washes 12 peoples feet. At the time of typing there are still some spots left if you wanted to be one of these 12.

This might sound a bit odd, but it is one of the things I look forward to the most every Holy Week. Using the bowl and towel goes to the very heart of what being a priest is.

It is the relentless service of others. Doing the most menial and grungy task with dignity, glee and joy. We understand that to wash someone’s feet is one of the most important and liberating tasks that we can do.

This most uncomplicated act of worship comes from the Master himself who, knowing that he would be dead within 24 hours, knowing that one would deny, one would betray, still washed his friends feet. He did so not just because it was the right thing to do, not just because the feet were mangy and needed a good scrub, but simply because he loved them.

We have been unable to celebrate this liturgy in the past couple of years and so to be able to do it again will come as a fresh, poignant and exquisite  joy.

But the theme of loving humility is to be lived out not just on this most extraordinary night, but day by day, hour by hour, in every encounter, in every conversation, at every act of worship. Whenever we are tempted to lofty triumphalism, then we clergy must always remember the bowl and towel.

Brutus and Festus do some crowd control.

We hear them before we see them. Shouts and cheers.

It’s Festival time and the city is awash with religious excitement. The trouble is that when people get excited about their faith then they do stupid things.

“Come on Festus… this sounds like a bit of fun.”

We see people coming down the road from the Mount of Olives. Its quite a rabble, the curious and stupid come out to see whats going. They  never stop to think that its us poor bozo’s who have to keep everyone safe. And if we have to stomp on a minority of people to stop the majority injuring themselves, then we have done a good day’s work.

People are taking their cloaks off and spreading them on the road. As dumb as door. A cloak is your security blanket. It’s used to keep you warm, to barter and trade. It’s as good as any denarius.

It’s a bizarre gesture and an incredible sight. As they lay their cloaks on the dusty rocky road I can’t help wondering if this is what they call the red carpet treatment. I also remember this same Jesus guys saying something like

“If anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well.”

Which is the most blockhead thing I’ve ever heard.

So I understand the gesture of throwing their cloak on the ground and just what it means for the people. What they are really saying is that they would give their all for this guy.

And here’s another crazy thing. This Jesus guy is on a donkey. An ass … can you believe it? If he is so important, how come he hasn’t got fine black horses like Cornelius? Is Jesus important or not? Or have the crowds just been duped and deluded.

There’s a widow from Nain with her son in the crowd who is just busting to try and get past our line to try and touch Jesus. I reckon there must be some history there.

She’s so determined that she manages to quickly scuttle past Festus and run out onto the road. I can see the glee on Festus’s face as he spontaneously launches himself in her direction and falls on top off her. Even from where I’m standing, I can hear the air escaping from her as she hits the dusty rocky road. Without flinching Festus tosses her over his shoulder and takes her back to the crowd, glaring at everyone else as his way of warning.

The heaving swarm of bodies are all crying out that the top of their voices

‘Blessed is the king

who comes in the name of the Lord!

A king, riding on a donkey? Good ol Herod ain’t gonna like this. Paranoid old poppet. Any whisper of another King and Herod is going to put his stomping boots on.

The other person I recognise is Jesus Mum. She has thrown her cloak out in front of her son and is waving her palm branch along with everyone else. She’s excited. Her face flushed with pride and hope. And I get that. What Mum wouldn’t be pleased to see her son do so well. But really honey. Really…? This is all just going to end in tears. Your tears.

You see, while this guy is all very popular today, God’s gift to the world, I have seen this far too many times before. It's a slippery pole that you climb to the top and when you're at the top, there’s only one way, one option left and that’s a quicker slide down again. Always finishing further down than where you started.

Yep, I reckon that by the end of the week this lot will all be baying for his blood and I’ll be getting overtime for a crucifixion.

The noise is deafening and the crowd is going ballistic. The air is filled with thrumming, waving palm branches.

