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Sir Toby's revisited

Posted 19 February, 2007 - 15:02 by peter wilkinson

The night tram had just deposited a noisy group of dishevelled late-night revellers from the city-centre at Krymska. From the noisy throng, a couple of theologians had extricated themselves, shrouded in their long, dark cloaks and pointed hats. Clutching travel cases and parcels of books tied up in brown paper and string, they made their way purposefully up the hill the short walk to Sir Toby’s. The Cabal was once again gathering – though perhaps ‘coalesced’ might better describe their unscheduled and somewhat haphazard arrival.

It had been some weeks since the Christmas convention, and the magnetic pull of theological conversation had drawn the finest and fuzziest of theological post moderns from all parts of the globe, without any formal invitation or communication, back to the warmth of the hostel.

Within the main communal area, the Christmas decorations had been removed, but the room was no less welcoming for that. A fire was burning, and the bar was doing a brisk trade in serving a variety of local Czech beers according to the eclectic tastes of the newly arriving theologians.

The communal room was filling slowly. Behind closed doors elsewhere in the hostel, the interests of the theologians were reflected in a variety of arcane solitary pursuits. The dapper young man had open before him on his desk a leather-bound edition of ‘Lives of the Great Poisoners’, and something resembling a distillery constructed from a toy chemistry-set was bubbling away, producing noxious green fluid in a large alembic. A final solution for his theological opponents, in the event of theological controversy, perhaps.

In another room, the red-headed Australian with the sharply cut beard was muttering to himself as he perused a recently purchased copy of Walter Wink’s ‘The Powers that Were’ – the recently published follow-up to his seminal work: ‘The Powers that Be’. He was making furious annotations in the margins with a long, black quill pen, the tip of which scratched dangerously into the parchment.

In yet another room, the elderly man with the long-flowing beard and an appearance of profound sagacity had just packed his clay-pipe with a weed-like substance, which was emitting a somewhat sweetly-smelling aroma. He prepared himself with notepad, parchment, quills, ink-pot, and tins of substances with which he could refill his pipe during the long night-hours of discussion.

In rooms such as these all over the hostel, purposeful activity had been taking place, until either by consultation with antique time-pieces drawn from top pockets, or some inward beckoning of time and place, one by one the guests descended to the lower room which was now slowly filling with new arrivals. Mental theological positions had been sharpened to perfection for the final deadly thrust.

“It seems to me,” a voice rose over the hubbub easily identifiable as the young man with an unerring taste for sharp, smart casual wear which would cut a dash in any contemporary central European salon, “that the time has arrived, or if it has not yet arrived could in principle be said to be imminent, for some general agreement around positions which might,” he emphasised the word, “provide a basis for moving forward on a common front to take theological discourse into the post modern arena.”

The general clamour subsided into lower pitched muttering and something resembling attentive silence amidst the scraping of chair legs and tapping of pipe bowls into ash trays as the group of theologians – it was always difficult to be precise about how many, but Cabal might be understating the numbers – settled in for a long night’s disputation.

“The primary need of the hour has been to deconstruct the evangelical modernist myth, which has for long presented a formidable obstruction to locating scriptural belief in a contemporary social and cultural context, a setting which the hour so desperately calls for. ‘Cometh the hour - - - ’ ” he continued, the faintest trace of a smile flickering over his features, as he swung his attention to a portly guest who had just slipped his time-piece out of his pocket, and was pondering which of the hands were the hour and which were the minute.

“The True Myth,” spoke the elderly sage. “The theological circle which, if it could be squared, might present a purposeful way forward in our deliberations. Can theological perception be shown to be ‘true’, whilst being taken out of the restrictions and contingencies of historical time and place?”

“Or the historical narrative, extracted from the layers of mythological assumption, which modernist theology has superimposed,” said the young man. “A historical narrative which, without theological partisanship and chronically insisting on its own way, can deconstruct the unseen power structures, the centres of unseen authority and assumptions, which have weighed so heavily on interpretation, arrogantly spreading their elbows so to speak, at the table, and preventing other narratives from sharing and receiving hospitality in an atmosphere of mutual respect and acceptance.”

“Ah the table, the table,” muttered another theologian. “At which we may live to serve, and serve to live, in an atmosphere of mutual tolerance and respect.”

“Fly to live, or live to fly?” came a voice from the dark interior of the room, followed by a squawk which suspiciously resembled the cry of a strangulated seagull, and was as swiftly silenced by the glare of those in the immediate vicinity of the noise.

“A community amongst other faith communities, and those of no faith at all,” continued the young man, “the boundaries of which are redefined in a way that permits proximity to those with other, dissimilar, perhaps incompatible narratives and faith positions, and meaningful intercourse between them. A repositioning of community around a redefined narrative, forming the basis for its shape and expression.”

