Last weekend I was at the wonderful Scargill House, on a writers' weekend organized by The Association of Christian Writers and led by Adrian and Bridget Plass and Nick Page. We were set a task. We were divided into ten groups and each group had to put together a piece on a different theme, each theme being some aspect of a long journey or odyssey. There were, of course, a beginning and an end and other episodes such as ‘at the crossroads’, ‘lost in the fog’, and so on. The group I was in was given the heading ‘The end is in sight’ and we decided to put together an imagined radio interview with three refugees or migrants from different times: a present-day Sudanese in Bolton, a 20th century Jew in Europe, and Joseph the husband of Mary the Mother of Jesus. I presented Joseph, and here’s what I said:
Look, I’m a migrant from the time of Herod the Great. Yes, the most horrendous tyrant and persecutor you can imagine. But I had a pretty quiet life in Judaea, had a good building business, well thought of — until the dreams started. There were four dreams, and they were all terrifying. The first one don’t worry about. My fiancee had got pregnant before our wedding — not by me, I hasten to add. Anyway that’s another story, at least I hope so.
No, it was after these astrologers came with a whole lot of presents. I dunno what that was about, but it seems to have started all the trouble. One night I had this horrendous dream. This bloke, a militiaman or something, kicked the door down and burst in, armed to the teeth, pointing his weapon at me, screaming, ‘Get up, get out, now.’ I go, ‘what do you mean, where?’ ‘Egypt’ he screams at me. ‘Go. Now. Just take the woman and the kid and leave, or you’re dead.’
So we go to Egypt, of all places. My business, my family, my friends, all left behind. Later we hear that all the kids at home got massacred. Dreadful.
So we’re in Egypt. Living in a shack. I’ve managed to get odd carpentry work. There’s actually quite a supportive Jewish community where we are. We’re kind of settled in. Then—another dream. Bam! the same guy bursts in. ‘Get up! Get out! Back to the land of Israel.’ So I’m going ‘What about ruddy Herod?’ Bam, the fourth dream. ‘Don’t go back to Judaea, there's another Herod. Go to Nazareth.’
Why blooming Nazareth? Did anything good ever come out of Nazareth? I’ve got to start another business, bring up the kid among blessed Galileans! Anyway, thank God, we’ve managed to resettle ourselves, the wife’s ok, the kid’s growing up, and it looks like he’ll take over the business, so all’s quiet again, I reckon the end’s in sight now.