I can see Jesus up close. I look at his face to see if he’s enjoying himself, searching for any smugness and self congratulations. There’s none. And far from me looking at him and trying to get his measure, he is looking at me and its as if he’s known me for a thousand years. When he looks at me and my uniform there is no fear or anger. He's not looking at any of that. Instead he is looking into that most secret, that very deepest part of me. And far from disgust and abhorrence, his gaze is one of affection and great beauty. The moment is over before it’s begun. It’s both fleeting and forever.

He passes by and the noise slowly evaporates. People go back to their homes talking and laughing. Another great outing.

Festus and I run the last of the remaining crowds off the street.

“How long do ya give him Festus? 50 pieces of silver says we’ll be driving in the nails within a week.”

Sigh ….tomorrow life will go on… I’ll get up, put on the uniform, extort, belittle and intimidate; have a great time… … and yet… and yet… I can’t forget the look. His look.

Great news Friends! Our book fair is going gangbusters. From now until Easter you can snap up some of the many fantastic bargains at The Hub. I consider it a privilege to be able to help out there.  I do so for a couple of reasons. One is that there are plenty of gaps on the roster and cheerful helpers are always needed.

But also because it is a whole lot of fun. The sparkle of scintillating conversation. Meeting new people without a mask and getting to know others just a little bit better. These are valuable gifts that, unlike the books, cannot be priced and sold.

When I am at The Hub I wonder if The Master ever went to the Market. Did he perhaps go with his mum to buy bread and fish? Did he and his mum come home with a basket of pomegranates, figs and dates?

And as he grew older, was it not likely that Mother Mary sent him off to get the groceries where he learnt to haggle and to engage in witty repartee? Did he go tremulously to grumpy Bill who sold walnuts and with a shy smile to Martha who would slip him an extra egg because she knew that Joseph hadn’t got any orders for coffee tables these past two weeks.

Maybe not those particular people, those particular things, but The Master comes humbly, almost surreptitiously, into our hurly burly, our gossip and chatter, our commerce and tedium, our giggling and the boring stuff we just have to do. The trick is to see Him and engage with Him. Most importantly… allow Him to engage with you.

Which is the best reason I know for scribbling my name down on the roster and being in our own ‘modern market’.

Brutus goes to the garden. 

“Festus. Festus! Get out here” It is the middle of the night and I am thumping on his door because our blockhead leader Claudius has a so called ‘important’ job for us.

“Festus!”

I hear muffled whispering and scurrying around. I smirk to myself.

“Festus?”

“I’m in bed”

“So I gather. Festus, our illustrious leader, thinks we need to go to a garden tonight and he’s picked you, me and a few other blokes because he loves us so much. We have to arrest a serious trouble maker. Now get your gear on and get out here. Tell what hers name the party’s over for tonight”

There is more scurrying and whispering before a bedraggled Festus emerges, hair askew and strapping his sword to his thigh. He stumbles after me all the while cursing me and Claudius.

“This is Judas” I explain to Festus and he’s going to introduce us to the rebel Jesus.

Judas hurriedly gives directions

“It’s at the garden at the end of the street on the way to market, just past The Dodgy brothers inn. You can’t miss it.”

More soldiers meet us at the end of the street with lanterns and weapons. It's a blitheringly cold night and like Festus I’m missing the warmth of my bed.

Next to fall into step with us are police, then chief priests and finally some Pharisees. The odd thing is that on any other night, in any other circumstance, on any other issue, there would be a serious difference of opinion and no one would agree on anything. There would be as many different solutions offered as there were people. Tonight though its different. We are marching as one and there is a sense of unity and purpose in the air. None of us want to be out and we are grimly determined to get this over with.

Judas leads us straight to a group of about 10 or so people huddled together singing songs. By the way they are singing I think they may have had  a few strawberry milkshakes.

We surround the little clan but we all know why we are here and for whom we are here.

I catch a glimpse of his face in the lantern lights. It’s oddly familiar but I can’t quite place it. He steps forward and asks who we are looking for. He speaks clearly, confidently and without any fear. Odd because if I was surrounded by this group of people I would be needing a change in uniform.