“A community whose centre and outward expression need no longer be in opposition to and distance from other communities,” he continued, “as reflected in its outward forms and symbols – its buildings, its programmes, its interior hierarchy and social relationships, its inner furniture, as it were, and its outward stance in relation to the rest of the world. A community whose foundation was reshaped by belief in the new creation, reaching out in its mission to all creation, and finding its place alongside all aspects of creation.”

He paused, and a stillness came over the assembly. Intermittently, irregular patterns of smoke were puffed towards the ceiling from clay pipes, signifying thoughts being considered, pondered, processed.

“You mean a reshaping of the narrative, to bring about a reshaping of belief?” Came a tentative voice, breaking the silence.

“No – I mean a digging down to the foundations of narrative, through the accumulated layers and strata of myth, theological depositions, beliefs which have obscured the simplicity of narrative – arising as much from the tectonic forces of culture on our theological geology, superimpositions of silt and clay which we are called upon to excavate.”

“And the substance of this narrative?” came a voice. “Its primary features and organising characteristics?”

“Imagine the disciples with Jesus on the Mount of Olives,” said the young man. “As Jesus told them of what was to come, they would have looked back over the city. A coming of the Son of Man – to that city, with its temple, in a historical sequence, in their lifetime. A narrative whose focus was contemporary, not distant future, but which would change the lives of those for generations yet to come. The narrative of the coming of the Son of Man.”

The presentation had made its initial impact. But not all were going to agree. A chair scraped, and the bespectacled theologian with the bullet shaped head leaned forward to make his response.

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Sir Toby's revisited

by peter wilkinson - 21/02/2007 - 19:16

The bespectacled, bullet-headed theologian, arrayed in the garb of a Trappist, rose to his feet and spoke.

“We are very grateful to our learned colleague for his strenuous efforts on our behalf to bring about a transition of theological thought in this part of the 21st century, and for it to form a basis for the community of faith in the postmodern era, all the while upholding the very highest standards of scriptural and scholarly integrity, and promoting a gospel which will fulfil the promise to Abraham, to be taken to the very ends of the earth: a this-worldly gospel for a this-worldly creation. We acknowledge his labours, and bow before his formidable intellect. He may rest assured that his publications on this matter occupy pride of place on every bookshelf, and are the subject of study groups and reading circles in every literate part of the home counties.”

He cleared his throat, to the accompaniment of some shuffling and coughing from the theologians. The young man, now seated, looked relaxed in his chair, but not without the slightest raising of the eyebrows, suggestive of an inner suspicion that a coup de grace was being prepared behind the gracious words, and that all eventualities had already been taken care of. The Trappist continued:

“It has been said that the narrative of the coming of the Son of Man, as it has been called, comes clearly into focus once the accretions and detritus of subsequent generations have been cleared away, and we are once again able to hear the story as it would have been heard, with relevant allusions and underpinnings from the Hebrew scriptures, by its original 1st century audience with their 1st century mindset.

“Let us therefore engage in this imaginative exercise, and go once again to the scene of that discourse called Olivet, where the Master set out his vision of the future to an astonished yet attentive group of disciples. Here, the little teaching group – the students with the rabbi; there, on the opposite side of the valley, the mighty walls of Herodian stone buttressing the Temple mount; and the Temple itself, a proud testimony to the illusion of permanence, rebellious defiance, and intolerance of opposition. For opposition there was, to this Idumean half-breed who had usurped the throne of David, and presumed to cast himself and his works as the fulfilment of Israel’s divine history and destiny – a tyrant far removed in action and inner character, for all his flaws, from the model of kingship provided by David.”

“To the shocked ears of the disciples, as devout Jewish believers, the predicted destruction of the Temple was indeed a sign of ‘the end of the age’ – as Matthew has it, in that most Jewish of the synoptic writings. Further, the destruction of the temple was not simply an outcome of a historic chain of events, but a divine judgement, as emphasised by Luke in the 22nd verse of his account. This ‘coming of the Son of Man’ was, without doubt, a coming in judgement, but not without deliverance for those who believed in him. Further, the ‘coming’ itself was not towards the earth, but rather towards the presence of God – as described by Daniel in the 13th verse of the 7th chapter of his writings. This ‘coming’ issued, of course, in events on the earth of catastrophic magnitude.”

“Each of the synoptic accounts has this contemporary application – a coming of the Son of Man within a generation of the utterance of the prophecy, a judgement upon the nation which had brought forth the son of man, and rejected him – albeit only in part, and a deliverance of the new people of God from this judgement.”

