things to do about the house. Get him
to help you with the carpentry. Make him so tired he only wants
to sleep. Throw water on him if he starts to pray in gibberish.
Don't be ashamed to use a stick. He'll grow out of this the
moment that he starts a beard. It's just his age.'
7 3
The priest was right. By the time Jesus's chin and upper lip
were wispy with hair, the prayers seemed to have abandoned
him. His private languages disappeared, like adolescent boils. He
resembled the neighbours' sons at last, except he was more
nervous and more serious, a touch bereft perhaps. At least he
wasn't rising off the ground and nudging angels with his head.
He even ate and slept.
Yet, despite appearances, Jesus had not lost any of his passion
for god. He did not need to move his lips to pray. He'd reached
the stage where every breath was prayer, where all the steps and
sounds he made were verses for god, where everything was
touched with holiness: a heel ofbread, the soundless comers of
the house when he woke up, the cobwebbed shadows on the
day-white walls, the motes of sawdust hanging in the window
light, the patterns on his fingertips. God in everything and
everything in god. Even with his father in the workshop, cutting
wood and making frames, he found there was a rhythm to the
bow-drill and the draw-knife and the plane which took the place
of prayer. Every movement was a repetition; every repetition
was a word. The timber and the tools took on new meanings.
The knots in wood were sins. Twisted wood was devil's work
and should be thrown out or burned.
Once or twice, immersed in reveries of light and work and
wood, he had neared and glimpsed the large and inexplicable
itself. To be alive amongst the sawdust and the stars was beyond
understanding; to be this person, in this place, and now. Even
to contemplate that puzzle was to stray too far from safer paths,
to sweat and shiver in that hollow room which has no doors or
walls, where Never End and Never Start hold their invisible
debate. There'd be no echo there to comfort him, or anyone.
No dark or light. Not even any time. And only god - if only
god would show himself - to make much sense of it. Faith or
dismay, that was the choice. Choose Never End or Never Start.
74
Choose god or pandemonium. When Jesus chose and put his
faith in god, he blinked away the hollow room. He brought the
wood, the tools, the workshop into focus once more. His spirit
softened and solidified again, as it had done when he was in his
teens, except more bleakly. It formed a question to be put to
god. A question taken from the hollow room. A question that
a child would ask. This was his question for the wilderness. The
question of a simple-hearted, fragile man - guileless in his love
of god, spontaneous and vulnerable in his beliefs. You see these
motes, this dust, this bread, these soundless comers hung with
webs, these fingertips, engraved with tiny lines? What for, and
why?
No wonder Jesus was a clumsy carpenter. He would have
built a leaking ark. He concentrated on the large and inexplicable, and neglected what was on his bench. He cut or hit his fingers far too many times. God's patterns on his fingertips
were scarred. But he was happy to have wounds. The wounds
were prayers, and answers to his prayers. His prayers drew
blood.
The wilderness was large and inexplicable as well. Only an
innocent would try to tackle it with nothing on his feet, and
leave his water-skin and overcloak behind. But Jesus had to put
his trust in god's provision for the forty days, and could hardly
pack a bag with clothes and food as a reserve against shortfalls.
He did his best to persuade himself that god was at his shoulder
at that very moment, supplying all the courage that it took to
get up from the woven comforts of the dying merchant's tent
and set off in the falling light towards the cliff-top. But he had
found it difficult to pray, away from home. It was hard
to help you with the carpentry. Make him so tired he only wants
to sleep. Throw water on him if he starts to pray in gibberish.
Don't be ashamed to use a stick. He'll grow out of this the
moment that he starts a beard. It's just his age.'
7 3
The priest was right. By the time Jesus's chin and upper lip
were wispy with hair, the prayers seemed to have abandoned
him. His private languages disappeared, like adolescent boils. He
resembled the neighbours' sons at last, except he was more
nervous and more serious, a touch bereft perhaps. At least he
wasn't rising off the ground and nudging angels with his head.
He even ate and slept.
Yet, despite appearances, Jesus had not lost any of his passion
for god. He did not need to move his lips to pray. He'd reached
the stage where every breath was prayer, where all the steps and
sounds he made were verses for god, where everything was
touched with holiness: a heel ofbread, the soundless comers of
the house when he woke up, the cobwebbed shadows on the
day-white walls, the motes of sawdust hanging in the window
light, the patterns on his fingertips. God in everything and
everything in god. Even with his father in the workshop, cutting
wood and making frames, he found there was a rhythm to the
bow-drill and the draw-knife and the plane which took the place
of prayer. Every movement was a repetition; every repetition
was a word. The timber and the tools took on new meanings.
The knots in wood were sins. Twisted wood was devil's work
and should be thrown out or burned.
Once or twice, immersed in reveries of light and work and
wood, he had neared and glimpsed the large and inexplicable
itself. To be alive amongst the sawdust and the stars was beyond
understanding; to be this person, in this place, and now. Even
to contemplate that puzzle was to stray too far from safer paths,
to sweat and shiver in that hollow room which has no doors or
walls, where Never End and Never Start hold their invisible
debate. There'd be no echo there to comfort him, or anyone.
No dark or light. Not even any time. And only god - if only
god would show himself - to make much sense of it. Faith or
dismay, that was the choice. Choose Never End or Never Start.
74
Choose god or pandemonium. When Jesus chose and put his
faith in god, he blinked away the hollow room. He brought the
wood, the tools, the workshop into focus once more. His spirit
softened and solidified again, as it had done when he was in his
teens, except more bleakly. It formed a question to be put to
god. A question taken from the hollow room. A question that
a child would ask. This was his question for the wilderness. The
question of a simple-hearted, fragile man - guileless in his love
of god, spontaneous and vulnerable in his beliefs. You see these
motes, this dust, this bread, these soundless comers hung with
webs, these fingertips, engraved with tiny lines? What for, and
why?
No wonder Jesus was a clumsy carpenter. He would have
built a leaking ark. He concentrated on the large and inexplicable, and neglected what was on his bench. He cut or hit his fingers far too many times. God's patterns on his fingertips
were scarred. But he was happy to have wounds. The wounds
were prayers, and answers to his prayers. His prayers drew
blood.
The wilderness was large and inexplicable as well. Only an
innocent would try to tackle it with nothing on his feet, and
leave his water-skin and overcloak behind. But Jesus had to put
his trust in god's provision for the forty days, and could hardly
pack a bag with clothes and food as a reserve against shortfalls.
He did his best to persuade himself that god was at his shoulder
at that very moment, supplying all the courage that it took to
get up from the woven comforts of the dying merchant's tent
and set off in the falling light towards the cliff-top. But he had
found it difficult to pray, away from home. It was hard
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