Clear Light of Day by Penelope Wilcock

divined wisdom astrologically—like the magi in Matthew’s gospel, who would have been Zoroastrians. Matthew wrote from Syria, fairly near their territory, and like the book of Isaiah, which speaks so highly of Cyrus of Persia, there’s a lot in his writing that resonates with Zoroaster.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    Esme, fascinated and astonished by Jabez’s easy erudition, wondered how he had come to such a familiarity with things most people she met knew nothing about, even ministers. She waited, intrigued, to hear what his reply would be.
    â€œOh,” he said, “in Isaiah, the rough places being made smooth—the Parsees believed the world should be perfectly round. The lumps and dents are Angra Mainyu’s work. And in Matthew the broad way and the strait and narrow way—it’s a reversal of a Zoroastrian teaching. But anyway, what I’m trying to get round to is that if you go back to ancient Judaism, you have a concept that all that comes our way comes from the hand of God to train and shape and discipline us—everything, ‘weal and woe.’ I suspect this demons and devil stuff came from a different culture—very strong in Matthew, as I say, who seems to be much acculturated to Zoroastrian thought. For myself I’m quite interested in what William Blake said about the polarization of reason and energy, as an alternative concept to good and evil. I believe that everything has a circular flow, coming from good and returning to good; the circulation of God, maybe. When we try to go against the flow, we run into trouble; life hurts us then—it’s a learning opportunity, a chance to find the direction of God’s love. But then you’ll ask me, how should we try to go against the flow if we’re part of it? We make mistakes, don’t we, awful mistakes, and we wound each other terribly. But I still believe in the goodness at the core of every human soul and the center of all living being. I believe it’s all a chance to channel energy wisely. I believe every agony, every cruelty, every adversity is a chance to learn wisdom and compassion, a better way. Patience. Like the paintings that show Christ’s hands open, with the nails in their palms. Not clenched. Agonized, but open. It isn’t how it must have been, physically; it’s an icon of the spiritual wisdom of the cross. And even while I’m struggling to explain, I know it doesn’t all tie up neat. There’s just some things I don’t understand. But in my heart I feel it.”
    Jabez stopped speaking suddenly and glanced at her, anxious. “Oh dear, I’m sorry—I’m going on too much. Esme, I’m so sorry—you must be bored out of your mind. I get carried away. I’m sorry.”
    Esme sat looking at Jabez in some amazement. She had never met anyone quite like this. He flushed slightly under the intrusion of her gaze and looked down at his hands, gripped together in sudden embarrassment between his knees.
    â€œWhat did you say you do for a living?” she said. “Mend bicycles?”
    And Jabez’s head shot up—stung, he flashed a glance at her, affronted.
    â€œThat’s right,” he said, on the defensive. “That’s me. But I can read and inform myself as well as any man. And I can think. Is that okay?”
    â€œNo, no! I didn’t mean—of course it’s okay—I didn’t mean to imply there was anything wrong with that, I’m just surprised you haven’t chosen to—er—”
    â€œMake something of myself?” There was a dangerous glint in Jabez’s eye.
    Ember, who had taken up her knitting while Jabez was talking, said, “Sixty-nine years ago in January, the immortals in their grand stupidity made the blunder of entering Jabez Ferrall for the Human Race. All he done ever since is dawdle along admiring the buttercups and the vetch that grow alongside the track. He