“Was such a judgement considered by that 1st century audience, and those to whom the story was given within that generation, to be the final ‘Day of the Lord’ – as foreseen and foretold by the prophets? Apparently not. The testimony of Paul in his letter to the Romans was that there yet remained a “day of God’s wrath, when his righteous judgement will be revealed.” Was a 1st century judgement on the nation of Israel to be subtracted from this day which was yet to come? Again, apparently not – ‘There will be trouble and distress for every human being who does evil: first for the Jew, then for the Gentile. - - - This will take place on the day when God will judge men’s secrets through Jesus Christ, as my gospel declares.’ ”

“If the judgement that fell on Jerusalem and its Temple was therefore, for all its horrors, a judgement of an interim nature – not the final judgement which will fall on all flesh, was there also a corresponding judgement, of a similar non-final nature, which fell on the Gentile world of that age, in its representative Rome? Attempts to pin-point such an occurrence have proved inconclusive. Our hypothesis taken from the ‘Olivet discourse’ of converging lines of prophecy fulfilled in the 1st century begins to look insecure.”

The Trappist paused, reaching down for a glass of green liquid which somebody had slipped onto his table, and sipped a mouthful. ‘Not absinthe then,’ he mused. ‘An amusing bouquet; frisky without being impertinent.’ He took a draught, and pondered on the lingering aftertaste, redolent of - - - what was the image which the taste brought to mind? Some form of evergreen hedge? He looked up, and continued.

“At what point did a 1st century ‘coming of the Son of Man’ occur? Matthew, Mark and Luke refer to a ‘coming of the Son of Man’ – Matthew repeatedly. The prophecies concerning the destruction of the temple place this ‘coming’ in a context of judgement, distress and fearful events. But was this the sum total of such a ’coming’ – exhausting the prophetic content of Daniel’s prediction without remainder?”

“At the beginning of Luke’s account, Jesus is questioned by the Pharisees concerning ‘when the kingdom of God would come’. Jesus replies: ‘The kingdom of God does not come visibly, nor will people say, “Here it is,” or “There it is,” because the kingdom of God is within you.’ When did this coming of the kingdom, in this particular manifestation, occur? It doesn’t sound at all like the destruction of the Temple.”

“John came to baptise with water, and prophesied that Jesus would come to baptise ‘with the Holy Spirit and with fire.’ Within the hendiadys, blessing and judgement are presented as two sides of the same coin – a contrasting doublet which is pursued in the subsequent verses in Luke 3, where the gathering of the wheat into the barn (for blessing) contrasts with the burning up of the chaff with unquenchable fire (for judgement).”

“When was there an entering into the presence of the Ancient of Days, as foreshadowed in Daniel’s prophecy, followed by the granting of ‘authority, glory and sovereign power’ and the worship by ‘all peoples, nations and men of every language’ of the one so honoured?”

“Not one event, but a nexus of events in the New Testament fulfils the prophetic picture of Daniel. Not corporate Israel, but the perfect Israelite fulfils the prophecy. Jesus entered the presence of the Ancient of Days at his ascension. At such a time, he was given all authority as Lord: ‘authority, glory and sovereign power’, as Daniel describes it. On the day of Pentecost, ‘God-fearing Jews from every nation under heaven’ joined with the worshippers, or at least witnessed the earthly manifestation of this glorious ascension with the outpouring of the divine Spirit, as suggested by Daniel’s ‘all peoples, nations and men of every language worshipped him’. And as surely as John had predicted, with the Spirit came blessing and judgement, as implied in Peter’s quoting of Joel. Judgement in this case was delayed, but came within a generation of Pentecost.”

“Was judgement on Jerusalem in AD 70 the completion of the ‘coming of the Son of Man’ as an event? The apocalyptist writes of ‘a great multitude that no-one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb.’ An echo of Daniel again, and like Daniel in the 12th chapter of his writings, describing those ‘who have come out of the great tribulation’. This tribulation is not located within any particular event or time frame, although within the Johanine apocalypse, 1st century Roman and Jewish persecution would readily have come to mind. Nevertheless, no date, time, or place is attached to the scene. The great persecution could just as easily attach itself to great persecutions of all times, places and ages.”

“The moment is timeless, but points to a future time of gathering before the great throne of God – the consummation of all times. Taking this broader context into account, we must look again at the apocalyptic predictions of the ‘Son of Man’ discourse on the Mount of Olives. A ‘coming of the Son of Man’ in judgement on Jerusalem and its Temple? Certainly. An exclusive event which exhausts the content of ‘the coming of the Son of Man’ without remainder’? The allusiveness of apocalyptic language may not permit such certainty. There yet remains a fulfilment of the ‘new creation’, in which the triumph of the Son of Man is completed, and is yet to be - is this a triumph that can be associated with a ‘coming’ of the Son of Man at the end of time? The final pages of Revelation point us to such a final coming, and while the 2 Thessalonians ‘coming’ might have found a 1st century fulfilment in a judgement on a Jewish or Roman (or both) ‘man of lawlessness’, it is very difficult to shoehorn the 1 Thessalonians ‘coming’ into such a framework, where the theme of the passage, ‘the coming of the Lord’ – ten parousian ton kurion – is a descent – katabaino – from heaven, met by the rising of the dead, and a rapture – harpazometha – being caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air – aera – ‘and thus always with the Lord we shall be’.”

