The late Rowan Ayers, a former BBC producer who lived
in
I, JESUS
Prologue
An old man, coiled in shadow
Flecked with the dust of caves,
Hands crippled and locked,
Listens once more to the cries
of dogs
And the clatter of spears
In the streets above.
More of his friends are taken,
Dragged by arms and legs
Like carcasses already stripped
Of flesh, bleeding a living
death.
For him, he knows, they die;
Tossed in the air for lions,
Or hung on poles and torched,
Each one a new defiant
Light of the world.
This is
For all who followed the old man
And his word. The city of easy death
And violent life, and the sharp
Hatred for those who brought
New meaning to a vision of
eternity.
Under the city,
Catacombed and dark, the remnants
Of his following talk solemnly
With resignation. Their end is near.
They do not grudge their deaths,
Only the manner of their dying.
The
old man cries
To see
the tragedy they play,
Out of
their love
For
what he never was
A son
of God, a miracle Messsiah man.
For
this is Jesus, bent and feeble,
Dying
his final death long after
The
crown of thorns
And
the wailing women;
Long
after the early dawn
At
And
the steep slopes fretted
With
wheeling birds
As he
was laid, still living,
In the
burial tomb,
To
rise from sickness,
And
return, not as a ghost
Or in
imagination,
But
wet, and smelling foul,
Bleeding
from hands,
And
faint from heat.
It
wasn't over. Hadn't yet begun.
There
was no death. No resurrection.
No
magic miracle
At
which the world rejoiced
Or
fell upon its knees.
Only a
sick man
Saved
from untimely dying
To
live and walk the earth again
And
build his new Jerusalem
Out of
the lessons of the past.
That's
how he came among us,
Looking
for sensibility
Among
the passions
Of his
own religion,
Wanting
to feed the needs
Of
those who searched
For
meaning, and beyond,
To
share their rich humanity
With
friend and enemy.
This is his story.
In the
beginning there was no word.
The
word came later, after the birth
And
the life I began
Under
my father and my mother,
Struggling
to find my place
As
heir apparent in the dynasty of David,
The
old randy King who set us up
To
rule the world, a thousand years before;
Who
sired a thousand children,
With
their children's children,
Waiting
for their Kingdom come,
And
someone from his stretched out
Family
to resume the throne.
I was
small, a weak boy,
Learning
to play with words,
Watching
the magicians trick us
With
their sleight of hand, and growing to suspect
The
trickery in everyone.
Under
the cliffs of Sekhakha,
By the
salt-thick sea,
I
watched my parents talk
And
taunt the Roman charioteers,
Lords
of our country,
Strong
and alien and swift to act;
But my
father feared them not,
''You
should be Jewish. Give up your gods
Who
have no substance.
Give
up your superstitions
And
your fables,
Worship
our God, the one and only,
Learn
our ways and wisdom.''
How
much they understood,
Hot in
their heavy armour,
Sweating
to keep the peace,
I
never knew.
''Silly
old goat'', they'd say, and drive away
Drowning
in dust and laughter.
My
mother taught me languages and love;
How to
reveal myself in words,
And
how to laugh.
Skeins
of magic she'd weave
Under
the violet sky,
Bringing
the stars to earth,
Revealing
the stretch
Of her
imagination, and mine.
I believed
her,
As I
believed in everything I saw
In all
the games we played,
In all
the fancies conjured
Out of
the empty air.
Stories
of miracles,
Of men
who soared through space,
Who
healed the dead;
Of
demons, angels
Touching
our momentary lives
And
turning them to rubbish
Or to
gold.
I grew
with my mind
Full
of unbounded poetry,
Unlike
the hard strict rules
And
stipulations of my teachers,
Bending
my will to grasp
The do's and don'ts of how to live
According
to their laws.
Love
wasn't in them.
Nor
could they find it easy to forgive.
I was
manoeuvred,
Like a
puppet, under their savage
Unacceptable
directions
''These
are the laws, you will obey.
These
are the enemy, they will be hated.
These
are your duties, you will perform.''
One
day, they told me, I'd be king.
An
accident of birth, an incidental time,
And
well constructed arguments
Would
make it so.
King
of what kingdom?
Where
will I sit?
What
will I wear?
Who
are my subjects?
Small
boy, lost in raptures,
Wandering
through
A
catalogue of questions, told to behave, to live
As
ordered.
A
brother came. An alternative king.
