If biros had been invented 2,000 years ago,
And paper,
Would we have a copy of the original
Words of Christ?
Would the sobs of angels have been translated
By the bards into images
Of agonizing desolation
At his death?
If St Paul had had a biro
Would he have written more letters?
Possibly with illustrations?
His epistles are many already
If computers had existed would
Apostles have sent emails to their
Missionaries reminding them
Of the true Word?
No.
If computers had existed
Not many would have been outside
Listening to Jesus,
And his parables.
We would be sending messages
And shopping on-line
Or looking up the thoughts of
Ludwig Wittgenstein,
Reading about Prince Charles’ view
On architecture,and wondering
About the Coalition’s treatment of the lower orders.
We would probably not have the space for Jesus’s words.
So if He came now, in form
would He show himself
To obtain some attention?
Would he come as a great cloud of dust and ash?
No.too dramatic.
A storm ,a volcanic eruption?
No,too unavoidable.
Or would he come as a Newsreader on I.T.V?
And from his tragic eyes would we get a message
In between the adverts,
That something basic in us was dying away.
The poetic impulse.
Could He would come back in a fleeting expression
On your face,when you looked at a robin
On your bird feeder.
Or when you smiled
At a stranger in the street.
Maybe He would come back in a special
Silence between you and your lover
When you gaze with grateful delight
At each other,wanting nothing.
Maybe in that happy space inside you
When you are alone,
Loving and not desiring,,
Just happy with that empty space.
Maybe He would come back as a ball point pen
You found in the street,which
Made you write to your sister again.
He could help you to write a better message
That she might understand
Everything that had gone wrong
Between you, so the writing would raise your soul
From the deep well into which it had fallen,
Right next to where Jesus was healing a woman.
That was your soul he was touching.
But you don’t need to know.
The old words don’t work anymore.
The Word has to come again,
But how shall we hear it?
Listening is a dying Art
Here.
But He is here anyway,
Somewhere we may
Rarely have been
So far,
Like the Arctic Circle,
Plenty of empty space and silence there.