Again the Trappist reached for his glass and raised it to his lips. ‘A full bouquet’, he thought as the slightly sickly aroma hit the back of his palate. ‘Somewhat bushy in texture. Bushy? But which bush?’ The precise image that his palate suggested eluded him. A green bush. Then the thought came: the conquering hero; the laurel wreath. Laurel? What was that smell which came as an aftertaste to the green beverage?’ His head began to swim somewhat. He reached for the sheaf of notes before him, and resumed his peroration.

“That the destruction of the temple was not in itself the ultimate focus or complete sense of the ‘coming of the Son of Man’ is further suggested by a silence. Nowhere else in the testimony of the New Testament writings is there a confirmation that this one event was regarded as the fulfilment of the prophecy of the Son of Man’s coming. Nowhere else is it even alluded to. Such a silence is remarkable; deafening.”

“So we come to the narrative: the narrative of the coming of the Son of Man. Is this the narrative which forms the bedrock of the New Testament story of Jesus – the impenetrable substratum below all other strata? In this narrative, the key event which formed the hope of the people of God at that time, and retrospectively, for all subsequent ages, is the promise of catastrophic judgement on those nations which opposed God in His people (represented by their seats of power, Jerusalem and Rome), and the promise of deliverance (and therefore survival) of the people of God through those catastrophic events. The promise of salvation is this-worldly, a promise of escape from and through geopolitical upheaval. A promise of triumph through adversity.”

“Even allowing for such an interpretation - and the evidence for a 1st century judgement on Gentile Rome is elusive - what happens when this event (or series of events) is allowed to form the controlling narrative?

“The focus of the narrative is significantly shifted. Instead of the cross being the focus of heaven and earth’s wonder and admiration, the key which unlocks the story is now the judgement meted out on Jerusalem and Rome, and the deliverance of the saints through these judgements. The key is the kingdom rule of the Son of Man represented in this one event.”

“Instead of the outpouring of the Spirit as the guarantee of a future yet to come, the evidence in the present of the glorious ascension and reign of the Son of Man, and the motor and dynamo of the life and growth of the people of God across the earth, a ‘coming’ in judgement/deliverance is the guarantee of present (and future) survival; salvation is a this worldly, once in historical time deliverance, which eventually issued into a worldwide mode of being, with possibilities for the good of creation.”

“Somehow, I think the narrative is substantially shifted by the new proposal, is not confirmed by all the evidence, and significantly underrates the energising power which would make its outcome a possibility.”

“The cross is no longer central and formative. It occupies a lesser position; marginalised (albeit not dismissed) in the great sweep of the narrative. And yet its prime ambassador, Paul, could say: ‘I resolved to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ and him crucified.’ This ‘offence of the cross’: the ‘foolishness of God’ and the ‘weakness of God’, was chosen by God ‘to shame the wise’; the Jesus of the cross became ‘the wisdom from God - that is, our righteousness, holiness and redemption.’ But in the ‘coming of the Son of Man’ narrative, Paul’s words, alas, speak only to his 1st century Jewish hearers. They were the message given to provide the hearers with the means to navigate their way through a crisis which was historically contingent to them, but to no-one else.”

“I suggest, fellow theologians, that we reconsider the route which we are mapping out as a way of charting our course through the perilous waters of the days to come, with its rocks, rapids, and turbulent torrents.”

The Trappist ceased. His brow was sweating. He reached for the glass of green liquid, but before he could pick it up from the table, the dizziness which had been increasing in intensity, causing the room with all its contents, people and furniture, to spin slowly on its axis, overcame him. He swayed, clutching ineffectually at the table, and with a crash fell backwards onto the stone floor, his sheaf of papers scattering into the air around him.

