THE  CAGE  AND  THE  CROSS

         I wound down the window of my Citroen as far as possible to permit the air of the slipstream to blow into the hot interior. The tapering metallic nose of the car slipped effortlessly into the wind as I manoeuvred from lane to lane, maintaining a steady speed amongst the other vehicles racing like jostling dolphins towards the mother city ahead. The ample highway curved with lazy ease into a cleft between the rolling green hills that formed the southern ridge of the city. At once a cluster of dull redbrick buildings appeared to the left, like a rash of blisters brought out by the sun. The steady hum of the engine changed pitch as I engaged a lower gear, slowing the car to negotiate a smaller road that forked to the left. The rest of the traffic flowed past, unimpeded. The midday sun was oppressive as I stopped at the traffic lights and turned into the narrow one-way street that led to the austere, forbidding building directly ahead. Its metal-grey stones and Gothic turrets loomed like a threat as I entered the restricted parking area between the tidy bowling green and the bleached, sun-drenched gravestones of the adjacent cemetery. I tucked my Bible under my arm and locked the car. I turned and faced the arched portal, the huge wooden door braced with ribs of iron. The usual fingers of fear clutched my heart. I lifted the large brass knocker and dropped it. It fell with a dull metallic thud.

          The response was immediate. A tiny square panel in the door swung back to reveal the stony stare of the warder on duty. The heavy door opened a few inches.

          ‘I’d like to see three prisoners. Is it possible to see them together? I’m prepared to interview them individually.’ I proffered a piece of paper bearing the names and numbers of the prisoners.

          ‘Capacity?’

          ‘Church worker. My name is Dempster. If possible, I’d like to see Dr Nienaber first - the parole board secretary. I telephoned yesterday.’

          ‘Wait there!’

          The heavy door slammed shut. The hot sun bored down relentlessly. I leaned back drowsily against the cold wall to enjoy the fragment of shade it afforded. The irritating drone of a fly gave the heavy silence a brass undertone. My mind drifted back to my first visit to the Prison. I had lost my way, and had mistaken a smaller redbrick building for the main block. An open, narrow doorway led into a long, straight corridor, intersected at regular intervals by grilles, giving the impression of a series of cages. A uniformed official materialised in the third ‘cage.’ An electronic switch operated a bolt, which shot back, unlocking the door in front of me.

          ‘Advance in a straight line!’

          The bolt shot home with an electronic ‘zap’ as the door closed behind me. I reached the far end of the cage.

          ‘Stop there! State your business.’

          How does one state one’s business, officially, in a cage? I am a prisoner of Jesus Christ. I’ve come to deliver those in bondage. At least the few who have the intellect to grasp the doctrinal principles, the stamina to submit to the intricate chains of the Christian law. ‘Whoever disobeys even the smallest of the commandments ... will be least in the Kingdom of heaven ...’ Was the early church wrong, then, to draw its elect from the criminal or debased slave classes? Should I not, like my fellow workers in God’s vineyard, proselytise by giving public lectures to empty halls? Is the Kingdom of God not made up of affluent business men, university lecturers, bank clerks, who have the mental muscle to keep their lamps burning with pure oil, prepared from olives ‘beaten small,’ the finely digested word of God? Why, then, do I look to the drug addicts, the alcoholics, the habitual criminals, to augment the glory of God?

          ‘I seem to have lost my way. I was trying to find Doringkraal Prison. I was told to ask for Chief Warder Van Zyle.’

          ‘Ja! You have taken the wrong turning. You must go back to the robot. From there you must turn right. There’s only one way. A one-way street. It will take you straight to the main gaol. You can’t miss it.’

          The sharp clang of metal splintered my thoughts. The prison door yawned to reveal a sepulchral darkness. ‘Come in, doctor!’ The friendly tone took me by surprise. The initial masquerade of hostility was over. Once again, I was recognised. Abandoning fear, I stepped into the hopeless bleakness to find it  cool, refreshing after the dazzling heat.

          ‘You wished to see Dr Nienaber?’

          ‘Yes. About the prisoner, Petrus Engelen.’

          The warder slapped the switch of an intercom. ‘The doctor is here. In connection with Engelen, one-four-four stroke seven four.’

          The doctor. A Ph.D. in English literature! Well, I’m a doctor, of sorts, I suppose. Representing the Great Physician. A bogus title in prison work, it nevertheless opens a door or two. Like this big one ...