‘Who are you looking for?’

This is going to be cinch.

But then something in his voice  sparks my memory. I recognise the calm, confident and even compassionate timbre of his voice. It’s melodic without being soppy. Strong without overbearing and grumpy. There must be some mistake. Not this guy. Surely. This is the same Jesus that healed Claudius’s servant.

In his sneering boisterous way Festus yells out

“We’re looking for Jesus of Nazareth.”

Jesus responds

“I am he” Simple but it says it all. No case of mistaken identity here. The guy has fessed up but his response prompts some of the religious leaders to go weak at the knees for reasons I don’t understand.

So again he asks us,

‘Who are you looking for?’

Festus can see he’s on a roll and just wants to go home  so he yells

‘Jesus of Nazareth.’

Jesus answers

‘I told you . It’s me… So if you are looking for me, let these men go.’

Which we cheerfully do. No point in cluttering up perfectly good cells with people we don’t need.

Festus does one of his famous rugby tackles and knocks this guy flat. We pull him up to his feet, bind his hands together and we march off into the night. His so called friends have all run away and off we go. Easy pickings.

But in my head there are two things that are bothering me.

One is the calm and resolute way that this guy met us. It’s almost as if he knew we were comin’ for him long before we ever knew. Almost like this was all part of some bigger plan and it is us that are the pawns in the game not him. He is actually the King.

The other thing that worries me is the possibility that we have made a mistake. Yet Judas has always been one of our most reliable informants. His information has always been accurate. People are exactly who he said, they are where he said and when. Tonight was no different.

Could it be that a healer, someone who mends bodies, his about to have his own pulverised?

It’s dark now. And I am back in bed. The adrenaline frightens sleep away. The whole thing was over very easily and very quickly. I can still see his face. A question tumbles through my mind.

Who was really in control here?

Tomorrow life will go on… I’ll get up, put on the uniform, extort, belittle and intimidate; have a great time… … and yet… and yet…

It’s late. I’m lying in bed waiting for Matilda and I am somewhere in that lovely dozey land.

There is a timorous knock at the door and I sense more than hear Matilda approaching. Her perfume is different, potent, exotic. She slips effortlessly into bed and instead of the usual vivacious extrovert, she is tentative, almost hesitant. Something is quite wrong.

I wait for her to speak and finally, in phrases that shyly emerge, she tells me.

“It was supposed to be an easy gig at Crispus’s place. You know the Pharisee that always has plenty to say… especially about himself”.

‘Come and dance for us Matilda. Here’s a down payment to entertain us. I’m having a few friends over for wine and song’

“The denarius were plenty and I agreed quickly with a wink. It wasn’t until later in the day that I learnt that the carpenter was going to be there. Sort of a local curiosity piece. I suspect that I am there to trap him

I use the denarius to buy some of the best perfume I can find from the stall in the market. I use every last coin and it comes  in an alabaster jar. I’m so pleased and excited. It’s like a really big break to be asked to entertain at Crispus’s place.

I go in through the door and there is quite a crowd there. There is food and people, laughter and song. The wine is really flowing. The party is well under way. I receive the rest of my money and Jesus is pointed out to me. He is sitting quietly and there are three Pharisees asking him knotty questions. I’ve made a living of reading men’s faces and I know these guys aren’t really interested in Jesus’ answers. Their faces are full of fear and loathing.

I stand behind Jesus in order to surprise him, but somehow he already knows I’m there and far from sending me away or speaking harshly, he just simply turns and looks at me.

Now a lot of guys have looked at me in lots of different ways but never, never have I been looked at like this before.

His eyes look straight through me and straight into me. It’s like he can read and know everything I’ve ever done and most of it I am not proud of. Yet he continues with a look that is pure love. A gaze that knows and understands the past, and yet it has already been forgotten.

An invitation and a look of love that is so very different and so very powerful that it is irresistible and far from me seducing him, he has mesmerised me in a way that I have never known. He smiles … and that’s when my tears start.