Re: Sir Toby's revisited

by john doyle - 21/02/2007 - 23:32

The theologians, for whom the Trappist’s baleful expositions had become as comfortingly familiar as the ruffling of pages and the scratching of quills, had sensed a subtly different timbre suffusing this particular discourse. Now, in the silence that descended almost as violently as had the Trappist, confusion seemed to addle the scholars. This unseemly display: was it some sort of ill-conceived rhetorical flourish staged by the monk in a desperate attempt to addle his unflappable adversary?“Go up, thou baldhead!” The Copt, his reserve badly frayed by the persistent gloom of the northern winter, glared with open disdain upon the supine form.“Too long in his cups, by my reckoning,” opined the defrocked Inquisitor solemnly.“Ash Wednesday,” the discalced Franciscan oblate observed, shaking her covered head dolefully. “An inauspicious beginning to the Lenten fast, I fear.” “Ashes to ashes, go up, go up!” Flagons hoisted in ceremonial salute, the cabalists began parading through the great room, their mildly blasphemous rhythmic imprecation resounding lustily. The Romanists among them, who until now had seemed particularly moribund in the aftermath of what had apparently been a particularly noteworthy Mardi Gras fete, now donned their Carnival masks, lending a grotesquely otherworldly air to the unseemly spectacle. The dogs, several of which had been sniffing and nuzzling the fallen contemplative, tilted their heads back and howled balefully.From amid the clamor there emerged a singularly pure and high vibrato. Gradually rising both in volume and in pitch, the musical screech brought the farcical promenade to a confused halt. All ears were stopped against the terrible shriek; all eyes turned to the Venetian castrato who crouched over the fallen Trappist.“Morto,” he sang in a voice that would pierce the vault of heaven itself. “Morto. Morto.” Undone, the famous soprano collapsed operatically across the motionless body of the tonsured acolyte, whose lips had taken on a noticeably bluish tinge.“What?” “Dead?” “Not possible!”

Post mortem

by peter wilkinson - 22/02/2007 - 08:47

Three morose figures were seated at a basement bar in the city centre, huddled in their long, shroudlike cloaks.

The elderly sage, having enacted his own operatic demise over the body of the Trappist, had quickly ended the proceedings by getting to his feet, dusting himself down, and dispersing the gathering with a cursory: “Well, that’s about it then. Details of the funeral proceedings will be posted. I declare this extraordinary gathering of the convocation terminated.”

“Poor fellah,” said one of the three at the bar, he of the spikey red hair and sharply cut beard. “Jeez, what a way to stage your own exit. He must have been planning it for some time.” He drank deeply of the Fosters which stood on the bar before him.

“Quite dramatic. So will you be coming to the funeral?” asked the young man, rather awkwardly, it seemed.

“All of us will attend, of course,” said the sage. “And by then, perhaps, we will have got to the bottom of this strange, dare I say, macabre, development.”

“They will, of course, be repatriating the body,” said the young man. “I believe it will be an Oxford funeral. He had some sort of connection with one of the colleges, St Edmund Hall I think. One of the second division establishments. Better known for its sport than academic achievements, though J.N.D. Kelly was an expert on the Athanasian Creed.”

“He was a man,” said the sage, with bard-like utterance. “Take him for all in all. We shall not see his like again.”

“Cyanide!” said the antipodean, shaking his head. “He must have prepared it from the crushed laurel leaves that were found in his room.”

“Time!” said the sage. The three of them downed the remaining contents of their glasses, rose to their feet, and with appropriate courtesies, one by one ascended to street level, where they dispersed in separate directions according to their travel arrangements - but not before each had uttered the words to each: “Till Oxford, then!”

Oxford

by peter wilkinson - 22/02/2007 - 14:10

The young man reclined on the chaise longue of his substantial apartment overlooking the main quad of Lincoln College. Attired in a richly embroidered silk dressing gown, he had only recently roused himself from comfortable slumber, dined on a full English breakfast brought to him by his scout, and settled into the morning room. In one hand, he held a cigarette-holder, from which a half-smoked Sobranie extended. In the other, he held a copy of Noel Coward’s ‘Brief Lives’, which he was reading in the light of the morning sun which gleamed across the quad through his window.

A tentative knock on the door interrupted his reading. “Come!” he boomed. The elderly sage and the antipodean, freshly arrived from the Randolph Hotel, entered the room, and made themselves comfortable in the fin de siecle armchairs.

“This afternoon then, at 12.30?” said the young man, putting his book down.

“Not later,” said the sage, somewhat grumpily. “And we hope there will be no further unpleasant surprises.”

“Surprises?” said the antipodean. “Bring them on! It’s as good as being hit in the back of the neck by a boomerang on Bondi Beach.”

“You did dispose of the evidence?” said the young man, who was exchanging his morning wear for attire more appropriate for the funeral to come.

“Completely,” said the sage. The three conspirators left the room, and emerging into the bright sunlight of the front quad, took the route which would go past the Radcliffe Camera, into New College Lane under Hertford Bridge, and left through Hell Passage to the Turf Tavern, for a leisurely brunch washed down by a pint or two, before proceeding to the ceremony concerning their late lamented comrade and theologian.

* * * * * * * * *

The small chapel overlooking the front quad at St Edmund Hall was packed to capacity and overflowing with mourners. Each was garbed in theological gown, pointed hats doffed out of respect for the late departed, whose coffin had already been placed on a dais in the centre of the space overlooked by pews running parallel to the sids of the chapel.

A small figure, his features muffled by a gown wrapped around his face, slipped into the rear of the assembly unnoticed.