          I was in a cage, formed by the large door and a grille of bars which divided the gloomy entrance hall from a central courtyard. I perched on a hard-backed seat in the corner. A black prisoner with a wizened, shaved head and scrawny ebony legs protruding from baggy khaki shorts, was on his knees, moving rhythmically to and fro, laying thick welts of red polish on to the stone floor. He seemed, as I watched him, to be spreading his life’s blood, diligently and perseveringly, across the stone slabs. The brass knocker resounded with a hollow thud, and the strapping, brawny young warder brought to bear a huge, jangling bunch of keys on the door. He admitted, with jocular familiarity, a uniformed compatriot who moved with similar bulging thighs, with legs of muscular and hirsute splendour. In his wake was a white prisoner dressed in sloppy green dungarees. I noticed his uncombed, dry sandy hair, and the mixture of vacancy and insolence in his eyes. But my attention was drawn particularly to the heavy iron handcuffs which linked him to his captor. After they passed through the cage the squatting ebony prisoner moved, rhythmically and mechanically, across the floor, obliterating their dusty footprints with his life’s blood.

          Dr Nienaber was a short, middle-aged, kindly faced man with soft eyes and a respectful manner. He held a file and took a seat next to mine. I had expected to be invited into an office.

          ‘Dr Dempster? You wanted to see me about the prisoner Engelen?’

          ‘Yes. I’ve brought you a letter on his behalf. Addressed to the Parole Board. I must explain that I’ve been writing to him. I visited him a few times in the capacity of church worker.’

          ‘I see.’ He glanced at the letter, crossed his legs and looked at me benignly. ‘Which church?’

          Fear gripped my stomach. My church didn’t send me. The government only recognised the orthodox churches. What right had I to be there?

          ‘As I see it,’ I said, hesitantly, ‘I’m representing Jesus Christ, you could say. I feel that his offer of eternal life - of salvation - goes beyond the creeds formulated by denominations and sects. This man - Engelen - is - was - an alcoholic, and Mrs Sinclair, the social worker, said she couldn’t get through to him. She was up against a brick wall.’ I paused, embarrassed by my audacity, my nonconformity. A truck rumbled outside, momentarily filling the air with heavy thunder.

          ‘Yes?’ said Dr Nienaber, gently.

          ‘Well ...’ I hunched forward, nervously. ‘She couldn’t get through to him. He was stubborn, uncommunicative, and refused to obey instructions. Then, she said, he changed. One day he was - just different. Quiet, respectful ... said he had found Christ.’

          Dr Nienaber fumbled through the file on his lap. ‘Yes, Mrs Sinclair’s report is here. But you do understand, Dr Dempster, that proselytising is against prison rules?’ He eyed me steadily. ‘Which church do you represent?’

          ‘The Christian Eclectic Church.’ A bead of sweat trickled down my brow.

          ‘Christian Eclectic?’ His brow puckered quizzically. ‘Never heard of it.’

          I nodded. ‘Few have.’

          He closed the file and stood up. He extended his hand and flashed a disarming smile. ‘We appreciate the work you’re doing, Dr Dempster. Come here as often as you like. In my experience ...’ His smile broadened and a gold tooth flashed. ‘I used to work at a reformatory, you see. In my experience the only thing to break a man from alcohol is a firm belief in something beyond himself. Like Christ.’ He slipped my letter into the file. ‘We’ll take your recommendation into consideration.’ His smile dissolved and his watery eyes held mine. ‘But I must warm you - Engelen is a hard case. He has had a difficult past. Illegitimate birth. Ran away from an orphanage. An alcoholic since his teens. Never sober until he came here.’ Another flashed smile, a deferential bow, and the barred door of the cage opened with alacrity. I sank back on to my chair, feeling weak, but excited, after Dr Nienaber’s unexpected encouragement. Was this place, after all, to be a fruitful reaping ground? I closed my eyes and prayed, silently. My God, my God, let me not come to you empty handed! Let me give you just one repentant sinner, to cover a host of sins.

          Oh, to hell with me and my sins, I thought rebelliously. I didn’t understand God’s exclusivity anyway. There wasn’t anything special, unique, about me. So if I could just find a replacement - someone who has tasted the bitter dregs of life, who can come to God as a new, reformed, perfect creature... Someone who would become a miracle of obedience, with a will to embrace the Truth, the pure doctrine of the first-century elect.

          How I hated myself! I felt filthy, impure. I had dirt under my nails. Could I ever forget that I had seduced a young slip of a girl when she was only fourteen - after I was immersed, washed clean, buried with Christ in the waters of baptism? My marriage garment wasn’t white, but red, scarlet, like my scarlet and silk-lined doctoral gown. I thought, I’m draped with the knowledge of the world. I have sought worldly pleasure and worldly fame. Harry, you’re more qualified than any of us. Why do you waste time on further study? It’s all knowledge of the world. Get a job, man! Write articles for The Eclectic Light! Do something useful! Brother Paul Nettleton. That’s what he said when my shame was discovered. ‘Nothing is done in darkness that will not be brought to light.’ Brother Nettleton’s self-abnegation was a shining light to us all. Stable. Respectable. Clean. Sterile. Skeletal. A hint of after-shave lotion. He gave up being an advocate because it involved legal crookery. Against his Christian conscience. The court contaminates! So he became a bank clerk. Now he teaches law at a university. That way he avoids practising it. So he maintains clean hands