By now everyone else in the room is silent and gawping at us. But I am not worried or embarrassed. Something else has begun here, something else is going on in a different dimension altogether and it’s like… there’s only me and him in the room. Everyone else is blacked out.

I fall to my knees and not knowing what I am doing or why, I empty some of the perfume on his feet and wipe it away with my hair. Embarrassed.

The titters go up around the room.

‘If Jesus knew who this was… and he calls himself a prophet. A man of God would never allow this to happen. Oh…the shame of it. There just aren’t any moral standards these days. Now in my synagogue, in my day … let me tell you’

“I can feel their scorn for me and Jesus. And it’s when the perfume is gone that Jesus tells Crispus off, but in such a gentle public way that Crispus has nowhere to go and nothing to say.

Then Jesus turns and looks at me with that look and tells me in such a confident way that the past is past and to go in peace. And so I do. So here I am Brutus. I have come straight from the party to you.”

I’m gobsmacked of course. Matilda has never told me anything about her personal life. It’s always been a business transaction pure and simple. Well, maybe not so pure, but there has never been any heartburn in the relationship. Nothing like this.

But something has shifted. Matilda has changed and I have changed. Maybe we have changed.

I have nothing to say. I mean, just what does a built like a brick temple, Roman soldier, say to such an outpouring? In soldier school they didn’t teach us anything about this touchy feely muck. They taught us how to run someone through with a sword. They taught us exactly where to hammer the nails through the hands and feet. Although they forgot to say how hard you have to hit the nails so they stay in the wood, especially when the crim thrashes around.

I’m thinking about all this when…

“Brutus… No-one  has anyone ever known me like this carpenter. Ever. He understood me, knew my every flaw. And just for a few fleeting moments when he looked at me, everything was as it should be. It was amazing. But if it is so splendid and perfect … then why am I crying?”

Take impossible off the table

You remember how I wrote about the Harvest Festival at Glenthompson? To begin with the numbers seemed sparse and our hearts sank.

But we toddled into Church, we sang, we prayed and we gave thanks for the generosity that makes our tables groan. We prayed for those who did not have anyone to be with and were hungry that night; especially when we tucked into generous glasses of wine, scrumptious sausage rolls and thick juicy sandwiches.

We had a new auctioneer to inspire us. He did a cracking job, but it's not over until the last item has been sold, the last glass washed up and the last coin counted.

No one expected the tally of cash to be anywhere near what it has been in past years and yet when the counting had happened, a couple of times just to be sure, there was a major miracle. The sum was what we had always made.

This happened thanks to the hard work and invisible ministry of so many. If you are one of those folk, then you should know how grateful the Anglican community at Glenthompson is.

But when the euphoria had evaporated there were a couple things to draw out from this. I think about a little lad who shared his play lunch when old wise people had forgotten theirs. The result was that thousands were fed. Perhaps my story of the Harvest Festival and the loaves and fishes are the same?

The other dynamic is that something quite mysterious happens when you give things away. It is repaid back to you, multiple times over, in ways that you could never have imagined. So next time there are hard cards on the table, the first one you should remove is the ‘impossible’ card.

Festus came into the Dodgy Brothers inn the other night with a smashing great yarn about Claudius our idiot boss. Claudius has many servants but it happens that  one of them, Romulus, wakes up paralysed and in great distress. Can’t move a muscle and is in tears. Now Claudius… did I mention he’s an idiot, I think I might have, Claudius does not know how to manage people. His style is to strike first and ask questions later. There is no fair work place or trade union. You live day to day not knowing if you will have a job tomorrow which is why every denarius is important. You’ve got to make a stash for your own superannuation fund.  All that being true, I’ll now say this for Claudius. He does care for his personal servants. So when Romulus wakes up paralysed Claudius will do anything and everything he can to help him.

Festus picks up the story from here.