I was
of doubtful origin,
My
mother having not fulfilled
Her
trilogy of vows,
My
father having grown impatient,
Took
her to his bed,
And
broke the holy rules.
Some
said I wasn't born at all,
Only
became from nothing,
Having
not passed the Jewish test
That
built our dynasty.
I
could have been a freak,
A
left-outsider while brother James,
The
meek and mild, a slave to manners,
Took
on the role of king instead.
Both
of us, pushed like pieces in a game,
Moved
to and fro across a board
Of
party lines and circles,
Waited
for the mighty Priests
To fix
our futures, while I watched
And
wondered.
Was
this the world I wanted?
The
kingdom of the wise?
The
sum of all our learning?
Let me
explain the way we were,
The
way we thought,
The
challenge to the heart
And
intellect.
Here
was a tiny spot on earth,
Seething
with passion, wanting a God
To put
it all together and reveal a plan.
Here
was a child, a future king
With
all the right credentials,
(Barring
one, of course:
Born
on the wrong side of the sheets)
Who
could not play the Priest,
But
keep the people of his tribe
Ever
in hope of final coronation
And
the bursting from the heavens
Of a
searing fire to blast the enemies
And
recompense the just.
I
lurked in the shadows of this fantasy,
Walking
the shore, playing my games,
Looking
for metaphors among the stones,
To
bring some meaning to a whirl of words.
Could
no one see the sadness
And
the irony of preaching love
Through
fear and retribution?
Could
no one see the cruelty
Of
giving hope to those who paid the price,
And
nothing but damnation if they failed?
I am a
Jew, I said. I understand
The
loyalty I have to feel.
I am a
Jew, I said. I can't accept
That
others are less blessed....
Had I
been alone
A
solitary figure, free from history
I
would have turned my back;
Left
the prating and the pride
Of
priesthood with its slit-eyed
Introspection, and
its menacing conceits.
But I
was a swimmer in the moving flood,
Caught
in the mood and method
Of a
messianic zeal
To
justify the prophecies
That
never would come true....
I'll paint the picture.
Cliffs
with stony jaws, caves like eye-sockets,
Staring
from bony skulls across the soup-thick sea.
Everything
dancing in a haze of heat;
And
white robes drifting like ghosts
Into
the private cells of prayer.
That
was Sekhakha,
Home
of the sect that turned it
Into
their
That
was Sekhakha, called
Where
priests as strict and fearless
As the
tamers of lions, fashioned our futures
Out of
loveless obedience.
Here
we learnt scripture, took our vows,
Saw
Abraham as father, Moses as our Judge,
No
touch of warm flowers of women.
No
look or lust or longing:
Not
even laughter.
This
was our sterile city and our citadel
Against
the force of living,
And
the feel of love.
And
then came Simon, tall as a tree,
With
arms like branches, hands like leaves.
Could
snatch a bird from the air and make it sing
Or
stop a camel in its tracks
And
make it talk.
Magician,
doctor, woman-lover,
Battle-hungry
zealot, jester, friend;
A man
of dreams and ruses,
Tricks
and fancies.
We
made them stare in anger,
Those
darkened priestly faces
With
our play on words,
Our
mix of puns and poetry,
Our
parables, pretences
Prophecies
and prayers.
We
made them laugh,
Those
beauteous sallow maidens,
Down
by the shore,
Heady
like us with summer sun,
And
dizzy with zest for life.
There
was his
And my
Magdalene, once married and divorced,
Drawn
first to my eye then to my arms.
She
was the magic Simon brought to me,
My
Magdalene, my Mary....
Across
the way,
High
on an overhang
Stood
John, arms spread,
Coarse
shirt, leather belted,
Fiery
tongued, the heir of Zadok
Promising
the death of enemies,
Through
the intervention of a mighty God.
''And
the forces of darkness
Shall
be overcome.''
God
understood the calendar.
He
would be ready when we called.
The
year was known,
The
place was chosen,
The
new King was waiting.
There
were others,
Like
Simon, like Judas,
Like Barabbas the warrior,
Stocking
up arms against the day
Which
only armies could decide.
Zealots,
eager to fight and die
For
their country and beliefs,
And
their positions.
Against
the legions
Sprawling
across the land,
They
would make no sense.
But
gathering in dark corners of the city,
They
swooped in sudden violence,
Curved
knives slitting the throats
And
tearing out the bowels
Of
unsuspecting Romans
Waiting
for the call to go home
Out of
our hot and alien land.