          I heard a sound and opened my eyes. Two prisoners, dressed in stained green dungarees, stood on the opposite side of the grille. Oh my God! I thought - are these the two new prisoners who wrote to me? Why did Petrus send me their names and numbers? One was tall, cylindrical, with pointed head. The other was small with fragile, skeletal fingers that clutched the bars. He had a mouse-like face, wedge-shaped, shaven head, and a jaundiced complexion spotted with pimply eruptions. They gazed at me with vacant eyes. My God, my God, why the hell have you forsaken the human race? How do I tell them about your legal contract? Is it their fault their ignorance alienates them from life eternal? Who is to blame they are without hope in the world? Can these poor buggers ever comprehend the knowledge of salvation? They stared at me, like caged animals on either side of the heavy iron crossbar. And I, the bearer of life, stood there, nonplussed. ‘Cast your pearls not before swine ...’ But, I thought, what Circean curse has tied these men with the chains of non-intellect to ensure they pay in full the wages of sin? Can those chains be broken?

          I tried to smile reassuringly into their vacant, unblinking eyes, to look friendly, enthusiastic. The warder opened the grilled door with a resounding clang and propelled a parcel of blankets into the arms of the men. They caught it with a grunt and trotted off with their burden between them. I felt a flood of relief. Dear God, lead me to men already endowed with a measure of sense and goodwill! Don’t ask for miracles!

          A warder, dressed in neat, pressed khaki, appeared on an elevated platform in front of a narrow doorway that gave across the courtyard. ‘The doctor can come through now!’ I clutched my Bible and stepped, with rising pulse, into the hot air. My footsteps crunched the dry gravel. On either side were doors like cool caves, dimly revealing wide passages that curved, like concentric circles, around the central structure of the building. At the doorway my hand was grasped in warm welcome by the warder. Our footsteps echoed in a hollow staccato as we moved along the constricted, straight passage which barely allowed us to walk alongside each other. My arm was held firmly as I stumbled up a flight of steps, sudden and steep, that led into a dimly lit, oblong room above. Competing strangely with a narrow beam of light slanting through a slit in the wall, a naked globe shed pale yellow light, indiscriminately, on the whitewashed, plastered walls, the row of cubicles behind small, double-glazed windows, and on the group of three men in loose, khaki shirts and shorts on a narrow bench in the centre. They stood as I entered. A warder on guard duty was hunched forward on a chair in the corner of the room. He looked up with sad eyes, nodded nonchalantly to his colleague who turned, slapping the steps with his boots as he retraced his way along the passage.

          Silence. Three shy, smiling faces, aglow with childlike, mischievous ingenuity? Naughty children, caught in a forbidden place. The thought surprised me: why, I’m one of them! A sense of suffusing warmth settled my erratic pulse as I looked into the familiar, worshipful eyes framed in square, gold spectacles.

          ‘Petrus! You’re certainly a lump of yeast! Soon you’ll be leavening the whole prison! Or should I call you a mustard seed?’ I smiled, indicating the other two.

          He nodded. ‘I tole them, it’s their turn now.’ His voice was soft. His Afrikaans accent gave his English a faintly guttural quality. ‘I found two. Now they must each finds another two!’ The straight lips above the chiselled jaw curved into a smile of firm sincerity. The concord error was somehow a part of his sincerity, if not of his charm.

          ‘And you must be Thomas!’ Black hair, distant, crinkled eyes - he grinned sheepishly. ‘Now, how did I know that? Of course, you’re a dubious looking character! But do let’s be comfortable.’ I sat down and they followed my example. My reed chair was far from comfortable but doubtlessly immeasurably more comfortable than their hard wooden bench. Petrus and Thomas sat facing each other, legs astride the bench. The other squatted on the cold floor, muscular hairy legs bent double. He looked up at me with a coy, lopsided grin and cheeky white eyes.

          ‘And you are Johan?’ I reached out my hand.

          ‘Hiya, doc!’ The grin became more lopsided. He stretched up his hand, awkwardly, looking embarrassed.

          ‘So you work in the kitchen, Thomas? And you, Petrus, you’re the prison barber, aren't you? You’ll have to get out of here. Look at my hair - over my ears already! I could do with your help!’

          Petrus’s sincere smile widened. ‘It depends on Thomas. I don’t know how much longer we can takes his cooking!’

          Thomas, bent slightly forward, grinned at the bench on which his eyes remained fixed. Then he looked up, askance, as though shy of eye contact. ‘You’ll have to stop calling me Thomas, you know. Petrus will tell you. I believe now.’

          ‘Of course!’ I pretended surprise, replying with a tome of begging pardon: ‘Your name is Jacobus!’

          A throaty chuckle came from Petrus. ‘We still calls him Thomas. The name has stuck. He used to get very cross, and swear at me. Now he jus’ accepts his name!’