“After having tried excessive amounts of wine and the local physician, Claudius gets desperate. He had heard about a travelling healer called Jesus who  has a reputation for lepers. So Claudius reckons that if it’s good enough for Jesus to heal a leper, he can sure as hec fix up a bit of paralysis. What’s a centurion got to lose?  Claudius sets off to Capernaum to try and find this Jesus guy. The story goes that Jesus offers to come and heal Romulus in person.

Another thing in Claudius’s favour is that he understands authority of the spoken word. So when Jesus offers to come and make a house call free of charge, Claudius won’t hear of it and explains that when he gives an order, it happens.

So if Claudius asks fifty soldiers to jump into the river Nile on a freezing cold night, then they do it. Or if he asks 100 soldiers to go and attack 256 heavily armed Philistines it happens. If Claudius asks Festus to wash his socks and polish his 7 shiny stupid helmets then Festus sighs heavily, rolls his eyes and resigns himself to an afternoon of tedium.

So Claudius says … ‘Just say the word Jesus and I know it will happen’.

Jesus is impressed and says ‘Off you go then, let it be done according to your faith’ which is a very clever way of saying that if you are palavering with me, Romulus won’t be healed. But if you are authentic and really do believe, then your servant Romulus will be healed. When Claudius gets home he discovers Romulus doing the dishes. The floors are swept, the roast lamb is cooking and the washing hung out to dry.”

It's a great story and I’ve given you the edited, polite version. Festus is often one to embellish a bit and sprinkles his stories liberally with some colourful adjectives. This is the PGR version .

We’re onto our second goblet of wine now and I really want to believe the story, but Festus has only got it third hand. Surely such things don’t happen, can’t happen and yet … and yet..I so want it to be true.

Sometimes when Festus is onto his third goblet of wine he says some rather deep things. It’s one of the things I like about him. The profound truth often lies at the bottom of the wine.

It’s one of those moments. He holds his goblet almost tenderly as you would a child . He looks me in the eye and says.

“You know what this means don’t ya? It raises the question of authority”

I grunt and try to look as though I know exactly what he’s talking about. I don’t of course. I haven’t a clue.

“Yeah, there’s the authority of our uniform. When we put it on, strut and swagger through the streets we command a certain amount of authority and we can get our way. There is the authority of Claudius which I know only too well with his 7 helmets and stinking, festering socks. There’s even Herod's authority which is the biggest, but not necessarily the brightest, in all the land.

But authority over illness and possibly death, that’s a different thing altogether.” Festus takes another slug of his wine.

“It’s an authority that makes you vulnerable for it is not about self, it’s about the other person who is less fortunate. When I stand over Peter for a free feed of fish it’s about me.”

The wine has made my head fuzzy, but somehow I know he’s right. This is a different kind of ‘getting things done’.

I so want it to be true.

Tomorrow life will go on… I’ll get up, put on the uniform, extort, belittle and intimidate; have a great time… … and yet… and yet…

On a house in London there is a plaque. It reads

“John Lennon 1940 - 1980 Musician and Songwriter lived here in 1968”

There is a real sense in which the house changed when that plaque went up. It ‘sealed’ the house as significant and different. And no matter who lives there now or what happens in that house, there is a special sense in which it will always be John Lennon’s house.

I thought about this at a recent parish baptism. It is always a significant event but what takes my breath away is when the child's forehead is signed with the symbol of the cross with holy oil. It is true that the candle and the holy water are all essential, but the cross on the forehead is mind popping.

The cross used to be a means of execution but it has been subsumed and transfigured into a sign of victory and new life. A  symbol of the unconquerable love of the Master Carpenter. Once sealed with the sign of the cross and symbolically ‘drowned’ in the water of the font, the child can never be the same again. Victory and new life are now the babe’s.

It’s easy to miss the blue plaque in Maryleborne just as the sign of the cross at a baptism is easily missed. But these little things change us in ways that we will never know. John would have had no idea when he was living in London that the house would be so visited and gawped at.

And that was the lovely thing about this baptism. In the eyes of God this child will always be remembered, always honoured and always loved. The cross and its victory are always indelibly and inseparably ours.