The Joseph Story


ONE

Don't talk to me about wood.

It's as though it has a life of its own. It never does what it's supposed to do. You try make it into one thing, it turns into another. It splinters. It breaks when you least expect it to. Wood – it’s been the cross I've had to bear all my working life.

My name is Joseph. I am a carpenter. Like my father before me. We lived alone in Bethlehem, and my only ambition, when I was small, was to be a carpenter. Like my dad.

But it was impossible! I was hopeless at it! Hopeless! I mean — how do you make a dovetail joint?

And anyway, my father didn't want me to be a carpenter. He used to say to me, "You are a descendant of the Royal House of David. You are of royal blood. You were made for better things."

Better things? What could be better than working with your hands? Creating something new. Something simple. Like a stool. Or a table. Or, in my case, anything.

I remember once I picked up a tool from his bench and said to him, "This may not look like much. This is just a bradawl. A simple bradawl. But with this bradawl I can bore holes — I can fit things together — I can create something — if only you'd let me try."

He took it from me and said, "It's not a bradawl. It's a chisel."

*

I was born in the year 23. BC. Obviously.

A time, it seems, that inspired generation after generation after generation of post-natal portrait painters…

All those "artists" who produced all those paintings of the Boy and his mother and me — the Nativity’s — what's wrong with those people?

I mean, there we all are. In a stable. Surrounded by straw and an ox and donkeys and Wise Men — his mother looking radiant in a blue and white robe. Me standing dutifully a few paces behind. Stern. Proud. Old. Aged about eighty¼

Do these people call themselves artists? I was in my twenties then! His mother was nineteen! We were kids!

I tell you — I may not know much about art but I know what I'm like.

Why did they always show me as an old man? Because if I looked young and virile it wouldn't help with the idea that his mother was a virgin. But if I looked old and feeble it would help with the idea that we never had sex. Before the birth or afterwards.

You know what offends me most about that? This belief that sex is somehow shameful. Or dirty. Or only for young people. These are not Jewish beliefs, by the way. They may be Christian beliefs, but they're certainly not Jewish.

If the Jewish people only take one thing seriously, then it's The Torah – The Book of the Law. And one of the fundamental laws in the Torah is: "Be fruitful and multiply." The more children you have — the closer you are to God. Sex isn't shameful or dirty. Sex is something God wants you to do. And if it turns out to be a nice thing to do — well. Thank God.

But look at all those paintings of the Boy and his mother and me — and what do those paintings say?

"No Sex Please. We're Jewish."

I wouldn't mind the Holy Virgin theory — but they left me out of it. You don't hear many people singing the praises of the Virgin Joseph, do you?

Which is all right with me. Because all I've ever wanted was a quiet life. But in 1 BC a quiet life was hard to find.

In 1 BC we had every kind of political and religious maniac going. And by maniac, I mean someone who thinks a cause is worth killing for.

Not dying for. Killing for.

Because I've got nothing against people who want to die for a cause. Obviously, given my particular family circumstances. But people who are prepared to kill for a cause — like Governments and Rulers, for example — they always get someone else to do the killing for them. And then, when the people they're trying to kill fight back, they always call that an "outbreak of terrorist activities".

And then they say, "But the people in this country will not give in to terrorism."

Won't they? I will. When somebody terrorises me — I give in. Every time. That's why I left Bethlehem. That's why I ended up in Nazareth. And what did I find when I got to Nazareth?

More maniacs.

Religious maniacs.

People who knock on your door and try to sell you God.

Take a tip from me. When somebody knocks on your door and tries to sell you God — take them seriously. They can't handle it. Say to them: "I know what you're going to tell me. God has told you to go from door to door and spread the word, hasn't he?"

"Well, yes, actually he has."

"Good. That's very good. And what you're doing is very, very good. There's only one problem."

"What's that?"

"God told me not to listen."

*

When I was growing up, the whole of Bethlehem was trying to sell me God. Everywhere I went. Different kinds of people selling God in different ways.

First we had the Sadducees. They thought that everything had been sorted out and there's no need for any argument.

Then we had the Pharisees. They thought most things had been sorted out but there was still a lot left to argue about.

Then we had the Zealots. They thought nothing had been sorted out and they wanted to argue with everybody.

Then we had the Essenes. They thought the only way to sort things out was to live in a commune and not have any arguments — or sex.

Then we had the rugged individualists. On every street corner. Whipping themselves to death. Fasting themselves to death.

Then we had the hard-core lunatic fringe. Living alone in the desert. Preaching wrath and judgement — even when there was no one around.