          ‘Well, Jacobus. There’s nothing terrible about being called Thomas. He was one of the most faithful of the disciples, you know. It was to Peter that Jesus said, "Satan, get thee behind me!"’ I grinned, nodding in the direction of Petrus. There was a burst of laughter and a square grin from Petrus. ‘Do you know what Thomas said, when Jesus heard of the death of Lazarus and decided to go again to Jerusalem where the Jews wanted to stone him? He said, "Let’s go with the master, and die with him!"’

           Jacobus listened with serious, nodding attention. He asked, ‘Why, then, do you think he doubted?’

          ‘Why, do you suppose, faithful, impulsive Peter denied Jesus? Why did Judas betray him? They were human, weak, like ourselves. But Thomas - you know ... I believe Thomas was really testing, tempting his Lord. He loved Jesus so much, I’m sure he suffered the most bitter disappointment that he wasn’t there, present, to see him. He felt left out. Perhaps he was thinking, "If I say I don’t believe unless I see ... seeing is believing ... then the Master will take the trouble to remember me, too ..."; you know, like a neglected child - he hoped that by his naughtiness, his ... open doubt ... his father will be obliged to reassure him.’

          ‘That’s right!’ The square, gold frames of Petrus’s spectacles were fixed on me. ‘But he doesn’t have to go down to the bottom of the pit, like I did. That’s what I wants to tell people. They doesn’t have to go all the way down to the bottom before they can find God!’

          God, no! They don’t have to. Yet there is only one ladder out of the pit. Rung upon rung of correct doctrine, the bars of intricate belief!

          ‘For instance,’ Petrus continued. ‘I’ve had to lose everything. My business. All my money. My wife, as you know, divorced me. I was drinking - a bottle of cane spirits every day. You see this?’ He indicated a long, jagged scar on his forearm. ‘That happened when I went into a barbed wire fence. On a motorcycle. Once I ... I ...’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t think my wife will forgives me for what I does to her. I know - like Paul says - in me there’s little good thing. But, Harry, you doesn’t have to go all the way down to get your eyes opened to see Christ. I was so blind!’

          His eyes burned into mine. This man, so eloquent about his sin and his new-found love, could be me. Same age - just over thirty - like the other two. Why should he be consigned to shame, I to immortality? Will he, can he, accept the whole scope of the gospel? ‘Two men will be in the field: one will be taken, the other left ...’ Christ, take him, not me. I thought: I can’t bear the responsibility. Here I am, in the midst of the fallen, like a leader! God forgive me, I must distort the gospel, I must shift the emphasis from judgement to love. These men have been judged! I must make them think they have a chance. Perhaps, then, God will not have the heart to refuse them. I’ll give them verses out of context. Like the one that says God is love. I’ll pretend he’s not a God of Judgement. No need for fear and trembling! I must give them firm purpose and firm faith. Would it be so wrong to give them emphatic assurance that they will be in God’s select Kingdom? Somehow, I thought, I must revive their confidence after the shattering defeat they have suffered. They know only too well how easy sin is. So I’ll deceive them into believing salvation is just as easy! Then, God, you’ll have to judge me, not them!

          I sighed. ‘The fact is, Petrus, there are many people in the world who live comfortable, complacent lives. Little lives. Ordered daily routines. Earning a living, preoccupied with money. How does God get through to them? They have no time for God. But God is Power Uncreate. His energy fills the universe. No doubt he can get through if he wants to. By knocking you down. Right down. By making you hit the gutter, hard. Sometimes, you see, a shock is needed to make a person see. Imagine how much he must love you ... all of you ... to bring you here.’

          Johan shifted restlessly on the hard floor and flashed another lopsided grin. In the corner the warder slumped a little further, his hands draped over his knees. He stared intently at the floor. At least he’s being paid to sit there, I thought.

          I continued: ‘Why did Jesus let Lazarus die? Martha told him that if he had been there, her brother wouldn’t have died. But, when Jesus heard he was sick, he actually stayed away for days! Why did he delay?’ How I enjoyed the love and admiration I saw in their eyes, the respect in their silence. But the pleasure turned sour and bitter. The intolerable mental anguish of being a member of the elect, an angel of light in a world full of the lost and the dead. I went on: ‘Jesus deliberately allowed the situation to worsen - to regress to its most hopeless point. When he arrived, he found that Lazarus had been buried four days before! No doubt about him being dead, you see. They hesitated to open the grave because of the stench! But Jesus, through God’s power, could bring him back to life. He could heal, you see, even the dead! They had to untie Lazarus’s grave clothes. In a sense, we are all dead without Jesus. We are tied with the fetters of mortality and by our sins. But Jesus forgives, and cancels our debts ... breaks the bonds of our imprisonment. And he gives us tremendous power to rise again. All of us. To become stronger, more glorious than before. Do you believe that? Paul, who was in prison many times, said that he had the strength to face all conditions by the power that Christ gave him.’