I
could see such splitting
Of our
lives and ambitions
Would
lead to death.
Death
of our dream, already fading fast
From
prophecies unfulfilled.
For
John, the ranting priest,
Baptiser
of men; the prophet of salvation
That never
came, the forces were against him.
He
died in a cell, his head-band, not his head,
Carried
before the tetrarch
As a
token of his death....
I was
a Jew
Yet
not a Jew.
A
danger to myself
And to
their cause.
Neither
a Zealot, hiding in caves,
And
piercing the skin
Of
Roman occupation, (as if
Such
stings would bring about
The
death of an Empire
Already
ruling half the world we knew).
And
yet, I was both;
Without
the passion
And
commitment.
The
Romans sought the rebels,
And
the High Priests
Sought
their power.
In the
midst of both these missions,
I was
impelled against my will
To
answer for my deeds and my beliefs
To pay
for my dissension
And
irreverence.
And to
admit my loyalty
To
Simon and the fighters
When
they were trapped at last
And brought
before the Roman court,
The
court of Pontius Pilate,
Looking
for an easy way
To win
the plaudits
Of his
Emperor in
Three
brigand leaders,
Captured
and put on the cross.
An
easy solution to the problem.
But
not as easy as it seemed.
For
me.
''Take
this man, too'', they said;
My
priests and mentors.
''He is
disrupting our religion;
He
will cause dissent in the land,
And
Caesar will not be pleased.
Take
him instead of the old warrior,
And
you will free us all
Of our
anxieties.''
I see
his face still,
The
Roman ruler, wondering why
These
Jews should seek my death
When I
was one of them,
And
harmless enough by the look of me.
Small,
not strong, known to be friendly
Even
to our enemies. And yet they were
Calling
for my death,
My
death by crucifixion.
So let
it be.
''One man more, or less; it doesn't matter.
These
Jews are unpredictable.
Always
playing politics.
Let
them have what they want,
And as
they can't kill for themselves,
We'll
gladly do it for them.''...
Great
limbs of armour
Cold
and steely hard
Broke
open my flesh
As I
was dragged away,
Under
the mocking laughter
Of I
don't know who.
Friend
or enemy,
It
mattered nothing. Animal colossi,
Grunting.
Holes
of morning sky
Between
the shoulders and the arms
Of my
destroyers
Showed
me that I was not yet dead,
But on
the way to sacrifice,
To
suffer the cruel
Extended
death pinned to a cross,
While
the blood and nerves
The
skin and muscle
And
the bones and sinews
Turned
to dross.
I
didn't ask what I had done,
Or
what they thought I'd done,
Or why
they'd chosen me
With
Simon, and the devious Judas,
To
appease their god.
I knew
only the shock and pain
As
they laid me on the wood,
Kneeling
to keep my arms outstretched,
Smiling
as they bound my wrists
With
thongs, tight till they tore
Like
teeth, almost a children's game.
And
then the nails;
The
mallet poised, the metal
Tipping
the palm and
With a
tap, dividing it.
''There
you are, my son;
You'll
look good up there
In
your kingdom
Of
twigs and thorns.
Watch
out for the birds.
They
could take a fancy to your eyes.''
Up on
that lofty plain,
Close
to the view of the valley,
They
swung us high
Into
the morning air.
Three
strange effigies,
Caught
in the sun,
Bleeding
from hands and arms
As the
women wept;
Their
cries like dying souls,
Rising
and floating solemnly away.
The
pain was in my head,
Then
downwards through my body,
Stretching
under my weight,
(even my weight!),
Pulling
me without moving,
As
each small portion of me
Suffered
its own peculiar agony.
The
blue haze of the sky
Was
turning grey.
My
eyes, blistering under the sun,
Could
barely see the ground,
Or the
shadows moving,
As
slow as prayers.
My
tongue curled upwards
Seeking
some trace of moisture,
In the
sand-dry, burnt-lip
Desert
mouth that still sucked air but swallowed nothing.
So
this was to be my end,
A poor
scarecrow of a thing,
Who
once had thought
To be
a sort
Of
king.
Almost
too limp to breathe,
I felt
a swab of sharp and bitter
Liquid
swill along my lips,
Stinging
my mouth, demanding
Of my
tongue to let it pass,
Downwards,
along the dried out passage;
A
momentary flood of life, licked into empty cavities,
Swallowed,
without taste, and left to burn its way
Through
my resistance.
It was
still Friday.