And we considered all of these people, in one way or another, to be rational.

And why? Because they all had one thing in common: A belief in the coming of the Messiah.

The Messiah. An ordinary man, chosen by God. An ordinary man who would unite the Sadducees, the Pharisees, the Zealots, the Essenes and any other faction going, form an army, become a Warrior Priest King, and lead his army to victory — to victory against the Romans.

The Romans¼

Not only had the Romans mocked our God. Not only had the Romans invaded our land — the Promised Land, given to us by God. Not only had the Romans butchered our husbands, butchered our wives, butchered our children. Not only had the Romans taxed us for the privilege of being butchered by them, but, if we so much as disagreed with the Romans, they would pick up a hammer and nail us to a piece of wood.

We didn't like the Romans.

But when the Messiah came he would drive the Romans back into the sea.

And when was the Messiah due?

Any minute now.

This was very bad news as far as I was concerned. Very bad news indeed.

In the whole of Judaea, the only person who did not look forward to the coming of the Messiah was me.

And why? Because, on every street corner, in the synagogue, in the market, in the cafes, you heard it quoted over and over again — from the Book of the Prophet Micah. Chapter 5. Verse 2.

But you, Bethlehem,
though you are small among the clans of Judah,
out of you
will come one who will be ruler over Israel.
Whose origins are from of old,
from ancient times.

The Messiah would be an ordinary man, born in Bethlehem, who was a descendant of the House of David.

I was born in Bethlehem. According to my father, I was a descendant of the House of David. And I was a very ordinary man.

Have you ever been woken in the middle of the night by a bunch of political and religious maniacs asking you to start a war?

Every night?

I decided to run away. Keep a low profile. Keep my head down. My father had died. There was nothing in Bethlehem to keep me there.

I got together the few possessions I had, along with my father's tools. I built myself a small hand-cart. And then, at dawn, I turned my back on Bethlehem and began the long journey that led to Nazareth.

Three hours later, I went back to Bethlehem. To buy a hand-cart.

TWO.

Let me tell you where I stand in terms of religion. In terms of religion, I stand on one leg.

The Pharisees were divided, roughly, into two schools of thought. The school of the Rabbi Shammai and the school of the Rabbi Hillel.

Shammai believed in the Law of the Torah. Hillel was interested in the philosophy that lay behind the law.

One day, a Gentile went up to Shammai and said, "I will become a Jew if you can teach me the whole of the Torah while standing on one leg."

Shammai thought for a moment, then picked up a piece of wood, hit the man with it, and told him, "Go home."

The same man then approached Hillel with the same request. "I will become a Jew if you can teach me the whole of the Torah while standing on one leg."

Hillel thought for a moment, then stood on one leg and said, "That which is hateful to you, do not do unto others. That is the whole of the Torah. Everything else is commentary."

And that's where I stand.

I was not doing the wrong thing when I ran away from Bethlehem. My philosophy is, "That which is hateful to you, do not do unto others." And I would find it very hateful indeed if someone raised an army against me and drove me into the sea.

Apart from anything else, this "Son of the House of David" business was nonsense. Nonsense. King David had been dead for over a thousand years before I was born. I could have been a descendant of David. Anybody could have been a descendant of David. But how do you prove it? And, even worse, how do you deny it?

*

Nazareth is about four and a half days’ walk from Bethlehem. Seven with a hand-cart. Even a good one.

It was a long walk. It was a hard walk. But it was a good walk. Because, when I finally arrived in Nazareth, I met — the Boy's Mother.

*

Her first words to me were, "Call this a table?"

She walked into my workshop, carrying a table I'd sold the day before, placed it on the floor and said, "Call this a table, do you?"

"Yes. I'd call that a table. Four legs with a flat top to put things on."

"Put something on it then. Like an expensive Etruscan vase, for example."

"I haven't got an expensive Etruscan vase."

"Neither have I. Now."

"Are you trying to tell me there's something wrong with this table?"

"No, no. It's a lovely table. Four legs with a flat top to put things on, as you say. The only problem is, one of the legs is just a little bit longer than the other three. Now pass me that bow-saw, would you?"

"Pass you that what?"

She smiled. She reached over. She took the bow-saw. She turned the table on its side. She started working on one of the legs. I sat and I watched her. And I noticed¼ she had wonderful eyes. Big brown eyes. And hair. Long dark hair. She was very, very beautiful.

Nazareth is a small place and it got so I was seeing her everywhere. It was extraordinary. Everywhere I went, she was there.