          I looked at them. Was I doing any good? It was just another sermon, I guess. And yet, I felt quite intoxicated by my own words! Perhaps, if I could convince myself God is accommodating and tolerant, I’ll speak with sufficient conviction to make them drunk with some positive hope! Even then, I thought, I mustn't let them realise God is dictatorial, that submission to his will, the letter of the law, was the only way to salvation - at the end of the day.

          Petrus smiled reassuringly. Thomas - Jacobus - raised his head to reveal quizzical, half-amused eyes.

          I said: ‘Paul, you know, rejoiced in being in prison. He said, "For me to live is Christ." Fancy saying that in prison!’ I laughed, seeing them nod in agreement. ‘Man, this is living! The sort of thing one says on a good day at the beach. Or when you’re enjoying something you like most. That’s what Christ meant for Paul. To live for Christ, in him, should be sheer joy and happiness! Why do you think the gospel is the good news of the Kingdom of God? So that all men can come to Christ. Eternal life freely given. Even the thief on the cross, like a real skelm, could sneak in at the eleventh hour. Just because he had the good sense to ask. He was happy.’

          A broadening, cheeky grin came from Johan. ‘That’s what I am. Happy!’ His white eyes rolled up a little further, mystically surveying the naked globe. He spoke with a quiet musical rhythm. ‘Everyone asks me, why are you smiling? I say I’m happy. Happy, man! So what’s there to be happy about, they ask? I say it’s Christ, man. Take a good dose of Christ, and you’ll be happy too!’

          ‘Yes!’ I was really warming to my subject now. ‘Christ must be a practical reality in our lives. In the kitchen. Or here. He’s here with us now. If we ... just surrender to him, allow him to come into us, and make him king of our hearts ... we will change, just like that. And live forever. That’s what he said, you know.’ I found the references I had marked in my Bible. ‘Here you are: "Whoever believes in me will live, even though he dies ..."; and look what John says - "I write you this so that you may know that you have eternal life - you who believe in the name of the Son of God".’

          The verses were clean out of context, of course. Just what does believing entail? It was the thin end of the wedge. The bait. How do you force all the rest through the eyes of needles? Through finite human minds?

          ‘You see how easy it is! Do you believe, Jacobus?’

          ‘That’s what I said.’ He gave a slow smile.

          ‘Well, then, isn’t John telling you that you have eternal life? That you can rest assured, feel secure in the certainty of living for ever?’

          Jacobus nodded his head, slowly. The warder ventured a glance at me. I saw his sad blue eyes. A lock of blond hair hung over his forehead. He shifted restlessly and gazed uncomprehendingly at the glass windows of the interviewing cells behind me.

          ‘You know, there are a few ... Christian believers ... who are blind to the daily living presence of Christ ...’

          God forgive me, I thought. I must blacken the good, the chosen, to whitewash the bad, the weak, the helpless. Damn the good - they must share the burden, too!

          ‘They go through life with blinkers on, emphasising the future. The return of Jesus to earth, the judgement ...’

          That’s right, I thought, push the doctrine, even if you can only do it negatively! Does it matter? So long as Christ becomes a reality to them, whether through wrong or right motives. Poor souls!

          ‘Jesus, you know, must be present, not just future. His presence must be a living force, to help us do what he asks - now. Do you think the Bible is just a theoretical book? A legal contract with which we must comply to obtain certain future benefits?’ A heavy sigh betrayed me as I looked at their faces, now intent on me. ‘But, on the other hand, you mustn't expect to get a - a sort of funny feeling inside - to know that he has heard your prayers. Last month when I wrote to a tailor and ordered a new academic gown, I didn’t have to feel anything special when I wrote, giving my measurements, to know that the tailor would take my order seriously. I simply had to want the gown badly enough to write. And the letter became a real fact. The gown turned up in the post as a matter of course.’

          Yes, and the invoice too, you bloody fool! Why don’t you mention that?

          ‘Jesus is like that. Just ask him. "Ask and you will receive." And believe you will get him, just like you believe the gown will arrive. Except that Jesus is not a gown. You don’t wear him on the outside. It’s true, he covers your sins, but he expects to live inside you.’ I smiled, seeing their rapt attention. ‘And you won’t stop him once you’ve seriously asked him to come in. He is not the son of a theoretical God. He doesn’t only live in the printed pages of the Bible. He’s a force, a power, a living presence.’

          The yellow light shifted subtly as the globe above was caught in a gentle breeze entering through the slit high above the warder’s listless form. The shadows of the three men quivered.