The
day of crucifixion.
A few
hours had passed
Out
there on the plateau
And we
were taken down.
The
laws did not permit
Our
bodies to be hanging there
For
holy sabbath.
In
those few hours,
They'd
fed me poison,
Enough
to let me pass for dead.
Now it
was over.
In the
dungeon cave Simon and Judas,
Legs
broken to prevent escape.
Death,
I had believed,
Would
have no pain.
Would
have no smell,
No
sound, no heat or chill.
And
yet, as I was
Now in
its thrall,
My
stomach heaving
And my
mouth disgorging,
My
bowels excreting,
My
body shivering,
My
head a cauldron
Of
thunder,
Could
this be death?
Beside
me, working,
Simon
the Magician
Pressed
my muscles
Forced
me to eject
The
remnants of my stomach,
Spilling
in an ugly poison pool
Around
the rock beneath my head.
This
wasn't death.
Nor
was it still
The
agony of the cross.
I was
alive, a pulsing lump of pain,
But
seeing now, and feeling now,
And
touching now,
Watching
the face above me
Smile
at my opened eyes,
''Alive''
he said, ''alive''.
My
mentor, weak with hauling
Me
back to life, called to the guards.
''A
miracle'', he cried, ''A miracle.
This
man has come alive,
This
man is truly something
Of
another world, immortal, son of God,
The
true Messiah.''
I lay
there hurt, bewildered and remote,
This
new assumption, barely heard,
The
role he'd given barely understood.
In the
slowly lightening cave,
I
stood, white and wraithlike,
Faint
and weary, hands left brown
And
dried with blood.
A
ghost of a figure to confront the watchers,
Rubbing
their eyes awake.
Beyond
the cave, the sad night's vigil
Broke
and stared.
Who
was I? Who was this figure
Stooping
towards the light,
An
image of a man
They'd
watched gasping for breath,
And
writhing into death?
Mary,
my Magdalene, was there,
Large
with our unborn child,
Reaching
to touch me, testing my reality.
I
moved aside.
My
body foul and moist with sweat
Was
not for her soft hands.
''Not
yet'', I said.
''Not
yet my
Huddled
by friends,
I
drifted, barely knowing,
To the
house along the
Women
were crying as they washed my wounds,
Tender
as babies, as they eased the pain.
And
deep sleep, swooping in like a whirlwind
Carried
me out of reach.....
In
those dark years,
Weeping
with heat
And
battles for survival,
Strewn across countries
From
We
brought together records
And
pronouncements,
Parables
and plans,
To
give a text and context
For a
different creed,
This
was to be our Testament,
Our
covenant with the world.
This
was to be
Our
new philosophy
And
book of rules.
Slowly
it was carried from city to city,
The
myth and mystery,
The
metaphors for life
Everlasting
in the heart
And in
the mind.
My
birth, my death,
My
name, my image
Spreading
like seeds
Before
a feverish wind,
Taking
within its powers
The
wanting and the dispossessed.
I was
an old man,
Tired
and torn with pain,
By the
time the Revelation
Of our
history was unsealed,
And
blessed by those around us,
Carried
like treasure into the darkness
Of old
temples, tombs, and catacombs.
This
was the word, and the beginning,
As I
saw the martyrs die for me,
And
knew their deaths
Would
not, like mine,
Be
circumscribed.
This
was the end and the beginning.
Take
what you will,
From
what I tell you.
Take
what you need to fill
The
empty spaces of your soul,
And
let me leave you what I can,
A
child, a man, the champion
Of a
broken cause that came again
Inspiringly
to life.
This
was my story,
Adapted
to whatever race
Required
my image
To
present a likely
Recognisable
divine,
All
hidden in the poetry
And
symbols of an age
That
needed to extend itself.
Deception?
As a
parent deceives its child
Until
it can see for itself.
Or
friends are protected
From a
painful truth.
Look
not to the means but seek the ends,
And
listen to your voice within.
For
you are your God,
You
are your life,
And
all you do or say
Is
yours to shape and fashion
As you
wish.
I have
just clothed the obvious
And
given it a name to hide behind.
That
is my gospel,
According
to me.
Do not
feel alarmed to hear it.
I ask
for nothing, merely tell
What
you, perhaps, could never know,
Or
never want to know.
The
rest,
You
might perceive,
Is
just the history
Of
suffering,
and human
exploitation.
(Printed copies of ''I
Jesus'' may be purchased from Post Pressed,