The well, where the women gathered to draw the water. The courtyard, where the women gathered to grind the grain. The animal compound, where the women gathered to milk the goats.

I thought, "Will this woman never leave me alone?"

Things got so bad that the only way of avoiding her was to walk up and down the street where she lived. Day and night.

*

Her father was a wealthy man. Not very wealthy. But certainly not poor. Certainly not as poor as me. He was also stern. Very stern. Shall I tell you how stern? As stern as me in those nativity paintings. That's how stern.

In those days, a young woman was regarded as an asset, and, if she should marry, her father would expect to be compensated for his loss. So, it was my job to go and see her father and offer him what we called a bride-price. He asked me what my bride-price would be.

I told him. " A spokeshave (a rare and expensive tool). A brooch that belonged to my mother. And a goat."

He sighed. He looked out of the window. He looked back at me and said, "A spokeshave, a brooch and a goat?"

And I don't know what came over me. Because, all of a sudden, I found myself saying, "Actually, I've changed my mind about the brooch."

There was a terrible silence. He looked at me. And then he smiled and said, "Welcome home."

*

In those days a couple were betrothed for a year. It wasn't until the marriage ceremony twelve months later that the bride left her father's house to live with her husband. But during that year the couple was considered to be practically married. You could have sex, if you wanted to. But an act of infidelity during that time counted as adultery. And, for committing adultery, you would be stoned to death.

So, we were betrothed. And for a year she slept in her father's house. And for a year, I slept in mine.

And I wanted her. Of course I wanted her. I loved her. There was nothing I wanted more than to be with her. But I could wait. If I loved her, I could wait. Another year wouldn’t hurt. Not if this was to be the most special, the most wonderful event. I could wait.

She told me.

*

One night, a month before we were due to be married, we stood on a hill overlooking Galilee.

She had been in a strange mood all day. Quiet. Withdrawn. But I can be sensitive if I need to be. I put it down to the weather.

It had been hot all day. But now it was cooler. A light breeze was blowing. The trees moved in the wind, in the way that trees will. The wind carried the scent of fruit, in the way that wind will. We stood, shoulder brushing shoulder, in the way that shoulders will. She turned to me. Then she said, "Do you love me?"

"What?"

"Do you love me?"

"Of course I love you."

"How much?"

"How much what?"

"How much do you love me?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"What if¼?"

"What if what?"

"What if I asked you how much you loved me — and it wasn't enough love compared to how much I might need you to love me?"

"Well, in that case I'd¼ run that by me again?"

"How much do you love me?"

"You know how much I love you."

"How much?"

"A spokeshave, a goat, but not my mother's brooch. That's how much."

I didn't see her for nearly a week after that.

I was shutting up the shop. She came in. She looked pale. Very pale. She said, "I've been thinking."

"What about?"

"Us."

"What about us?"

"I think you should sit down."

"All right."

I sat down.

I looked at her. She said nothing. She walked across the room. Stopped. Walked back. I thought she was going to say something¼ but she didn't.

I said, "Something's bothering you, isn't it?"

She turned away from me. She turned back. Then she said, "I'm going to have a baby."

I stood up.

"Is that it? Is that what's bothering you? Of course you're going to have a baby. We'll have lots of babies. I love kids. You know that."

"I mean I'm going to have a baby now. I'm pregnant."

I sat down. I stood up. I sat down again. She came over. She sat down. I stood up. I walked around the room. I sat down. She stood up. I stood up. She walked away. I played with a lump of wood. She looked at me. I put the wood down. She turned away. I sat down. She turned round. I stood up. Then I said, "What?"

"I'm going to have a baby."

"Who's —?"

"Don't ask."

"Yes, but who’s —?"

"I said don't ask."

I sat down. She sat down. We sat there. Both of us. Minutes went by. Then some more. Then she said, "What do you want to do?"

My words were slow in coming. But they came.

"I don't want to expose you to any public disgrace. Or harm. So I won't say anything. We'll go ahead with the marriage ceremony. Then afterwards, quietly, I'll divorce you."

She stood up. She walked to the door. Opened it. Slammed it. Walked back. Seized me by the collar and shook me and shook me and shook me and the tears were rolling down her cheeks then she shook me and shook me and shook me some more and then she said, "God. He's the father. I'm pregnant. By God."

Then she sat down. Then I stood up.

"Do I have to remind you what it says in the Torah? Do I have to remind you that we are duty bound to stone to death anyone who commits (a) adultery. Or (b) blasphemy. What's the matter with you? Do you want to get stoned to death twice?"