          ‘There are Christians, you see, who ...’ I hesitated, and swallowed, knowing how I was about to betray my faithful brethren and sisters. ‘Who perhaps make the mistake of studying the Bible like a university text book. They know all the facts, all the historical details - all the correct, original doctrines. They have Bible classes twice weekly. But they don’t always know the real spirit of what they call the Truth ... which is love.’ Was I really saying this? I listened to my own words with a mixture of disbelief and horror. ‘Is that because they haven’t experienced love? Because, if they did, Jesus would surely shatter their armchair Christianity - and - and bring them here! They would stop digging - digging for worms and catch a few fish. Big game fish. Fishy customers, like you guys!’

          Again, the lopsided grin. ‘You know when I first experienced Christ? When I saw him?’

          ‘No, Johan. When was that?’

          ‘On a LSD trip.’

          ‘A what?’

          ‘On a LSD trip!’

           ‘Really, Johan? And what happened?’

          ‘Well, I was on the weed for days, you know. I was on a high mountain, right on the edge of a cliff. And right down - far below me - was the blue sea, and big rocks that looked like black pebbles.’ His eyes became mystical, far-seeing. ‘Waves were crashing on the rocks. And then, there was a kinda blue light, y’know, above me ...’ A beefy hand, outstretched with stumpy fingers, sculptured the air. ‘It was Christ, man ... in a sort of white, shiny gown. Man! I got a fright, hey! I said, yislike, Johan, now the fat’s in the fire!’

          ‘And then?’

          A blank look, a lopsided grin met my smile. ‘I dunno. I was lights out for four days!’

          ‘Johan.’ I held his eyes, so innocent and trusting in their cheeky way. ‘Do you think God is fearful - frightening?’

          ‘Ja, man!’ He nodded sincerely. ‘The Bible mos says, the fear of the Lord ...’

          ‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘And yet, God doesn’t come to us - to crush us, to bring vengeance and punishment, does      he? What use are we, as broken vessels? You must expect him, now, to fill you - with love and courage and spiritual vitality.’ I smiled, resisting the desire to reach out and touch his boyish face. ‘Do you know, Johan, what Jesus called God?’

          ‘Ja! He called him Father! And on the cross he said my God my God ...’

          ‘Yes! He called him Father. But, in his language, do you know what the word for father was? It was abba. Correctly translated that means daddy! Should a little child be frightened of his daddy? In a sense, perhaps. But ... well ... I have a little girl. When I come home from work, she always runs to me. She shouts, "Daddy, daddy!" I always have sweets for her.’

          There were meditative nods from Petrus. ‘I can understand that,’ he said. ‘I had a little boy. Before my wife divorced me.’ He turned his glistening eyes on Jacobus who, preoccupied, was tracing intricate diagrams with his finger on the bench.

          I leant back and looked at these men. I didn’t know them, but I loved them. I didn’t even know their crimes - apart from the fraud committed by Petrus, and his attempt at Illicit Diamond Buying. He was serving a three-year sentence. I didn’t want to know their crimes. They were merely sins that society condemned.

          Society tolerated my sins - but then mine were secret. I thought, I would humble myself, debase myself, to elevate them, who surely have no more guilt than I. Surely God must love them, too? What hidden depths do they have of sorrow and sin which hold them back and make them falter? Or prevent them from understanding? Just guilt, I suppose. The conscious weight of sin. Will they be able to withstand the trials of life, the stigma of their crimes, when they face the world again? Why are there no ex-prisoners in the Truth - in the one and only Eclectic Church? ‘Be ye perfect.’ Can they ever hope to be perfect? Can they seriously be expected to strive against the lusts of the flesh? Can anyone?

          ‘How long have I got with you guys?’

          Jacobus looked up. ‘Until four.’

          ‘I don’t want to keep you much longer. And that poor fellow in the corner ... He looks bored to death!’

          ‘I’m not!’ The warder lifted his head. His soft voice, his sudden, engaging smile took me by surprise. ‘I’m listening, too.’

          I thought: Good Lord, he’s human! I returned the smile, and turned, again, to the prisoners. ‘Well, let me conclude, as briefly as possible, by telling you about an incident that happened one morning about three o’clock. Imagine that a little ship is struggling in a stormy sea. It’s very dark. A dozen men battle with the oars. They make little progress because the sails are useless. The wind would simply tear them to shreds. And swelling, heaving waves grip the tiny boat in a perilous motion. And these men are completely alone!’ Again, the yellow light gyrates gently, making the shadows of the men shift silently. ‘But at the darkest moment, before the dawn, Jesus comes to them, walking on the heaving, restless sea! Imagine that, Johan! Like your blue, shining light! Would you feel frightened?’

          ‘I reckon I would!’ His lopsided grin was back.

          ‘But Jesus speaks to them, and what he says immediately calms their fears. He says, "Peace! It’s only me - don’t be afraid!" And, you know, Jesus is saying the same to you now. When your night is darkest. He walks on your troubled waters. He brings peace and brings power to help you with your - shall we say, endurance test?’

