Eh, you’re worse than me, son!” This from a skinny old woman

Dropping bottles in the bins at Tesco. She had five, but true and

Admit it, I had more than twenty. “Yeah, but you’re binning them

Once a week; me, once a month,” I said. “Leear, you bring them

every Sunday afternoon, just like me.” “Right enough, Grannie”

I confessed, “So what’s your tipple, Gin, is it?” “Gin my fanny”

She chuckled, “it’s sherry, Bristol Cream, two glasses a day, I canna

Take more. But look at you, bottles of wine, it’s a wonder you’re able

To drive.” “So, you’ll turn down a lift home if I offer? “Maybe aye, maybe

No. it’s a while since a man offered me a lift home.” “If you’re no’

Past it, I am, so you’re safe enough,” I said. “Pity.” She said, “Sure,

It is no fun living on your own.” “Your man?” I asked. “Deid these ten

Years. A fireman, he got that mesothelioma. Terrible.Back then,

they’d no protection. Their hoods an’ gloves an’ capes had asbestos

in them to stop them burning. When they were called out, they’d toss

a coin for first use of the breathing apparatus. He kept working until

retirement although he had the illness ’cause work never killed

anyone, but his mates didna like it, as if he could pass it on. Same

with our own friends. Right enough, the cough would drive him insane

and make him howl like a dog. I prayed for him to die. Fucksake God,

I’d say, do it now. By the time he died, I didna pray any more. Ach it’s not

Good me talking like this to a stranger. It must be your face.” “Yeah

But you’re not a stranger now. Come on, I’ll take you home.” On the way

We were silent, but at her gate, I asked if I could pick her up next

Sunday with her bottles and take her to Tesco. “Na,” she said,

“many thanks, and you’ll probably think this is very strange,

But I’ve been a lonely old bitch for years and I dinna want to change”

 

She was being abused at home, so they put her for safety

Into a residential school in the Scottish borders where she

was abused physically and sexually through her teenage

Years by a man, whom only now she is fifty-one, she can

See found guilty of what he did to her and many others.

Michelle says that she is pleased with justice but still suffers,

Although she has had medical help for what has marred

Her: “You know what? The scars are right in the heart.”

 

Jack is a decent name but not as good as the name

He can’t remember, that was his before they came

And took him from his Inuit parents and gave him

To the McKenzies of Nova Scotia, honest but grim

In their determination to make him Christian. The state

Has paid him compensation but was quick to eradicate

His records. Grinding his teeth has made a graveyard

Of his mouth. You know what? The scars are right in the heart.

 

His bricklayer’s hands were always a dead giveaway

Although the rest of Tam was as feminised as you could pray

For, as a top surgeon had relieved him of his cock and

Balls, substituting a not-quite vagina which was neat. Mock

Breasts would never feed a baby but looked good. The new law

That said born a man therefore always a man, however flawed,

Instructed his hands to take a knife and slice his throat apart.

Messy. But you know what? The scars were right in the heart.

Since I was a child, I‘ve liked the viewpoint of the top deck

(I once saw a naked lady in an upstairs bedroom, with a naked

Man, she slightly less startling than him, what was that thing?)

And I am no less entertained by contemporary sightings.

Bungalows tend towards competition, like here it’s the number

Of cars in the driveway, but here now, the geometry of lawns, some

Formal others romantic in ambition, here again, hot tubs. A dog

Has shat in Tesco’s doorway and a female employee is not

About to obey an instruction to remove it, But now I can

See over the roofs to the firth, flushed red to the span

of the road bridge by the sun rising in a fine mist. The pilot boat

is carving its way downriver. I know that’s an oil rig in dock, I note

the attendant machines, but is it upside-down or right-way up?

One of this couple will leave from the bus station but now they prop

Each other in close embrace making a private place on the pavement

That everyone respects. Oh, the centre of town, my landmarks are ancient-

Where would I get a pint, buy a suit? Goodness, the Quakers are still there.

Near the Uni, I like that in deference to the intelligence of its customers

There is an Indian restaurant called Indian Restaurant and in deference

To upward mobility a Mortgage shop. I admire an enduring defence

Of civilisation, a noble sandstone library not yet abandoned. As we climb

The hill I glimpse a burial on the graveyard slopes, a mime

Of tears and rain. Then a high point, a roundabout from which I overlook

 the Carse to Perth, where gracious hills enclose the river and a squall soaks

the grasslands, then I keep my appointment at Ninewells Hospital

where specialist nurses inject my eye with fluid that prevents loss of all

sight in that one. The other is blind. I’m glad that this is possible.

 

A video from Thailand grabs my attention, it’s from Phuket

 well-known for holidays but not advocating tourism

in this case. Rather, it’s about the Dugong. Until recently

due to extensive beds of sea-grass, Dugongs gently

browsing could be seen in the shallow waters of the bays

offering sight of a rare and beautiful animal named Sirenides

after the maidens said to sing to sailors. Less romantic

observers called it the Sea-pig, In fact an elephant quit

the land to become a sea-dweller adapting in a time

of spreading oceans to many parts of the world, now confined

to the West Pacific, where the human destruction of coastland

and pollution of waters is killing off the sea grass. It can’t

survive without it. It moves slowly, head down, patient,

peaceful, and might be companionable if if I learned

to swim with it. Now the dugong of Phuket havedied or vanished.