The organ playing an appropriately funereal dirge ceased. The elderly sage, whose vocal ability as a soprano in the Venetian Castrato range had so recently stunned the world, stepped up to the small raised pulpit. “Fellow theologians!” he boomed. “It is our sad duty today to pay our final respects to our dearly beloved fellow theologian and monk, affectionately known to us all by his sobriquet: the Trappist. At his request, made known to us before the sad events of which we are all only too familiar, tributes will be paid before we proceed with funeral rite B from the Franciscan revised ‘Funerals for Today’. I therefore invite any who are so moved to offer an appropriate but short encomium.”

Before the previously primed individuals had a chance to step forward, the slight figure whose gown had obscured his features stepped forward into the centre. “I have something to bring in tribute to the one whose mortal remains are said to lie before us,” said the figure. “But first, there is a small gesture I wish to make.”

Striding up to the coffin, to the astonishment of the assembled mourners, he pulled open the lid. A corporate gasp arose at the spectacle - the coffin was empty. In the outcry and confusion that ensued, the Sage descended from the pulpit, and with the young man and the red-headed loon, slipped unobtrusively from the chapel, crossed the quad in the broad sunlight, and disappeared into Queens Lane.

Paris

by peter wilkinson - 23/02/2007 - 14:13

At a pavement cafe in the leafy suburb of Montmartre, four figures were enjoying the early spring sunshine over a leisurely coffee and croissants.

“So the rest was quite easy, really. Though throwing the Russian mafia off the trail hasn’t always been so straightforward,” said the slight figure with the spectacles.

“So once you got Litvinenko’s double into the coffin and on his way to the UK, what happened to you?” said the antipodean.

“Oh, fairly simple. I put myself on the the main access road to the autobahn out of Prague, and thumbed a lift. Cheb, Plauen, Kassel, Maastricht, Ostend and the night ferry back to Dover. Took a bit of time, and some hairy all night vigils by the roadside, but it worked out fine in the end.”

“Cunning,” said the young man.

“And false!” said the elderly sage, who was developing a habit of making unattributed quotations from Shakespeare, and whose features were even bearing an increasing resemblance to the famous image of the Bard.

“So the whole show at the Hostel was just a front?” said the spikey haired one.

“Entirely,” said the bespectacled figure.

“And Litivenko’s double?” said the bard.

“Oh it was an uncomfortable journey, but he climbed out of the coffin during a quiet moment in the cargo bay at Heathrow, took himself off to the Sushi bar with the Polonium 210, and handed it over to the Italians. The Russians were furious, of course.”

“And the convocation at Sir Toby’s?” said the antipodean.

“That was the my idea,” said the young man. “I’m really rather proud of that, though I wouldn’t go all the way of writing a book again just to throw some drug-crazed Russian oil baron off the scent. I must say though, that our Trappist friend had me worried. He was certainly putting a lot of himself into the charade. I really thought he had drunk the stuff when he collapsed onto the floor.”

“So where now?” said the Bard.

“A few days in Berlin for me,” said the young man. “Then onto Copenhagen for the convention, you know, ‘New directions in futility - a study of the impact of the ancient Hivites on early post-exile temple politics’ or something of the like.”

“A long overdue lecture tour of the Balkans for me,” said the Trappist.

“Warwick for me, via the Hague of course,” said the Bard, looking at the young man.

“A good long soaking at Murphy’s, then back to base at Wembley,” said the antipodean.

The warm sun encouraged a lazy, drawn out breakfast, amid the atmosphere of bonhomie that accompanied the success of their strategem. A pleasant day stretched out before them, with no demands on their time, other than to enjoy the rejuvenating charms of the city, an hour or two at the Musee D’Orsay and the Louvre, perhaps, before an equally leisurely lunch at some pleasant bistro.

Bravo!

by john doyle - 23/02/2007 - 15:37

I must say this tale took many unexpected turns. Who would have known that the Trappist would bear an uncanny resemplance to the notorious Russian agent? Or that the theologians could travel away from Prague without disappearing in the mists? Or that theology could become a ruse for more insidious motivations? Fortunately my brief intrusion into the narrative stream didn’t divert the story from its ordained course and its startling denouement.

Re: Bravo!

by peter wilkinson - 02/03/2007 - 22:21

Your intrusion into the narrative stream was essential for the progression of the story to its denouement. Alas, the startling ability of the Trappist to evade death’s clutches, and numerous other false dawns of departure from the site (disappearance into planetpreterist.com, voluntary theological detox at The Friary) will mean that he continues to exist as an irritant and source of vexatious interjections for some time to come. Unless another narrative were to be composed in which his demise was irreversibly accomplished.

