What makes him want to do this?
He stands in front of dozens of people. Most of the eyes in the room are fixed on him. Others are glimpsing at the clock on the wall. This is no Las Vegas casino. Time matters, and how he manages it is key to his success. There has just been a mass exodus from the room. Not a good start. And as the hoards left, no doubt some of those remaining sat there with jealous hearts, desperate for a time when they could follow suit. But they continue seated, duty triumphing over desire.
He surveys the onlookers from an elevated position. A necessary evil. They don’t look as happy as they did not so long ago. And now they are sitting instead of standing. He sometimes wished they stayed standing. Perhaps that would at least give the illusion of attentiveness or interest.
Water, water. He searches the shelves on the awkward looking piece of wooden furniture in front of him, eventually finding a glass half-full (or half-empty) of the liquid he now craves. Just a sip is enough to throw his eyes wide open, realising that this is last week’s vintage. A fit of coughing ensues, but he puts his hand up to signal that he is all right. This would be a good place for a joke, but he can’t think of one. All he can think about is a small section of the large book now resting atop that timber frame.
He spent all week pouring over it, worrying about it, sometimes despairing about it. His task was to take this ancient book and bring it to life. The people now opposite him expect impact. They expect an encounter. They expect transformation. They expect the impossible, he often thinks. These are just words, and he is simply telling them their meaning. Is there even a point?
But he recalls a time when sat where his onlookers now sit. All he heard were ‘mere’ words from the front, but these words were like entities unto themselves. They were living, breathing realities that cut him to the heart. He listened, but he more than listened. He ate and drank. He knew. Deep mysteries were being unveiled before his eyes. A story was being told, and he wanted to join in with the current cast of characters. This was the story he had been searching for. He knew it. He just knew it.
It is this encounter that causes him to stand where he now stands; the memory of it, and the hope that it can happen again. He puts his worries aside, prays to the One who longs for such encounters, and begins to tell the story of this One; he begins to preach.
He stands in front of dozens of people. Most of the eyes in the room are fixed on him. Others are glimpsing at the clock on the wall. This is no Las Vegas casino. Time matters, and how he manages it is key to his success. There has just been a mass exodus from the room. Not a good start. And as the hoards left, no doubt some of those remaining sat there with jealous hearts, desperate for a time when they could follow suit. But they continue seated, duty triumphing over desire.
He surveys the onlookers from an elevated position. A necessary evil. They don’t look as happy as they did not so long ago. And now they are sitting instead of standing. He sometimes wished they stayed standing. Perhaps that would at least give the illusion of attentiveness or interest.
Water, water. He searches the shelves on the awkward looking piece of wooden furniture in front of him, eventually finding a glass half-full (or half-empty) of the liquid he now craves. Just a sip is enough to throw his eyes wide open, realising that this is last week’s vintage. A fit of coughing ensues, but he puts his hand up to signal that he is all right. This would be a good place for a joke, but he can’t think of one. All he can think about is a small section of the large book now resting atop that timber frame.
He spent all week pouring over it, worrying about it, sometimes despairing about it. His task was to take this ancient book and bring it to life. The people now opposite him expect impact. They expect an encounter. They expect transformation. They expect the impossible, he often thinks. These are just words, and he is simply telling them their meaning. Is there even a point?
But he recalls a time when sat where his onlookers now sit. All he heard were ‘mere’ words from the front, but these words were like entities unto themselves. They were living, breathing realities that cut him to the heart. He listened, but he more than listened. He ate and drank. He knew. Deep mysteries were being unveiled before his eyes. A story was being told, and he wanted to join in with the current cast of characters. This was the story he had been searching for. He knew it. He just knew it.
It is this encounter that causes him to stand where he now stands; the memory of it, and the hope that it can happen again. He puts his worries aside, prays to the One who longs for such encounters, and begins to tell the story of this One; he begins to preach.
..............saying "This One was a great prophet, powerful in word and works. He was taken by the religious leaders and cruelly put to death. We are told he is risen from the dead. But is the tomb really empty? Is our hope that He is the redeemer a living hope of just another fairytale?"
ReplyDeleteEven as he spoke a voice rang out from the back of the auditorium. "How can you be so silly as to even ask the question?" it echoed through the hushed room. Heads turned uneasily, taken aback at the incongruity of it all. "Haven't you read your bible. Don't you believe it when it tells you that he would suffer, die and rise again." He stretched out his arms and moved them in an arc. "What is all this about if you don't believe that. Read Exodus, read Leviticus, read Isaiah. Didn't you cover them in Bible College?
The head turners sat rivetted to the spot. The preacher was speechless. There was nothing particularly special in the words of the animated man seated under the clock at the back of the church. But hearts pumped. Blood coursed through veins.
The stranger leaned over from where he sat and reached into a bag at his feet. From it he took a loaf of Brennans bread. "Today's bread today, Preacher." He reached for the bag again, his hand emerging with a bottle of Pellegrino. "And no more stale water."
I know. I know. I knnnoooooowwwww.