 

A symbol of the process by which species are banished

From the universe is The Trump, huge, stupid and brutal

Active in many and expanding into more areas of futile

Hegemony with no purpose other than its pleasure

In being obeyed. Its human population is an erasure

Of life which it wants to extend without limit. We must

oppose it in the power of the democracy of living things,

the networks of atoms, the cognition of cells, the strings

of DNA, the leaps of evolution, the resource of bacteria

the invention of insects, the agility of fish, the media

 of fungi, the geography of birds, the embrace of animals,

and the languages of human beings auditory or visual

like the painted hands from the Sulawesi cave in today’s

newspaper 70,000 years old from Indonesia that say

We are here too, we can do it together, yes all together

For the good earth against The Trump. It is death or

Life, so we should declare against the American Anus

The truth that nothing and no-one is superfluous

To our vision of the good expressed in policies local

And international that are just, allowing what is fragile

To flourish in the face of all that is merely gigantic

And what is beautiful to grow in place of all that is slick

And powerful. If we only speak this, it will become our

Funeral oration, we must do it, although our bones are

Weary, for terminal things may happen now if the earth

is left to careless fools. But if we can succeed in this, then

The Trump’s remains will be food for our sewage system

While the Dugong, with enough seagrass for quality

Eating, will be an honoured citizen of our polity.

 

How did they get so brave, the citizens of Minneapolis

In the face of all too realistic threats of death from ICE?

After Renee Good and Alex Pretti were murdered, still

Hundreds were on the streets, opposing the violent will

Of their government with demands for humanity and justice,

Their ballsy humour giving their peacefulness some fizz.

Would I choose to join them in the face of state thuggery?

If you get in the way of rapists, you’re open to buggery,

that’s bad, but you can make rational predictions, whereas

The randomness of these killings makes them too various

For avoidance. Renee was getting her car out of the road

When they shot her in the face. I would wear nothing to goad

Them if I protested, my banner would say, “please go

Away, if you don’t mind,” or “Peace in our time, if that’s O

K with you.” I would smile inoffensively and be ready to strip

naked to prove I had no weapon. My trembling lip

would acknowledge, “Guns make me nervous.” Gangs

who kill without reason will not be soft-soaped. No chance

of mercy or even rational evil from Trump’s soldiers.

So these protesters in Minneapolis are a good deal bolder

than me, as they stand with those who have no choice,

The immigrants, who knew the USA as freedom’s voice.

 

t

From earliest days the Christian Church has used. the name “Israel” in its worship. accepting the Jewish scriptures as its Old Testament, and identifying itself as God’s People Israel. The book of Psalms, Israel’s prayer book is used extensively in Christian worship, in both Catholic and Protestant forms. In my own Church of Scotland, the name Israel appears often in what we sing.

THIS MUST NOW STOP.

Israel has become the name of a junta of killers, a designation of death for innocent children, women and men in Gaza and the West Bank.

THIS NAME MUST NOT BE USED IN THE HOLY PLACE OF CHRISTIAN WORSHIP

This will be a deprivation but necessary as the nation Israel does not exist at present, and should not be treated as such by the Church.

It may well be the case that it should cease to be recognised as a nation by the international community, so that a NO ISRAEL policy becomes political as well as ecclesial.

THIS IS NOT ANTI SEMITIC. I am without prejudice towards all semites, including Jews. It is a theological judgement on Israel as the name of a nation.

Palestine Action, which exists to promote the cause of Palestinians against zionist Israelis, and the Israeli Defence Force, has done some unwise things, like throwing paint on aircraft that might be used in Gaza, has been declared a terrorist organisation by the British Government which seems unaware that it is supporting a terrorist state.

Sue Parfitt amongst others has acted in support of Palestine Action, and has been arrested for doing so. She is a hardened pacifist who has been arrested a number of time for protesting against state violence.

I think she is acting as a disciple of Jesus, AND I AM HAPPY TO DECLARE MY SUPPORT OF HER. I HOPE OTHER FOLLOWERS OF JESUS, ALONG WITH OTHER GOOD PEOPLE, WILL SUPPORT HER AGAINST THE DANGEROUS NONSENSE OF THE BRITISH GOVERNMENT.

Like Sue Parfitt, I am 83 years old and a retired clergyman.

“ I finished the book ‘ Diary of a bad year” by J. M. Coetzee, knowing that it was profound and unsentimental, as he often is. And I reflect that the writings I really value are similar, like those of Jose Saramago or Dante, words worn bare against reality, with no time for nonsense, admitting that human life may have a terrible beauty, but that it certainly has a terrible ugliness. And that’s where you come in, Jesus. For your real words, not those invented in your name like the Gospel of John, with their pious loveliness, but those central to the tradition of Mark, Matthew and Luke, have also been rubbed against reality. You knew what we are like, so you had to tell us not to do religion for reputation, not to do charity to blow our own trumpet, not to use God like a actors on a film set. You knew our rage for revenge, our delight in violence, so you told us to love our enemies, to do good even to those who persecute us. You made no false promises, saying only that if we endured to the end we would be rescued. You watched as we walked past the least important of our brothers and sisters in need, and told us we were thereby ignoring our true king. Ah, there’s no one like you in the religions of the world, no one with your grasp of the nitty-gritty of life and your remedies for rescuing it. How did you do it?”