"What do you think I'm doing, Joseph? Do you think I'm making this up? Do you think I had a quick fling with someone, got pregnant, then thought: I'll tell Joseph God did it. It's an old idea but it just might work. Is that what you think?"

"Well, no¼ but¼"

"Well no but? Well no but what? How about, well no but maybe she's telling the truth?"

"I don't know. I don't know what to think."

"You don't know what to think? You don't know what to think? There's something going on in the world and you don't know what to think? Well, when you do know what to think, come and tell me, would you? Because I'd be fascinated. Because I haven't thought about anything else in the past three months and guess what — I don't know what to think either. I do know something though. I know there's a baby growing inside me and I know that I hear a voice in the middle of the night and I know that it's either God or else I'm going mad."

And then she sat down. And I just stood there.

What do you do in a situation like this? Do you think she's lying? Do you think she's mad? Do you think about the camel driver she was talking to in the market-place¼? Do you think she’s telling the truth? Do you believe in miracles? Do you trust her?

I went over to her. I sat down. I went to put my arm around her. Then she said, "Don't touch me."

*

It would have been nice to have slept that night. But that night I could not sleep.

I could sweat though. I could sweat and toss and turn and re-arrange the sheets and the blankets and the pillows. I could do all of these things. Effortlessly. But sleep? Impossible.

And then, towards dawn, as I lay there, soaking wet, suddenly … I remembered my father. I remembered the warm, rough feel of him. And the scent of him: wood-shavings, sweat.

And then I remembered¼ when my mother died. My father came into my room and I held him to my chest and he wept. And I smelled that same scent: wood-shavings, sweat.

When I was small my Father had seemed So Big. But that night, as I held him and he wept, my father suddenly seemed Even Bigger.

And I wondered, if he were here now — what would my dad say to me?

"Get off your bed, clean yourself up, get dressed, go and see her, throw yourself down on your knees and beg her to be your wife."

And I thought, "Yes! That is what God would say."

Because it didn't matter. It didn't matter how the baby came about. It didn't matter if it was divine intervention. It didn't matter if it was over-excitement on a hill in Galilee. It didn't even matter if it was the camel driver from the market-place.

The only thing that mattered was this: A baby was going to be born. A baby that would need a father. And I could be that baby's father.

One month later, we were married. Five months after that we were on the road. To Bethlehem.

*

And you can forget all that business about "No room at the Inn". I was born and bred in Bethlehem. In the whole of Bethlehem there is only one Inn. A big Inn, granted. But if the whole of Bethlehem was returning there for the Census, never mind the people who were passing that way anyway, I was clever enough to know that the Inn would be full –

And I would have booked.

It hadn't been an easy journey, though. Big row before we left. And what did we row about? Packing.

I went upstairs. She was sitting on top of a huge basket, trying to shut the lid.

I said, "Just how much do you think one poor donkey can carry? We'll only be away for ten days at the most. What happened? Did you hear a mysterious voice in the middle of the night saying, “Don't forget to pack the stove”?"

"I'm eight and a half months pregnant, Joseph. I don't want to go on this journey. I am not looking forward to sitting on the back of a donkey for four and a half days there and four and a half days back and there is stuff in this basket that I need. And even if there was stuff in this basket that I didn't need — what's it got to do with you? Or the donkey? Now would you please close two things for me? (1) Your mouth. (2) This lid."

I wouldn't have minded, but I'd done all the packing. I thought.

*

The hills of Bethlehem are full of little caves. Where shepherds sleep in the winter. But this was summer and the caves would be empty. And quiet. And comfortable. Unlike the Inn.

So, we found a cave. A nice one. We settled down. Round about midnight, she woke me.

"It's started."

"What?"

"It's started."

"I'll get a midwife."

"Where from?"

"Bethlehem."

"There's no time for that. You'll have to do it."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Why not?"

"I'm a man."

"Well, act like one. Ah!"

"What's the matter?"

"I'm having a baby!"

"What should I do? What should I do?"

"Just hold me. Oh! Oh! It's coming! It's coming! Oh! Can you see the head yet?"

"You want me to look?"

"It hurts. It hurts. I can't do this. Help me. Help me."

"It's coming! It's coming! Keep going! Keep going!"

"Oh! Oh! Oh!"

"I can see the head!"

"Pull him! Take him by the shoulders. Pull him — carefully! Oh! Oh!"

"He's here! He's here! It's a baby! It's a baby!"

