There was an egg in the fridge door. The last one.
Or the first; who was to say for sure?
It was the only one, in either case.
The egg was cold and, upon shaking, sounded as though the hand of God had enclosed the sea within it. This thought had ultimately given Him the idea of shellfish. And once you were thus inspired, there was no holding you back.
Wearing nothing but a loincloth – a dirty one, at that – He blew the hairs out of His eye, slowly straightened His old back and mused for a moment.
One egg. On the fifth day. And He was hungry.
Should He boil that egg? In its own shell?
A pie in the sky, but then it would be gone.
And He was cold, in that single loincloth, which He shared with the moth.
Slowly, with enough time to turn on His heels, He closed the fridge door. With a loud creak, a piece of rust fell off, next to Him, into the dust.
If they knew the state of the treasure chest in heaven, people would be sorely deceived.
The thieves who had visited Him had truly known their Bibles.
“Open it, Matthew!” one had shouted, in the pitch-black darkness.
“We’ve come for the treasures, you pigeon's brood!” barked another.
He hadn’t been able to count how many there were. There had yet to be light.
Like well-organised swarms of locusts, they had mugged Him.
They had pushed Him – latch and all – against the revetment of His dwelling and had trampled past, through and over Him, to drag away everything: His clothes, His food supplies, His bed, His furniture and His last hope, from underneath His cluttered thoughts.
“And now the jewels, you old ghost! Come on! Where are the jewels!? The goblets!? The gold bars!? And make it quick!” spat the strongest one in His face, once everything was outside, save for the fridge.
Smack!
The palm of the hand scorched His cheek.
Distraught, He stared at His bare, scrawny shoulder and then cautiously turned His face the other way towards the doorway, as if to say: “Out yonder stands everything I ever had…”
To His slight surprise, the next strike did not come.
The fingers of the striking hand had now spread wide across the parched skin of His gaunt chest, beneath which His arms clasped the loose latch against His empty belly.
Other hands seized His wrists and bound them behind His back.
He now had to bend forward over the latch.
Something sharp pricked His eye as He did so, and He quickly closed it.
There He hung.
The door, hanging off its hinges, creaked in the wind.
Had it been His own fault?
Should He have opposed?
Could He have opposed?
Should He not have gathered His things?
Not brought anything inside the house from outside?
Not actually just move anything from one side of the door to the other?
Should He have torn the door out like a page?
Should He have let the poor come to Him, as He had later come to realise He should have done?
The innocence of the dove had surely been achieved.
But that snake…
Time and again that snake.
Would it have been sensible to shout?
To warn them of the evil that had seized them?
Perhaps they had had women to clothe?
Children to feed?
Thirsty lips to quench?
Was He to cast a judgement, in hindsight?
Had something finer driven them, rather than sheer hardship?
Could something finer have driven them to such an act of despair?
- For desperate it was -
Greed, perhaps? Was it greed?
And how much better off was the greedy one?
He felt that thought loosening something up inside Him.
Was greed anything other, than the last straw for the desperate?
Yes.
Desperate they had been.
His wrists found room to move.
That despair was their truth.
Suddenly He knew it too.
And Who had been at fault for that despair?
Whose truth was this now?
Plaf . . . caplock.
The ropes fell from His arms to the ground, and shortly afterwards the latch.
A burden fallen from Him.
There He stood: in His raw, naked truth.
The squeaking had ceased; the wind had died down.
He was set free.
And in that newfound freedom, He spread His arms.
He felt space all around Him; boundless space.
No more obstacles, no certainties either, but the door was open.
In that parched chest, something welled up that He took for trust.
Provisional trust; there was nothing else.
Behind His closed eye, He glimpsed possibilities and believed.
He believed without limits, believed that everything was possible.
Believed in this new freedom, in which He had spread His arms.
He believed that it was time, for light.
The stinging had subsided. The introverted eye rolled gently downwards.
Curiosity lifted its lid, which arched upwards and now let an overwhelming white light flood in. He closed it again and waited a moment, patiently.
As much as everything was possible, all well and good; but still, preferably not all at once.
Blinking, through a fringe of thick eyelashes, His gaze separated the darkness from the light. A dark square emerged in the sea of light, which seemed to stretch backwards. He waited a moment, until His retina took in the contours in the nuances of the shadow. It was a log.
Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive and you will be forgiven. Luke 6:37 Why do you look at the speck in your brother’s or sister’s eye, whilst you do not notice the log in your own eye? Luke 6:41 Do not worry about yourselves or what you will eat, nor about your bodies or what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body is more than clothing. Luke 12:22,23 Sell everything you own and give the proceeds to the poor. Luke 13:22 Everything is possible for those who believe. Mark 9:23 The truth will set you free. John 8:32 And I tell you not to resist an evil person, but if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to them the other also. Matthew 5:39,40 Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. Store up treasures in heaven. Matthew 6:20 Be as shrewd as a snake, yet retain the innocence of a dove. Matthew 9:16