“I grew up without pretence. My parent were loving and full of trust in God. And there was the world of Galilee, the bright lake, the boats, the fish, the dogs, donkeys, foxes, wolves, ostriches, sparrows, the wild flowers the grain, the almond trees, oh, all of it, and human beings like my parents who worked hard to make a decent living. A shining world! But at the same time, the storms that sank the fishing boats, the droughts that led to famine, the diseases that left the bodies of children lying in the streets, the killings when the Romans came conquering or the Jihadis came to punish anyone who worked with them. The rich who took land from the poor and left them to starve. I knew that if God had any wisdom for people, it had to be as dry and real as sand, dealing with the way things are, but passionate enough, and funny enough to help people survive and live splendidly. I didn’t always manage it, but I tried.”

“You liked stories….”

“Yes, because the best stories deal with the world as it is, so there’s room for character, humour, surprise..”

“Like the fat farmer who plans for expansion, but snuffs it before it can happen.”

“You like that one?”

“And the man whose well-off pals are too busy to come to his party so he invites the poor, the riff-raff, the destitute.”

“But do you like it when the father welcomes back the arrogant wasteful son and sidelines the faithful hard-working one?”

“Yes, but only because I’m more like the wasteful son than the faithful one. But I can understand what the faithful one feels. If I can ask, however, why is your sower so inept that he wastes good seed on bad ground?”

“Because in Palestine we plough the ground after the sowing is done, whereas with you it’s the other way round. So the sower casts the seed on unploughed land hoping that some of it is good. My father is just as careless with the gospel of his kingdom. Lots of people do not accept it. The story is based on what happens.”

“You could be pretty brutal at times, mind you. ‘If your right hand leads you into sin, cut it off’ I suppose you know that one of your faithful saints, a man called Origen, troubled by his sexual urges, cut his willy off?”

“He was a very troubled man whose faith was touched with false teaching – that bodies were bad and only souls were good. But I’m sorry if my words gave him an excuse to damage himself. I meant that we should not be over – protective of flawed habits of thought or action. We need harsh discipline, but as those who go to the gym know, it’s easily borne and can become enjoyable. I had no condemnation of pleasure as such, for ‘my yoke is easy and my burden is light.’

“In any case, it’s your hold on reality that holds me. One of my favourite poets, Seamus Heaney wrote of the ‘moment when the bird sings close to the music of what happens.” The closer the better.

“Do you read books, Jesus?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Because they’re such a big part of my life. I couldn’t understand a person who didn’t read.”

“That’s a bit narrow minded, no? There are millions of people who’ve never learned to read books, who can read the natural world much better than you, and are very interesting to know. But anyway. What have you been reading?“

“I’ve just started reading ‘The diary of a bad year’ by J.M. Coetzee, who has also written about you ‘The childhood of Jesus’ ‘The schooldays of Jesus,’ ‘The death of Jesus.’

“In fact, they’re not really about me at all, but rather about divergent kinds of intelligence and spirit. The one you’re reading, doesn’t it have little essays in it?”

“Yes, and in one he says things about child sex and child porn that make me want to smack him one.”

“I’m sure a smack in the face is an ideal form of moral argument.“

“He seems to think that sex between children is all right. Not to mention sex between a teacher and a pupil. “

“Didn’t you have sex as a child?”

“Of course not!”

“So what age were you when you were feeling Jean Rattigan’s breasts?“

“Uh, thirteen.”

“But that wasn’t sex?”

“How do you know about this?”

“I know you. And her. Sex isn’t something you just suddenly do. You learn it. And you start learning it quite young. In my Galilean community, people were old at thirty; many got married at fifteen; we maybe started learning sex when we were ten or so. Nobody thought anything of it.”

“Ok, Ok, maybe you’re right. But sex between teacher and pupil, surely that’s wrong, an abuse of power?”

“Often it is abuse, so I can understand the warnings against it. But if a social work boss falls in love with a basic grade social worker and woos her, is that abuse? Or the editor of a newspaper falls for a young reporter?

“I think if they don’t use their power to take advantage, it’s Ok.“

“But it’s not the same with teacher and pupil?”

“No. I think it is always wrong in a school. It may be Ok at college or university but the chances of manipulation by either party can’t be ignored. Coetzee blames militant feminists for strictness on this issue but this is a bat in his belfry.”

“Still, you’ve arrived at a more balanced view than just wanting to smack him one.”

“Were you balanced when you said that if anyone offended a little one, he should have a millstone hung round his neck and be drowned in the sea?”

“No, but I was trying to correct an imbalance in my society where children had no rights at all.”

“So could we agree that in defence of the small and the weak, balance is not always right?“

“That’s well said, but I’d still be careful about smacking the opposition in the face.”