"Let me see him."

"It's a baby!"

"Oh, hallo! Hallo!"

And this was when I had no need of miracles. Here was a baby. Here was a human being. Alive. And breathing. From nowhere. With his mother. How many miracles do you need?

His mother said, "You have to cut the umbilical cord."

"I have to what the what?"

"You have to cut the umbilical cord."

"How?"

"With a clean, sharp knife."

"Where am I going to get a clean, sharp knife?"

"There's one in the basket. And we’ll need some salt. To prevent infection."

"I haven't got any salt!"

"There's salt in the basket. Then he has to be gently rubbed with olive oil."

"Don't tell me. There's some in the basket, I suppose."

"Yes. With some linen strips to wrap him in. And a blanket. Oh hallo. Hallo. Isn't he lovely?"

"Yes¼ lovely¼"

Actually, I was hoping for a girl.

THREE.

Three Wise Men? Don't make me laugh.

For a start, they believe in astrology.

Now, I've got nothing against any belief system. If it works for you — fine. It's just that, with astrology, I don't feel an empathy with it, and when I try and explain that to people who do, they just laugh and say, "That's because you're a Capricorn."

*

Three Wise Men¼

They come into a cave where there's a new-born baby, an exhausted young mother, a father who's a drained, emotional wreck, and then they say: "We have seen a star in the sky!"

"So? It's night."

"The star has led us here that we might worship this baby and brings him gifts of Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh."

"You couldn't find a rattle? Something a baby might actually like?"

"For it is written in the stars that this baby will be King of all the Jews. As we said to Herod — "

"Herod? You said this to Herod?"

"Yes."

"Herod? Herod "the King of the Jews" Herod?

"Yes."

"You told the old King of the Jews that a new King of the Jews had been born, did you?"

"Yes."

"And you call yourselves Wise Men?"

"Yes."

"So what did the old King of the Jews have to say about the new King of the Jews?"

"He said, "Go and find this baby and tell me where he is so that I might worship him also." Nice man. He's Sagittarius, you know."

*

And so we had to run away — to Egypt. We hid there for three years before returning to Nazareth. And all the way to Egypt all I could think was —

I'm a father. Me. A father. Me. A father. I’m a father. I am a father. Me. I’m a father…

Wait a minute — who wants to be a father?

It's all right being a mother.

Mothers are warm and cuddly and soft. Fathers are hard and covered in bristles. Mothers spend all day with their babies. Fathers disappear. Mothers have got breasts. Fathers have got¼ what have fathers got?

I'll tell you what this father got. I got the first smile.

You spend your days and nights feeding and washing and cleaning and dressing this baby and there's not a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Let alone a thank-you. But then, one day, he looks at you and he sees you and he knows who you are … and he smiles.

And you see muscles in his face moving for the very first time. You see your baby with an expression he's never had before and you suddenly realise what that expression means: "Hallo dad."

Bringing up a baby is the hardest job in the world. And I ought to know — I did hardly any of it.

I’d help a bit. The midnight feeds. We'd take them in turn. With the obligatory conversation beforehand.

"Wake up."

"Uh?"

"Wake up."

"Uh?"

"It's your turn."

"Uh."

And then you go downstairs and you tread on a toy and you find the calfskin bottle and you fill it with the milk and you take it upstairs and you pick up the Boy and you place the bottle in his mouth¼

And half an hour can go by. Half an hour of just standing there. Half an hour, thinking, "Surely I could make something out of wood that could do this? It wouldn't be difficult, would it? A piece of wood. With a stick on the end, holding the bottle with some sort of a clamp? You don't need a human being to do this, do you?"

I suppose it depends on how much you want your son to call a piece of wood with a stick and a clamp "daddy".

But slowly they learn how to walk. And slowly they learn how to talk. And quickly you have problems. Because, when they first learn how to talk, they say things to you and you don't know what they mean and they get more and more frustrated.

Once the Boy was screaming at me, "Chand! Chand!"

I'd just given him a piece of bread. I couldn't see what he was so upset about.

"Chand! Chand!"

"What is it? What's the matter?"

"Chand! Chand!"

"What is it? What is Chand? Point at it!"

"Chand! Chand! Chand! Chand!"

Then I realised. He wanted me to break the bread in two so he could have a piece in each hand… Chand!

*

Later, the talking gets better — and then the trouble really begins. Because then they start asking questions. And once they start asking questions, they never stop.

"Dad¼?"

"What?"

"Dad¼?"

"What?"

