Mary stood in the kitchen
Baking a loaf of bread.
An angel flew in the window
‘We’ve a job for you,’ he said.
‘God in his big gold heaven
Sitting in his big blue chair,
Wanted a mother for his little son.
Suddenly saw you there.’
Mary shook and trembled,
‘It isn’t true what you say.’
‘Don’t say that,’ said the angel.
‘The baby’s on its way.’
Joseph was in the workshop
Planing a piece of wood.
‘The old man’s past it,’ the neighbours said.
‘That girl’s been up to no good.’
‘And who was that elegant fellow,’
They said, ‘in the shiny gear?’
The things they said about Gabriel
Were hardly fit to hear.
Mary never answered,
Mary never replied.
She kept the information,
Like the baby, safe inside.
It was the election winter.
They went to vote in the town.
When Mary found her time had come
The hotels let her down.
The baby was born in an annexe
Next to the local pub.
At midnight, a delegation
Turned up from the Farmers’ Club.
They talked about an explosion
That made a hole in the sky,
Said they’d been sent to the Lamb and Flag
To see God come down from on high.
A few days later a bishop
And a five-star general were seen
With the head of an African country
In a bullet-proof limousine.
Baking a loaf of bread.
An angel flew in the window
‘We’ve a job for you,’ he said.
‘God in his big gold heaven
Sitting in his big blue chair,
Wanted a mother for his little son.
Suddenly saw you there.’
Mary shook and trembled,
‘It isn’t true what you say.’
‘Don’t say that,’ said the angel.
‘The baby’s on its way.’
Joseph was in the workshop
Planing a piece of wood.
‘The old man’s past it,’ the neighbours said.
‘That girl’s been up to no good.’
‘And who was that elegant fellow,’
They said, ‘in the shiny gear?’
The things they said about Gabriel
Were hardly fit to hear.
Mary never answered,
Mary never replied.
She kept the information,
Like the baby, safe inside.
It was the election winter.
They went to vote in the town.
When Mary found her time had come
The hotels let her down.
The baby was born in an annexe
Next to the local pub.
At midnight, a delegation
Turned up from the Farmers’ Club.
They talked about an explosion
That made a hole in the sky,
Said they’d been sent to the Lamb and Flag
To see God come down from on high.
A few days later a bishop
And a five-star general were seen
With the head of an African country
In a bullet-proof limousine.
‘We’ve come,’ they said ‘with tokens
For the little boy tochoose.’
Told the tale about war and peace
In the television news.
For the little boy tochoose.’
Told the tale about war and peace
In the television news.
After them came the soldiers
With rifle and bombs and gun,
Looking for enemies of the state.
The family had packed up and gone.
When they got back to the village
The neighbours said, to a man,
‘That boy will never be one of us,
Though he does what he blessed well can.’
He went round to all the people
A paper crown on his head.
Here is some bread from my father.
Take, eat, he said.
Nobody seemed very hungry.
Nobody seemed to care.
Nobody saw the god in himself
Quietly standing there.
He finished up in the papers.
He came to a very bad end.
He was charged with bringing the living to life.
No man was that prisoner’s friend.
There’s only one kind of punishment
To fit that kind of crime.
They rigged a trial and shot him dead.
They were only just in time.
They lifted the young man by the leg,
Thy lifted him by the arm,
They locked him in a cathedral
In case he came to harm.
They stored him safe as water
Under seven rocks.
One Sunday morning he burst out
Like a jack-in-the-box.
Through the town he went walking.
He showed them the holes in his head.
Now do you want any loaves? He cried.
‘Not today,’ they said.
Looking for enemies of the state.
The family had packed up and gone.
When they got back to the village
The neighbours said, to a man,
‘That boy will never be one of us,
Though he does what he blessed well can.’
He went round to all the people
A paper crown on his head.
Here is some bread from my father.
Take, eat, he said.
Nobody seemed very hungry.
Nobody seemed to care.
Nobody saw the god in himself
Quietly standing there.
He finished up in the papers.
He came to a very bad end.
He was charged with bringing the living to life.
No man was that prisoner’s friend.
There’s only one kind of punishment
To fit that kind of crime.
They rigged a trial and shot him dead.
They were only just in time.
They lifted the young man by the leg,
Thy lifted him by the arm,
They locked him in a cathedral
In case he came to harm.
They stored him safe as water
Under seven rocks.
One Sunday morning he burst out
Like a jack-in-the-box.
Through the town he went walking.
He showed them the holes in his head.
Now do you want any loaves? He cried.
‘Not today,’ they said.
Charles Causley
Every call the Church makes for some literal demonstration of ‘faith’ – like wearing crosses, like studying texts in school, like proclaiming belief in a physical resurrection – drives another nail into its own cross, further stamps out the flame of truth that once gave it life. Like a reversal of the Emperor’s New Clothes, it is trying to hang clothes on an emperor who does not exist.
Those who thank God for their ‘daily bread’ and mean the food on their table - even if they are imaginative enough to include the chocolate in their Easter egg, or even have enough grasp of metaphor to mean the earnings that make them a ‘breadwinner’ – have dismally defined themselves as needy, separate creatures in a competitive world of limited resources, and God as something other, somewhere else, of whom we know nothing but that He distributes unevenly and may at any moment take away again even that little we have.
Yet those who dismiss such superstitions as nonsense may suffer from a still greater sense of alienation, having thrown out not only the symbols that speak to our deeper levels of mind, but also what they speak of. Here is some bread from my Father. Take, eat is a message that cannot be translated in any literal way. Only the god in yourself, quietly standing there can either hear it or say it. If you have shouted that into silence with the persuasions of false gods or with arguments against gods of any breed, you will not hear your own call to your real self, or the certainty of your own reply.
The bread of life has nothing to do with the bodies we suppose we are, and everything to do with the spirit we are, the mind that thinks us. It is never helpful to call for separate groups to cling to what will further separate them, or to try and cast in concrete an ineffable reality. Religious leaders might inspire us, rather, by pointing beyond petty and outworn symbols to their deeper and universal meaning, by shaking new life from them as Charles Causley has done here, or by seeking new metaphors, more relevant to our own times, to reconnect mind with spirit and to reveal the numinous in everyday life.
But even if they did, would we pay attention? We like our religions to be irrelevant, divisive, ranting. We are not ready for ideas that might dissolve the world of specifics and reconnect each with each other, inner with outer, thought with being. Not yet. Not today, thank you.