          It was the watered down, meek and mild Jesus resurrected from my childhood! He didn’t come to bring peace to the world, but a sword. He brought division! These men knew all about division. Christ! I thought you died for sinners, for men like these!

          ‘In fact,’ I pressed on, ‘it’s the powerful presence of Jesus that sustains you. We know the effect the presence of Jesus had on Peter. As soon as he recognised him his faith came back - and he lost all fear! He said, "Master, if it’s you, I’ll come to you!" Imagine the madness of the notion! Did Jesus tell him not to be crazy, to stay where he was?’ The three men were silent. Their eyes focused on me. I shook my head. ‘He simply said one word - "Come!" And that was enough for Peter! With the spray in his face and faith in his heart, he stepped out of the boat with a feeling of immense security! His main thought was to get to the one he loved. And he actually walked - walked on water! He no longer depended for his safety on a few planks of wood. On the sea he depended on Jesus and his word!’

          Little children! They were men of thirty, but just little children nevertheless, gazing trustfully at me. How can Jesus let them down? Come to me, little children ...

          ‘Of course, Peter didn’t get very far. He might have got to Jesus but for one thing. He became aware of the force of the gale. He became frightened - and hesitated. Just like that! We forget to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus because we become absorbed in our difficulties, our troubles! We look at the waves, not to Jesus. And what happened to Peter?’

          ‘He began to sink!’ Petrus put in, smiling.

           I nodded. ‘He couldn’t strive against the waves himself! Instinctively, he shouted to Jesus for help. "Lord, save me!" That was a prayer, wasn’t it? It was short, but intense, white hot! It was a confession of failure and need. And Jesus lifted him up. And Peter, who had sunk, rose and walked again!’

          I looked at the men. Their eyes were on me, their faces shining in the pale yellow light. Even the warder was looking intently at us.

          I laughed, releasing the tension. ‘Well, we can do that too! Jesus still says, "Come!" - and that’s all the invitation we need. Just one walk on the sea of life! "Come," he says. "Come to me, all you who labour and are heavy laden..."

          I leant back, exhausted with my whipped up enthusiasm. If only I could believe this easy gospel myself. After all, it sounds so reasonable, so ... natural. But the natural mind is carnal. And anyone in the Truth, any Christian Eclectic brother or sister, will tell you not to take Christ’s words at face value. His words must be seen in the context of the whole Bible, the whole logos, the whole plan and purpose of an authoritarian Father. Oh, God, I feel so tired ... tired of striving in the correct and narrow way! I can’t help preaching an easy, churchy gospel! If only, just once, I could talk to Jesus ... but he is merely a mediator, an advocate, a channel. I must pray to you, Yahweh, in the name of Jesus. But Jesus, I think, would understand a great deal... So many of his word seem so ... so straightforward, simple and sincere ...

          ‘It seems I’ve been doing all the talking!’

          ‘No - we doesn’t mind,’ Petrus chuckled. ‘As long as we’re here ... listening to you ... we doesn’t have to be washing pots! Or cutting hair. Come many times!’

          I laughed. ‘Well, it seems the authorities don’t mind me coming. It just means some poor warder has to get stuck in the corner!’

          The blond head lifted again. The same sad eyes met mine. ‘I don’t mind, doctor.’

          I turned round and glanced at the small cubicles behind me. ‘This is where the prisoners are interviewed?’

          ‘Yes,’ Petrus nodded. ‘Once a month - usually on a Sunday - we can see one of our family. We has to sit behind the windows.’

          The windows, I saw again, were double glazed, six-inch squares. Adjacent to each was a small speaking grille. What whispering pandemonium must take place here! I was thankful I didn’t have to speak to the men through a grille, or see them through the cramped windows.

          ‘But,’ said Petrus, ‘this place is for B and C group prisoners. I’m A-group.’ He gave a bland smile that conveyed a sense of pride.

          ‘Who are the B and C prisoners?’

          ‘We are!’ Jacobus good-humouredly nodded at Johan who, hugging his knees, smiled sheepishly. ‘You know, the doubtful guys! But you can be promoted to A-group for good behaviour. Then you can see your peoples in the courtyard. Under the zinc afdakkie.’

          ‘It won’t be long, then, before I see you there!’ I turned to Petrus. ‘And you, Petrus. Perhaps you’ll be free before long. I saw Dr Nienaber today. I gave him the letter you asked me to write. They’ll take it into consideration when they decide on your parole.’

          Again, his worshipful, smiling eyes, framed in the gold squares, held mine. ‘Thank you, Harry.’

          Tell me, Petrus. Have you been following the Bible lessons. Are they helpful?’

          ‘Yes. I reads everything you send me. I doesn’t have much time. But a warder - a good Christian - turns on the light outside the kitchen at three in the morning, so I can read. The light shines through my cell window.’

          ‘Is there no other time to study?'

          He shook his head. ‘No. They keep me busy cutting hair. And then I have kitchen work, too, that is hard and long.’ He gave me a tight, square grin. ‘And at night the rats ...’