Every five minutes.

"Dad¼?"

"What?"

"Dad¼?"

"What?"

Until you can't stand it any longer.

"Dad¼?"

"I'm not your dad."

"What?"

"I'm not your dad. I've had enough. I don't want to be your dad any more. Get someone else to be your dad."

"But¼ But I want you to be my dad."

"Oh, all right. I'm your dad."

"Good. Dad¼?"

"What?!"

*

When he was five he said to me, "Who's the Messiah?"

"¼Well. You tell me."

"The Messiah would have to be a very strong man, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so."

"Stronger than you?"

"Son, your mother's stronger than me."

"And would he be very wise?"

"Yes. He would. He'd be very wise indeed."

"Oh… What's the wisest thing you know?"

"That which is hateful to you, do not do unto others."

"Oh … Can I stay up late tonight?"

"No."

"I'd let you."

*

Later, the questions become more sophisticated.

"Dad, if a man commits adultery, is that a sin?"

"Um, yes."

"But Dad, what if he looks at a woman and only imagines committing adultery. Is that a sin, too?"

"Look, son, as much as I love you, I don't want to talk about this."

"Why not, Dad?"

"Because you're eight."

*

We had four more children. James, Joseph, Simon and Judah — all boys — and they all came about in the ordinary way.

Children. They spend their formative years asking you questions, "Why this?" and "Why that?". Then, round about the age of fifteen, they turn round and tell you that everything you know is wrong.

Once, the Boy and I had an argument about stoning.

"Why do we stone blasphemers?"

"Because they've committed a sin."

"Yes. But why do we stone them?"

"So we don't soil our hands by touching a sinner."

"But given that we're doing the stoning in the eyes of God — who do you think is entitled to do the stoning?"

"Anyone who can pick up a stone."

"But what if we've sinned ourselves? Could we throw a stone then? In the eyes of God?"

"Yes. No. I don't know."

"What would you do then?"

"Well, I'd wait for someone else to throw the first stone — and if nothing happened to them — I'd know I was all right. "

*

He started helping in the workshop. And there was a lot to learn.

How to plane-up face, side and edge; how to keep your tools sharp and in good condition; how to drive a nail into wood without splintering; how to polish; how to varnish¼

I learned a lot from him.

He even taught me how to make a dovetail joint!

And then, on his eighteenth birthday, he said he had to leave.

I said, "Leave? What do you mean — leave? This is your home."

He said he had to start work. I said, "Work? What work? You already work. With me. In the shop. And you're good at it. Very good. You take after your grandfather. Everybody says the same thing: You are a wonder with wood."

He said this was other work. He talked about travelling. He talked about studying. He talked about lost sheep¼

I said, "You want to spend your days sitting on a hillside looking after a bunch of sheep when you've got a trade?"

I didn't want him to go. I put my foot down. I refused to let him go. Then his mother had a word.

"He has to go."

"Why?"

"To do his work."

"What work?"

"You know what work."

"Oh yes. I know. Tell me — the Boy — is he invincible? Because he'll need to be for the kind of work you're talking about. Not the kind of work where you come home and you have your supper and you play with your children. No. The kind of work where you raise an army and wage a war and because God's on your side you don't get hurt. So, take a good look at the Boy and tell me: Does he look invincible to you? Or does he look like someone who could get killed?"

Of course, she'd gone by then.

Why do all fathers live with families who are deaf? I open my mouth. I hear sounds coming out of it: words, reasons, arguments, logic. But what do the wife and kids hear? Nothing.

So. I put my foot down. I said categorically he could not go. And it was fifteen years before we saw him again.

He set off down the road. We watched him go. He took nothing with him. I tried to give him some money. He wouldn't take it. He said he had to leave without gold, without silver, without copper. He had no bag for the journey. No extra clothes. Not even a blanket. I asked him why. He said, "The worker must be worthy of his keep."

And then he walked on down the road¼ my boy. My son.

FOUR.

If you can imagine a more degrading, contemptuous form of execution other than crucifixion — then I applaud you. Because I thought, up until now, the Holy Roman Empire had taken that idea just about as far as it could go.

Crucifixion is not just degrading and contemptuous. That's the beauty of it. It's also very painful.

First, you were softened up with a beating from a rawhide whip. Maybe a hundred strokes. All of which would slice open the skin. Then there was another beating. This time with a whip made of knucklebones. Human knucklebones.

And guess which race provided the knucklebones.

