to
concentrate on god when his feet were so sore. He found it
easier to summon up his parents and his brothers, and his Galilean
neighbours, and their priest. They were transported to the scrub
to witness him. At first, they would be laughing at his foolishness.
75
Their god-struck, visionary boy, too shy to look them in the
eye, who'd hid himself in gabbling scriptures, had gone off in a
temper to the hills. Their Gaily was absurd. Look at his bleeding
feet. Look at his flaking lips. Observe that holy, love-lorn look
across his face. See how he hardly manages that little climb
up to the ridge. They would expect him to be weak, to tum
back at the challenge of the landfall, to take the easy path up
to the poppy caves, to fall asleep inside the merchant's tent.
But when they saw him persevere they would wonder at his
fortitude and say, 'We never knew him after all.' He could not
quite admit it to himself but Jesus took more courage from the
thought of surprising his parents than he took from satisfying
god.
But, in these final moments of his journey, between the tent
and cave, Jesus was a tired and disappointed man. He did not
feel much welcomed by the scrub. Its textures were harsh
and colourless. Its skies were far too large and low. He'd been
naive. He'd hoped for greater hospitality, that the path would
rid itself of stones and sweep away its thorns for him. God's
unfinished landscape would provide a way, he thought. The
scrubland would recognize his simple dress, his solemn purposes,
his modesty. Its hills would flatten. Its rocks would soften. It
would protect his naked feet. This, after all, was the path that
led to god, still at work on his creation. So the path should
become more heavenly, more freshly formed, safer at every
step. It should become an infant Galilee. The winds should
be more musical. The light should shiver and the air should
smell of offerings. But god had left the thorns and stones in
place across the scrub.
At last, in the approaches to the cliff-top where Jesus had
to find the way down to his lodgings for the night, the scrub
began to slope, eroded by flash floods and centuries of wind.
There were no plants. Here, the soil was smooth and crumbling
76
and dangerous. All the loosened stones of any size had rolled
away and fallen to the scree pans on the valley floor. Somewhere
along the precipice, the latest rock fell free. It made its
noisy, tumbling farewell to the slope, and bounced into the
weightless silence of its fall. Any nervous man like Jesus,
only used to Galilean heights and daunted by the receding
ground, would feel afraid of being like that stone. He should
not, therefore, have felt ashamed of getting down on his hands
and knees and edging forwards on all-fours, like a sheep, towards
the fragile brink of the cliff. But Jesus was ashamed, and
frightened, too. Frightened that he would end up amongst
the scree. Frightened of the night ahead. Frightened of his
quarantine.
This was the final opportunity for Jesus to turn around and
go back to the tent. It would not be hard to justify such a short
retreat - his religious duty was to help a dying man. Perhaps he
ought to settle for the easy caves up in the hills. That might have
been god's intention all along. But Jesus was too nervous to stand
up and flee. He felt like Y ehoch, perching on the temple roof,
calling out for angels and for ropes, because he could not tell if
he should put his trust in god or men. The optimist and innocent
who had set off that morning from the shepherd's hut had
now become a pessimist. Jesus had persuaded himself earlier that
day that creation was continuing in these hills. Look at the
lack of trees, he'd told himself, the thinness of plants and grasses.
God would be at work still. This was the edge of god's
unfinished universe. But what on earth could god complete on
this despairing precipice? Where were his fingerprints? What
work was there to
concentrate on god when his feet were so sore. He found it
easier to summon up his parents and his brothers, and his Galilean
neighbours, and their priest. They were transported to the scrub
to witness him. At first, they would be laughing at his foolishness.
75
Their god-struck, visionary boy, too shy to look them in the
eye, who'd hid himself in gabbling scriptures, had gone off in a
temper to the hills. Their Gaily was absurd. Look at his bleeding
feet. Look at his flaking lips. Observe that holy, love-lorn look
across his face. See how he hardly manages that little climb
up to the ridge. They would expect him to be weak, to tum
back at the challenge of the landfall, to take the easy path up
to the poppy caves, to fall asleep inside the merchant's tent.
But when they saw him persevere they would wonder at his
fortitude and say, 'We never knew him after all.' He could not
quite admit it to himself but Jesus took more courage from the
thought of surprising his parents than he took from satisfying
god.
But, in these final moments of his journey, between the tent
and cave, Jesus was a tired and disappointed man. He did not
feel much welcomed by the scrub. Its textures were harsh
and colourless. Its skies were far too large and low. He'd been
naive. He'd hoped for greater hospitality, that the path would
rid itself of stones and sweep away its thorns for him. God's
unfinished landscape would provide a way, he thought. The
scrubland would recognize his simple dress, his solemn purposes,
his modesty. Its hills would flatten. Its rocks would soften. It
would protect his naked feet. This, after all, was the path that
led to god, still at work on his creation. So the path should
become more heavenly, more freshly formed, safer at every
step. It should become an infant Galilee. The winds should
be more musical. The light should shiver and the air should
smell of offerings. But god had left the thorns and stones in
place across the scrub.
At last, in the approaches to the cliff-top where Jesus had
to find the way down to his lodgings for the night, the scrub
began to slope, eroded by flash floods and centuries of wind.
There were no plants. Here, the soil was smooth and crumbling
76
and dangerous. All the loosened stones of any size had rolled
away and fallen to the scree pans on the valley floor. Somewhere
along the precipice, the latest rock fell free. It made its
noisy, tumbling farewell to the slope, and bounced into the
weightless silence of its fall. Any nervous man like Jesus,
only used to Galilean heights and daunted by the receding
ground, would feel afraid of being like that stone. He should
not, therefore, have felt ashamed of getting down on his hands
and knees and edging forwards on all-fours, like a sheep, towards
the fragile brink of the cliff. But Jesus was ashamed, and
frightened, too. Frightened that he would end up amongst
the scree. Frightened of the night ahead. Frightened of his
quarantine.
This was the final opportunity for Jesus to turn around and
go back to the tent. It would not be hard to justify such a short
retreat - his religious duty was to help a dying man. Perhaps he
ought to settle for the easy caves up in the hills. That might have
been god's intention all along. But Jesus was too nervous to stand
up and flee. He felt like Y ehoch, perching on the temple roof,
calling out for angels and for ropes, because he could not tell if
he should put his trust in god or men. The optimist and innocent
who had set off that morning from the shepherd's hut had
now become a pessimist. Jesus had persuaded himself earlier that
day that creation was continuing in these hills. Look at the
lack of trees, he'd told himself, the thinness of plants and grasses.
God would be at work still. This was the edge of god's
unfinished universe. But what on earth could god complete on
this despairing precipice? Where were his fingerprints? What
work was there to
Similar Books
