Where the Rubber Hits the Road

All that can be heard is the sound of tyres on tarmac: the rubber hitting the road. The car’s engine, quiet and unobtrusive as always, has receded to the subconscious as a constant sound often does.

No rain falls, no wind blows, and the fog literally hangs from the trees, curtaining them. The fog curtain hangs across the road as well, and the higher we climb, the thicker it becomes. So we’re cruising; sometimes fifty kilometres an hour seems too fast.

The trees loom, emerging sullenly from the darkness as the car’s headlights strike them, then ebb slowly into the gloom once more. Landscape glides by dimly and there’s nothing for this passenger to do but stare into the darkness. And think. This is the kind of atmosphere that inspires me to think of all the supernatural mythology that has permeated society for, oh … centuries. Given that we are travelling through Australian bush, all of the aboriginal spirits and “debbil-debbils” are the first to leap to the mind: in my mind, I can see the humanoid figures with big round eyes depicted in indigenous artwork. If I really concentrate, I can see them slipping away among the trees, translucent in the fog. Ridiculous.

More trees slip by dimly in the fog. They are lit up, making them appear ghostly, enhancing the whole supernatural mythology thing. The light is not coming from our vehicle’s headlights, and as we round the corner slowly – the fog is now very thick (porridge, rather than pea soup, would be an apt description, I feel) – I almost expect to encounter Neuschwanstein, nestled among the trees. Or some gloomy Transylvanian edifice lit up from within by candles. About now, I’m waiting for the car’s engine to falter. It doesn’t.

Nevertheless, the whole cinematic fantasy begins to develop, as I look at those trees: the castle, with its huge timber doors; the dim hallways, adorned with gloomy, heavily-framed portraits, painted in oils; the huge rooms furnished with massive timber tables, chairs, and sideboards; the walls equipped with candle-holders (brass, of course!) and candles to light the way to the chamber containing the coffin, its lid slowly rising to reveal the occupant. A dapper gentleman, whose sartorial elegance is faultless – where in Hades would he get the brilliantine for that jet-black hair with its sharply defined widow’s peak? (He could have done with a trip to the dentist: those eye-teeth are just a little bit too long …) The few candles in the chamber deepen the shadows, but as our natty gent rises from his resting place, it’s unnerving to note that he doesn’t actually have a shadow. Skin pure white, and smooth as a sheet, lips unnaturally red, he’s hungry; the eyes gleam, and the teeth gleam, as he approaches, ready to charm his victim, and then sink the fangs in … Rosary beads, anyone?

The shadow of the crucifix on those beads appears on the wall, held up by a frightened would-be victim, looming far larger than the original object (there’s your cinematic dramatic licence, folks, courtesy of the special effects department, playing with whatever they had back in 1920-something), and our gent recoils in horror before it. No self-respecting supernatural apparition will meddle with The Cross.

The source of the light on the trees reveals itself as the headlights of an oncoming car, moving carefully through the fog, and soon it is gone, leaving darkness and breaking my train of thought.

For a moment or two, I dwell on someone else’s imagination: someone who had once camped up that Transylvanian castle, thirty-odd years ago, with images of ghouls in drag all doing “The Time Warp”. A cult classic, now, right up there with The Blues Brothers. Talk about trivialising mythology!

No, none of this stuff is real, now. If it ever was, which I very much doubt. It was simply a way of entertaining folk, and self, (by frightening the wits out of them! Whatever floats your boat…) during those long, pre-technology European winter evenings, when books were beyond the average income, and cinema, television, videos, DVDs, and computer games were yet unheard of. None of those supernatural apparitions actually exist at all!

I’m ordering extra garlic on my pizza tonight, just in case.

Serenity

Written in March 2009, as I contemplated the emotional and physical place Jesus might have been in, as he fasted in the desert.

Dawn. The sun had not yet risen, and in the half-light, the landscape looked pristine. The morning was cool, the air still. It was the most practical time to be travelling in the desert, really. Especially if one was on foot.

Through the pearly light, a man came, walking slowly, limping even. He was quite young, perhaps thirty years of age, but at the moment he felt old. His feet hurt. He had not eaten for many days, and his form – slender at the best of times - was cadaverous. Not that much of him could be seen: his tunic covered him from neck to shin, and his cloak was drawn snugly against the cool air. These garments hung shapelessly on his now-bony frame as clothes would on a scarecrow. His leather sandals, bound as closely to his feet as he could manage, nevertheless slopped loosely as the thongs took an insufficient hold on his meagre flesh. This was Yehoshua - or Yeshua - Ben Yosef (or so it was thought), who had for weeks earnestly sought God alone there in the desert.

As he walked, he became aware of someone watching him. A short distance away, standing perfectly still, a man waited for him to approach. For a moment, Yeshua paused, then he continued walking, surveying the stranger as he did so. The dark-skinned newcomer was taller than Yeshua, stockier in build, and dressed in the finery of a governor. His black hair shone in the early sunlight, and his eyes gleamed, as he ran a well-manicured hand over his neatly trimmed beard.