Being whipped with knucklebones hurts as it is. But when the soldier doing it has been told you intended to raise an army against him and his kind and drive him back into the sea¼

Well, I think that particular soldier would lay on the old knucklebone whip with a touch more than his customary vigour. Wouldn't you?

The wounds caused by the whipping were there for two reasons. Partly for the fun of it. But also to cause additional suffering when you were hanging from the cross and the flies come along.

And you can forget this pose. I know. It looks good. But that's not how it happened.

First, you weren't nailed to the front of the crossbar. Your arms were stretched backwards over it so that it ran under your armpits. And the nails weren't driven through your hands; they were driven through your wrists. Otherwise you'd fall off. And where's the dignity in that?

Then you were sat upon a wooden crosspiece – which eased the agonising strain upon your arms – and also prolonged the agony. A single nail would be driven through both of your heels, forcing your legs into a flexed condition at right angles to your body.

Not the most comfortable of positions. Not for three or four days. Which is how long it would take you to die. In public.

They crucified over two thousand of us, once. After Herod died. War broke out. The Romans marched into Jerusalem. They retook the province and crucified over two thousand Jews.

Their bodies hung outside the walls of the city for weeks.

I remember thinking, "Two thousand Jews. Two thousand. Surely things can't get any worse than this."

*

What I want to know is — what did he say and what did he do to end up in this position? What did he say — and who did he say it to?

*

Well, he said it to the poor. The old. The diseased. The lame. The unclean. The people of the land. The ones who were looked down on because they were too poor to pay their taxes. And who were they meant to pay their taxes to? The Temple.

The Temple was the richest organisation in the whole country and in charge of it all was the High Priest. The Jewish High Priest.

And the High Priest was not there just to light candles and chant the Torah. The High Priest was also there to collect the money.

Tax revenue from every single Jew over the age of twenty. A percentage on the sales of sacrificial birds and animals. Commission from the money-changers who lived off the thousands of people that streamed into Jerusalem all the time. And all of that money it all added Up.

And The Boy hated money. It was one of his first principles:

"You cannot serve two masters. You cannot serve God and money. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than it is for a man with money to enter the Kingdom of Heaven."

So — compare the two: The High Priest and his money. And the Boy — with no money, nothing, roaming the countryside, preaching and healing —, which he only did for about a year.

The healing bothered me. I didn't mind him healing. I just wish he'd been a bit more selective about who he chose to heal, that's all. Like lepers, for example.

Now, I've got nothing against lepers. How could I? I've never known any. But if you're a leper and you meet someone and they cure you — who are you going to tell?

I mean, you're hardly going to walk into the nearest inn, clear your throat, and say, "Do you know, up until an hour ago I had leprosy like you wouldn't believe¼"?

No, if you're a leper who's been healed, the only people you can tell are other lepers. Then what are the other lepers going to do? Say "How interesting" and walk off whistling? Or are they going to find out who did the healing and get healed themselves?

That means wherever The Boy went — where ever — he was followed by a crowd of about eight hundred lepers. All shouting, "Me next, Lord! Heal me next, Lord! I'm better than the other lepers¼ Worse, I mean."

And wherever he went, in every village, he would tell the people who surrounded him that the Kingdom of God was coming — and that it was coming soon — "And," he said, "the Kingdom of God is within you."

And he let them believe whatever they wanted to believe. He let them believe that he was the Messiah; the new King of Israel; he let them believe that he would take away the power held by the Romans and the Sadducees and the High Priest and give that power to the people.

How do you think the High Priest felt about that?

How did he feel when he looked out of his window one morning and saw the Boy heading straight towards him? And not only is he being hailed as a conquering hero; not only are hundreds of his followers lining his route; not only does he enter the Temple, take a whip and drive the money-changers out of it — but he's also got eight hundred lepers behind him!

And if he's driven out the money-changers, whose turn is it next?

As far as the High Priest was concerned, there was only one thing he could do with the Boy: Get rid of him.

And so the Boy went on trial before Pontius Pilate, knowing that if he claimed to be the Messiah he faced flogging, humiliation and crucifixion.

Pilate asked him, "Are you the Messiah?" And the Boy said, "Yes."

Why? Why? What was he doing? Showing off? Or was he trying to make a point? Because the Boy was not — by definition — the Messiah. He was a teacher. He was a healer. He was not a priest-king. He was not a warrior. He made no attempt to raise an army.

But he did know how to work a crowd. And he knew that if you're working a crowd and you want to tell them something new — first tell them something old.

He said, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." The Book of Psalms says, "The meek will inherit the land."