          I glanced at the warder who remained slumped, motionless, in the corner. ‘And, which lesson have you reached?’

          ‘Oh!’ His eyes glinted as they were caught in the widening smile. ‘Last week I read about the covenant with Moses, the promises to Abraham. Now I’m busy with the kingdom of God that is to come ...’

          ‘That’s wonderful, Petrus!’ Is it possible, then, that these men could stomach a little easy doctrine, a few pegs on which to hang a simple yet positive faith?

          The shaft of light from the slit in the wall projected a thin, bright bar across the closed door. ‘Jacobus. And Johan? Perhaps you two would like to receive the course?’ Affirmative smiles flashed as they looked, trustingly, at me. ‘Of course, I must tell you that the course is run by the Christian Eclectic Church. Its teachings are those of the ... I believe they are those of the original Christian Church, founded by the apostles. I believe what it teaches is Truth. We are told to prove all things, and to hold fast unto that which is good ... As a teenager I began to seek the Truth, and followed the same course I’m offering you now. I couldn’t disprove anything, and what I couldn’t disprove I had to accept.’ There were nods of agreement. ‘Ja - ja!’ from Petrus.

          I cleared my throat. I couldn’t leave it at that. ‘But Truth is ... has always been, um, a debatable matter. Ultimately, you must decide for yourselves. What you accept is your free choice ... God will never break the fixed laws of Heaven. But always remember that simple faith in the living, vital Christ is something greater than the adoption of a set of religious rules - and religious beliefs.’

          No wonder the original Greek word for hypocrite meant actor, I thought. What unseen force drove me to this sort of play-acting? An intellectual acceptance, a logical grasp, of the Truth? Did I want them to be actors, too? Where was the genuine motivating force of the Holy Spirit that once moved men to speak and write?

          ‘Shall we conclude in prayer?’

          There was a painful unbending of limbs. But they smiled, as though it were a delight to be there. What polite, loveable actors they were! Standing, my bent head intercepted the oblique shaft of light that momentarily blinded me. Blinking, I glimpsed, again, their looks of naughty children, embarrassed, exchanging furtive grins, as their heads bowed in prayer.

           ‘Father of light. Where two or three - or four - are gathered together in Jesus’s name, there he surely is. In his name we approach thy holy throne of grace. We know that Thou art power, might and strength. We ask Thee that this power might flow into us, to make us strong, mighty warriors for thy Truth, that we might have a place in thy Kingdom ...’

          Opening my eyes, my glance fell on the shoes of the three men, arranged in a half circle around me: dusty, thick boots, dirty, work-stained socks at various stages of descent around the ankles. Johan’s motionless and hairy, slightly bow legs seemed to convey an air of strained respect. My own highly polished black shoes, neatly draped by the pressed cuffs of my trousers, made a queer contrast. My eyes remained open as I prayed ...

          ‘Dear God ... Transform us, lift us up by your power. Reveal yourself to us. Enter into our very hearts. We open ourselves, now, so that your love, your pure radiant light, can shine into us. And with Jesus in our midst, in our very hearts, let us shine forth his light, that the world in darkness - even those in this prison - might perceive that your Kingdom is at hand - indeed, in the midst of all of us who are shining lights for Christ. In Jesus’s Name, Amen.’

          I looked up into a chorus of throaty Amens. ‘Don’t forget to talk with God, you fellows. As you commune with him, every day, your life will become a channel of blessing - even to those who don’t know him.’

          I stretched out my hand. God, I thought, I loved them! I felt the tears prick my eyes. And I looked into their eyes, moist, glinting in the soft yellow light which, like a luminous mantle, was draped over their khaki shirts. Their hands were warm and firm. The warder, unnoticed, had opened the door. The shaft of sunlight from the window spread dimly along one of the walls of the passage.

          ‘Don’t forget to write to me, and tell me about yourselves. But above all, don’t forget Christ. He won’t forget you!’

          ‘We won’t, doc,’ said Johan. ‘But you also write to us, hey!’

          I was aware of a lopsided grin, a shy, hesitant smile, and a confident, firm grasp of the shoulder as I passed into the passage. The warder was a dim shadow to the side of the door. The stone floor echoed my solitary footsteps.

          A flock of pigeons rose from the cemetery with a whirr. I felt tired, yet strangely elated as I unlocked the car and sank into the hot upholstery. I drew deeply, thankfully, on a cigarette. Despite the heat inside the car the sun was lower and burned with diminished intensity. Soon the car slid along the ample highway into the eastern suburbs. Then I was climbing steadily amongst the spacious lawns, the sparkling pools, the white colonnaded facades of Verity Heights, where the Christian Eclectics lived.

                                                                 END   OF  CHAPTER  ONE

                                                            (Copyright © Charles Humphrey Muller 2000)

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