    “Yehoshua,” greeted the swarthy one silkily, and the last syllable was uttered as a laugh. This elicited a nod from the other. “I can’t say that you are looking well.”

    “You may, if you like,” returned Yeshua, simply. His opposite raised his eyebrows.

    “Yehoshua Ben Elohim, you can’t be serious! You are starving, are you not? It has been many days since you have eaten, has it not?” Yeshua regarded him steadily without speaking. The evidence of his privations was clear in his face: unmistakeable in the sunken cheeks and eyes; in the jutting jaw, cheekbones, and brows. His skin was unusually pale for an Israeli, and dry.

The dark man repeated the name in a musing tone. “Yehoshua Ben Elohim. Huh. Nothing less like a ‘Ben Elohim’, have I seen. You surely know,” he continued – appearing to change tack – “that you will encounter much opposition, when you come to reveal that … ‘fact’.” It was Yeshua’s turn to raise his eyebrows, and he seemed to communicate an attitude of “so what?”

    “There is one way, continued his adversary, “of settling the whole business absolutely without doubt; if you are Ben Elohim - ” Here, the speaker’s voice sharpened, “- tell this stone to become bread. ”

Bread! Yeshua remembered the smell of the bread his mother baked; the memory of its taste and texture was so sharp that he could almost taste it! He swallowed hard, recovered, took a deep breath, and replied crisply:

    “It is written: 'Man does not live on bread alone. ” His adversary smiled faintly.

    “Very well then; first round to you, Yeshua.” He blinked slowly, and the desert seemed to dissolve.

Yeshua blinked also, and focussed on the new scenery. It lay below them, a vast panorama of greens and blues and browns, on which the sun glinted warmly. It truly was a superb view, and Yeshua gave thanks in his heart to the Almighty Creator. His companion was visibly moved.

    “See all this? He hissed, excitedly. “See? Isn’t it magnificent?”

    “It is,” agreed Yeshua, truthfully. The other man drew his breath through his nostrils, and released it in a long sharp and clearly satisfied sigh.

    “It is mine. It has been given to me, and I can give it to anyone I want to. ” Gleefully, he added, “I can give it to you, if you want it! For next to nothing. It’s all yours, if you’ll worship me. ” Yeshua gave him a look that clearly said, ‘whom are you kidding?’, and replied quietly and firmly,

    “It is written: 'Worship the Lord your God and serve him only.' ” His antagonist stared at him for a moment, the corners of his mouth turning steadily down.

    “You are not going to budge on that, are you?” He retorted, knowing the answer, even as he asked the question. “No? Oh, very well then …”

Again the landscape seemed to dissolve, and Yeshua saw fit to close his eyes; he felt slightly dizzy. Not for the first time he marvelled at how truly limiting the human body was. When he opened his eyes a second or two later, he found himself staring down at a courtyard. Taking a moment to gain his bearings, he gazed down into the courtyard, and watched the people going to and fro about the business of worship. A deep love for each one of them rose up within him, and again he gave thanks in his heart to the Father of all. His enemy regarded him silently for a moment. Then he said, slowly,

    “Do you suppose that all – if any – of these would believe that you are the very Son of God?” Yeshua didn’t answer him; he didn’t consider the farce worthy of a response. However, the other continued speaking. Warmly. Persuasively. “Again, you could prove it. You could prove it, right now! Here! And there could be no doubt, then, as to who you were. No doubt at all!” The swarthy one made a playful grab at Yeshua’s elbow, and continued, seemingly facetiously, “throw yourself off down from here! Everyone will see. God will save you. For it is written,” he went on, sardonically following Yeshua’s example, “’He will command his angels concerning you to guard you carefully; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.’ ” Yeshua looked at him, and slowly shook his head.

    “It says,” he replied, clearly and emphatically, “’Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’ ” The other rolled his eyes, and sighed in exasperation.

    “Well, if you’re going to continue along that line …” He shook his head. He wasn’t about to admit that his efforts wouldn’t begin to stack up against the God of Heaven and earth, or indeed that the very idea of making such an effort filled him with a dread amounting to panic.

Deciding that he would be best to try Yeshua on a future occasion, the adversary simply dissolved. And the scenery dissolved with him: temple, temple court, people, everything. Well, that’s how it appeared to the physically stressed Yeshua, who blinked a couple of times.

When Yeshua opened his eyes again, he was back in the desert. Once again, he was not alone; all around, he could see the forms of those who served the Eternal One in the heavenly courts; now they were serving him: strengthening him, and encouraging him. In their ministration, he could strongly sense the loving approval of his Father. Mind you, Yeshua could always sense this, but he really appreciated it, this morning. Now, he was eager to move on.

Yeshua walked on. Once again, he was alone, the desert spread out around him. He gave thanks, as he walked – this time, aloud, marvelling in the creation that he and his Father had wrought together, marvelling in the love of his Father for all creation (that was, after all, why he was here), marvelling in the serenity that could be found in the will of his Father – even in the desert place. Now, Yeshua walked as one refreshed: no longer limping, the cold ache of exhaustion removed from his bones.

He was ready.