He is risen?

by john doyle - 25/03/2007 - 21:27

Some time had passed — was it days, or centuries? — before the Old Man, following the serpentine trail that ever wound before him, again found himself making his way through the streets of old Prague toward Sir Toby’s. The strange events that marked his last visit and unexpected departure struggled to align themselves in his memory. Had the Trappist died? No, it had been a ruse. Though the Old Man had become enmeshed in the intrigue, the plan and the crisis precipitating it had never been fully clear to him. Had the shrewd and scheming Trappist masterminded his own apparent death, or had the Westerner, his politesse concealing a deadly, almost menacing sharpness, crafted the ingenious deception? The Old Man remained perplexed about the final confusing sequence of events. Had it been a double of the Russian spy who replaced the Trappist in the coffin, or the spy himself? The Old Man had seen the Trappist lying on the tavern floor: surely he had been dead, had he not? But no: cosmetics and subterfuge had created the uncanny simulation of death. But someone must have died: the London newspapers affirmed it. If the resemblance was so strong, could not the undercover Russian operative, a master of deception, have disguised himself as the Trappist rather than the other way around? Surely, thought the Old Man, someone at Sir Toby’s can explain it all to me again, slowly.

He pulled the heavy door open. Peering through the perpetual haze and half-light that suffused the great room, the Old Man felt himself relax. Barmaids carrying pitchers of beer and wine passed among the tables filling the glasses of the theologians. The learned men and women conversed amiably and loudly among themselves; a few tried to read or write amid the hubbub. None but a couple of dogs acknowledged the Old Man as he edged his way toward his customary seat by the fire.

He grasped the shoulder of the Balkan flagellant, a regular visitor to the inn. “Any word from the Trappist?” the Old Man shouted into his ear.

The strange penitent flinched as if the Old Man had stricken him. Was it horror or ecstasy that distorted the flagellant’s features as he spun to face the Old Man? “But you were here. You witnessed the tragedy. You touched the body, felt for the pulse, joined your voice with the ullulations of mourning. You accompanied the body to its resting place; surely you helped lay him in his tomb. How can you ask such a thing?”

Temporarily shaken by the flagellant’s outburst, the Old Man regained his composure. “So you’ve not seen him then,” he said, slapping his stunned colleague on the back. “It’s just like that cagy rogue not to return to the scene of the crime.”

“But what…?”

“He’s as much alive as you and I.”

By now several of the other theologians had recognized the Old Man and overheard his exchange with the flagellant. For a few moments none spoke. Gradually a multivoiced murmur began rippling through the hall. The Old Man, who always enjoyed being the center of attention, took a long drink out of the glass that had appeared in front of him. “Not to worry, he’ll show his face here one of these days. You’re sure no one’s seen him?”

The voices, subdued and uncertain, began reclaiming their assurance. “He’s alive!” “He’s coming back!” “He is risen!”

The Old Man, confused now, subsided into silence. Instead of relief and amusement, the theologians seemed awestruck. Suddenly several of the theologians leapt from their chairs. Some ran from the inn; others wept; still others began searching the shelves containing the archives of the Cabal’s interminable proceedings. A new spirit seemed to be moving in the inn, spurring the usually sluggish theologians to frenzied activity.

Gradually the Old Man realized what was happening. “Friends, wait! Listen! He was not dead! Another took his place! The tomb was empty!”

The clamor rose again. “Not dead.” “He took our place” “Empty tomb.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” the Old Man exclaimed. “It was a deception. The Trappist never died; he pretended to be dead.”

“Unbeliever!” “You never understood him, did you, Old Man!” “You saw, you were his friend.” “How can you deny him now?” “Infidel!”

“No, wait,” the Old Man shouted, standing now. “Hear me.”

But the theologians would not listen. Several were arguing about what it was the Trappist had said just before he died. They began pulling ledgers down from the shelves, poring over the Trappist’s words. “The time has arrived,” one of them read in a loud voice that approached hysteria. “Imminent… cometh the hour… the circle will be squared… completion of the coming… a future time of gathering… fulfillment of the new creation… parousia… the rising of the dead… the rapture… judgment…” He slammed his hand down on the open book. “He was revealing to us, his friends, what was to come, but we did not have ears to hear. He is risen. He is coming. We must prepare the way.”

“Brothers and sisters, I beg you to listen!” But the Old Man’s pleadings were lost in the excitement of preparations being made and word being sent to the ends of the earth.

 

 

Re: He is risen?

by peter wilkinson - 26/03/2007 - 14:18

“Pssst!” came an urgent whisper, but before the Old Man could turn away from the tumult and hysteria which was engulfing the inn, a hand grabbed him, and pulled him backwards through the arras which hung on the wall behind him. He found himself in a small ante-chamber, where a heavily cloaked figure stood over a box. He quickly recognised this as the Westerner. The other figure also became recognisable by the shock of red hair visible even under his hood, and the sharply cut beard.