He said, "Blessed are those who hunger for righteousness, for they will be fulfilled." The Book of Proverbs says, "He who pursues righteousness finds fulfilment."

He said, "Love your neighbour." The Book of Leviticus, Chapter 19, Verse 18, says, "Love your neighbour."

But then he said, "You have heard it said, love your neighbour and hate your enemy. But I tell you this: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."

And every single member of the crowd, Sadducee, Pharisee, Essene, Zealot, common-or-garden Jew, looked at each other — looked at the Roman Soldiers — looked back at the boy and said:

"Do what?

“Love your enemy?

“There's half a million of us here waiting to drive our enemy back into the sea.

“What happened to the Warrior Priest-King?

“Love your enemy?

“Your job is to tell us how to kill him."

*

It hurt when he died. Of course it did. It's very low on the list of a parent's priorities: seeing your children die before you do.

And it hurt when Judas died — knowing that somewhere another father was grieving for his son.

And it hurt — when he was twelve¼ on Passover.

We’d travelled with other families from Nazareth to Jerusalem. To celebrate. We camped outside the walls of the City. We shared the lamb that we'd sacrificed. We travelled home together. And, on the way back, the Boy went missing.

When you've lost your child … hundreds of images run through your mind. He's lost¼ he's hurt¼ he's bleeding¼ he's dead.

And when we found him — when we found him — he was in the Temple and he was surrounded by the Rabbis and the Priests and the rest of them and they were listening to him speak as if he knew something that they did not. And I knew what they would do to him. And I took him outside and I must have lost my temper because the worst thing you can do to a child is to slap his face and it must have hurt him really badly because that's when he hurt me.

"Didn't you know," he said, "that I would be in the house of my father?"

*

But what hurts most is, none of this would've happened — none of it — if I hadn't decided to run away from Bethlehem, keep a low profile, keep my head down.

I'm not an ambitious man. I'm a carpenter. But sometimes I feel ambitious. When I look at a piece of wood and see my son nailed to it — then I'm ambitious. Then I'm about as ambitious as you can get. Because that's when I think, "That really should be me up there."

*

Something the Boy said once¼ He said, "Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will wear. Isn't life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Do not worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry about itself. Because, if your son asks for bread do you give him a stone? If your daughter asks for fish do you give her a snake? If you know how to give gifts to your children, how much more your Father in Heaven knows how to give gifts to you."

And I used to think, "That's all very well. But what about the children who suffer? How can God allow children to suffer?"

And, if I was very lucky, and if I listened very carefully, God would answer: "How can you?"
*

So. What have I learned from all this? Well, I've learned where I stand. I stand on one leg. Still.

I've learned that fathers count. Even the father of Christ.

And I've learned something else. Something almost as important. Perhaps even more so¼

I've learned how to make a dovetail joint.


NOTES
The Joseph Story has been performed by John Dowie in London, Birmingham, Brighton, the Edinburgh Festival and at various venues in Great Britain. It was performed by Tom Conti (under the title “Jesus, My Boy”), December-January 1998/9 at the Apollo Theatre, Shaftsbury Avenue.

Translations and performances have taken place in Denmark, Holland, and Germany. Further productions are to take place in the USA and in Israel.

REVIEWS.

“John Dowie’s take on the biblical tale is a touching, affectionate and thoroughly absorbing piece of drama. Yes, there are jokes in this stunning monologue – and a couple of them are real belters – but this is not a rat-a-tat-tat gag fest, but a warm and intelligent treatment of perhaps the best-known tale. Dowie would make a fantastic preacher … the way he recounts “the greatest story ever told” genuinely humanises the story of Christ …the route he takes is never predictable, and some of the other angles are truly inspired…this truly is a divine comedy”
www.chortle.co.uk

“Achieves the almost impossible feat of giving it a fresh perspective … Joseph shakes off his image of a dutiful but sexless octogenarian and we see instead a man who is warm, funny, vulnerable yet unconditionally loving … not only a joyous and poignant accessibility but a relevance many of us thought it had lost forever.”
Glasgow Herald.

“John Dowie’s generous-hearted monologue takes potentially dodgy material and turns it into something humane and often remarkably touching … comes remarkably close to the heart of the mystery.”
Daily Telegraph.

“Scholarly, deeply poignant and wickedly funny – sympathetic to Christianity yet far from proselytising – intellectually rigorous yet easily accessible; simply staged but multi-layered, full of light humour and deep pain. It is, in short, a triumph.”
Edinburgh List magazine.