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Christianity

FAITH

Today there are at least two of the so-called

great religions of the world represented

on the beach. ‘By their raiment shall ye know them!’,

or some such: a troop of evangelical

Christians in genderless red tee-shirts;

two family groups of Hasidic Jews

in head scarves, dresses, kippahs, prayer shawls

as required. An adolescent girl passes

in a shalmar kameez, which makes the tally

three. Poised with a net by the rock pools

is a young man in a yellow turban. Four!

A quartet of elderly women

in saris stands at the edge of the sea.

They might be Hindus – or Sikhs, or Muslims,

or Jews, or Christians, or Buddhists, or Jainists,

Taoists, Zoroastrians, Humanists!

What creative creatures we humans are –

or what a jokey shape-shifter God is!

 

Pleasure beaches like city squares are

unsafeguarded places where complete strangers

mix haphazardly close to, far off, as chance

dictates. This strand must be ranked as safe

by minority ethnicities

and people of colour. No one seems

circumspect or aggressive. Is the

seeming vileness of this kingdom, the

hateful and contemptuous claims of

divisiveness virtual not actual?

Is this the Big Lie of facile pundits

and celebrity snake oil politicians?

Is the peaceful joy of this ordinary

summer’s afternoon illusory?

 

As the wind-breaks begin to be rolled up,

chairs snapped shut, towels shaken the crows arrive

monstering aside the black headed gulls

whose environment this properly is.

They take whatever chancy pickings they can,

haram or kosher.

 

 

CONVERT OR DIE

In a large chamber behind the colossal

Doric colonnades four columns deep –

Bernini’s ‘maternal arms of mother church’ –

that enclose both sides of St Peter’s Square

is an exhibition: How Christ Was Brought

To The New World. There are extensive maps

and long lists of dates, the occasional

Christian martyr’s cross or chasuble,

and illustrations of happy converts,

but not a hint of the laying waste

to inconvenient cultures, the blood

and lamentation, the casuistry,

the theft, and servitude.

 

 

SAINT COLUMBA AND THE CURLEWS

If I were obliged to chose a patron saint

it might be Columba – his Irish name

Colmkill, Dove of the Churchyard. He was

a poet, a scholar, a missionary

to the Western Isles, and all of Scotia.

 

So what had drawn him to Christianity

on the far Celtic edge of Europe?

One god? Redemption? Or the hieratic

Latin manuscripts he had learned to read –

long after the empire of Ancient Rome

had imploded west of Byzantium?

 

He had studied, I am sure, the sunlit groves

of the Hesperides, and would dream, when days

lengthened into gentler nights, and warmer,

summer winds blew from the distant south,

of bird-thronged orchards lush with golden apples –

but always heard the curlews calling

along the dark and glittering shore.