“You!” gasped the sage. “But where - - - ?”

“In the box!” hissed the Westerner. “Quickly, so we can put an end to this nonsense once and for all!”

The two cloaked figures beckoned the elderly man to take a corner of the box, which between them they heaved up to a small trapdoor in the side of the wall. With a final shove, the box disappeared through the aperture.

A moment later there was a loud splash! The hooded figures swiftly moved to an adjacent window, joined by the Old Man just in time to see the box sink underneath the surface of the Vltava which flowed below, the tiniest trace of bubbles marking the box’s descent into its murky depths.

“Dead for a ducket!” quoth the bard, unattributedly.

“Congratulations!” said the Westerner, now removing his cloak and hood, and sitting down on a chair by the table. “Your little performance was almost completely credible.”

“Religious mania,” said the Old Man. “Never fails to work. That should keep them off the scent for a while.”

“And allow us to get on with the task undistracted,” said the red-headed one. “The final phase!”

“A postmodern theology for a post biblical age,” said the Westerner. “No more irritating interruptive comments and criticisms. The way is now open to us.”

“To the project!” said the Old Man, raising a glass from the table. The other figures raised theirs to his, and quaffed the vintage champagne with which the glasses had been charged. “The project!” they repeated in unison.

Sometime later, a piece of flotsam, which on closer inspection might have been identified as a coffin, bumped against the bank downstream of the hostel. The water eddied around it, and from within, the faintest of scrabbling sounds might have been detected.

Re: He is risen?

by peter wilkinson - 27/03/2007 - 08:46

The Trappist felt the impact of the box hitting the water, but suffered no ill effects, the quilted interior providing a good level of protection. “This is, after all, the de lux version,” he thought, and raised himself upright within his confined quarters. “Surprisingly commodious,” he mused - and from somewhere within the repository of his range of literary reference came the line: ‘supine on the floor of a narrow canoe’.

Reaching behind him, the Trappist found a switch which operated a light for the interior of his coffin/canoe, sufficient to read by, and drawing a battered book from within the folds of his theological cloak, he continued with the annotations he had been making in the hostel, using a propelling pencil he had set aside for the purpose.

Thus comfortably ensconced, the Trappist pored over the prayer of Jonah within the great fish. “A catena of miscellaneous lines from the psalms?” he questioned. “Utterances of merely conventional and hypocritical piety? I don’t think so. Jonah’s extremity brought to mind a rich vein of schooling in the words of those who had been through similar hard places. Now he was fully able to identify with their desperation in his own experience.”

“But the reference to Sheol, the place of the dead; ‘whose bars closed upon me for ever’; the great pit. Poetic hyperbole? Surely the writer intended us to believe that Jonah was, if not dead, then as good as dead. The great fish - Leviathan? Jonah swallowed up? Death swallowed him up. Wasn’t it Isaiah who said: ‘therefore Sheol has enlarged its appetite and opened its mouth beyond measure’? But did not Isaiah also say ‘He will swallow up death forever’? And Paul: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory’?

The Trappist gulped, and reached for his hip flask, the contents of which suffused a pleasant glow around his person, and warmed him to his task.

” ‘The waters closed in over me’,” he pondered; ” ‘weeds were wrapped about my head at the roots of the mountains’; the only words whose inspiration was Jonah’s and his alone.” He reflected on the parallels with his own predicament.

“Jonah was ‘three days and three nights’ inside the fish - a definitive figure of death; after three days, there was no possibility of mere resuscitation.” He thought of similar figures: Hosea’s ‘on the third day, he will raise us up’.

“Jonah’s providential deliverance therefore may not have been a freak occurrence of nature which we may seek to prove from contemporary parallels - but a resurrection from the dead, a way out of Sheol itself. Not simply a type, from which the crucified messiah would draw solace for himself and give warning to his enemies, but a promise of deliverance from one who had already experienced it to its depths.”

“An extended treatment of resurrection,” he continued in his reverie. “An escape from the iron bands of Sheol itself; a reversal of the one-way street of death. Death itself vomited Jonah up. Jonah ran as far away from God as he could go, yet even in the depths of Sheol, he found God waiting for him. It wasn’t Jonah that Sheol could not stomach, but the God of resurrection.”

At this point, his comfortable floating study shuddered slightly, and the rocking motion which indicated his fluvial progression ceased. “Time to get out,” the Trappist said to himself, and reaching for a small screwdriver in his pocket, unscrewed the lid of his customised submarine. The fresh night air filled his lungs. He clambered out onto the bank, and filled with fresh zeal for his task, turned his face to the glowing lights of Nineveh and the proclamation he had been charged to make.

Sir Toby's visited!

by paulchen - 03/05/2007 - 23:40

Peter and John,

take a look!:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oStXU45xrSc

mathias

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