Jesus and the sad hand
Mark 3;1-5 rehash
Synagogue. Some temple some place
Damn, that’s my chair…..sheeez
Mental note: Must talk to Mr Rabbi-what’s-face re: name tags…..can’t remember that bloke’s name. Talked him last week…B name? I’m sure… Ignore eye contact… Bruce, nah… Barry… no… Mental note: Exit early, don’t lag.
Missed the first song – couldn’t get a park. Not such a bad thing really. Silver lining perhaps. Don’t need to look over my shoulder … yep thought so…Derek’s mixing again…guitar’s too soft, can’t hear the blimmin kick again…what’s the point..…..
Mental note- should musicians park in the temple carpark, or park out on the road for other punters? Leave message for Mr Rabbi during week.
I search around…. is Martha here today…Maybe she’s rostered for ‘the door’ meet and greet tonight…can’t remember…
I sit in the middle. Admire the stained glass. I fondle the newsletter. Fair next week, Ray’s in hospital again, Baptism next month… I could donate my sandal collection maybe…could polish them up……
I look up…oh there’s Martha up the front…
AND THEN oooooh no. A man with a hand, of sorts, catches my view. The grim limb. A man with a withered hand, the hand that rocks, AND yah verily, I say unto you, forsooth, does scare the cradle.
I run through possible beautician tips in my head:
So…I’m at the synagogue, missed the first song, bass players flat though I shouldn’t be harsh he’s just new. I see Mrs Crankshaw at the back pointing at her hand and pointing to Mr Unfortunate. I know, I know I glare back at her. As if I didn’t know. I ignore her.
It’s hard being a healer dealer. Expectations. Everyone wants a batteries included experience. See this – make it work.. This part – it’s broken. They all have a been sold a dud look about them. Most have been on ‘Fair go’ and ‘When Schlock Backyard Operations Go Wrong’. It breaks your heart sometimes. ‘So..mate what can ya’ do for me??’ they say. I spin the planets, bust a move. It can be impressive.
Sorry to sound like I’m grumbling…watched too much TV last night and after two Panadol the headaches still just beating. And it’s not that I’m not busy, I just think sometimes the union could be doing something more on my behalf.
Here’s my current schedule:
Question: Should I wait till after the 3 fast songs but before the prayer for the city – or go for a healing amidst the 2 song reflective bracket pre-preacher? May be post offering?
Pre-preacher I reckon. He’s an out of towner. She’ll be right.
Mr Grim Limb seems the most likely candidate this morning. Mrs Cartwright’s nephew I suspect from the looks.
Alright, how am I going to do this? I should try and be sensitive. Who wants to be the guy with the crusty hand? Maybe I should say that hands aren’t everything….but then I make my living using my hands. Can’t carry a sheet of ply to easy with one hand man and it’s damn hard measuring up with a spooked one like he’s got.
(GEEEZ. Mental note: Check Diary. I hope that today’s miracle target with the munted hand wasn’t the same tree hugger trying to protect that freekin olive tree that day when I got a bit pent up and fiesty. Could back fire if I go for the pre-miracle interview option. Note: Don’t go for pre-interview…just in case …)
No it can’t be. Mental note: Check Diary anyway. It would be the right thing to do. Mental note grab his address casually, just in case need to send letter of apology…
Maybe I should play it low key, ham it up Los Vegas styles: ‘Everybody! Everybody..a1 .and a.2..and a 1 2 3…4 - Puuuut your haaaand in the haaaand of the maaan who stiiiills the waaaaater…c’mon now everyone singing……’
Maybe not.
Yes I see him Mrs Crankshaw…thank you, under control…you can put your hand down now Mrs Crankshaw…
Wonder if he turns off the radio when ‘ Withered without you’ comes on…
On the positive side, he has got one good hand. Maybe I could just let it slide. I am a little tired and I could I guess have had a shave. I mean one good hand IS still a hand. You CAN wave ‘Hello’. Signal intentions at the intersection lets say. Does one good hand really deserve another He can count to five he just needs to be good at multiplying by two. Anyway, I believe the one-hand look was actually derigour in the Old Man’s original prototype. It was only at final submission stage did the bi-handed model gain acceptance across the board. Maybe I should be a little more selective….just go for bi-delimbed folk as a benchmark…urgent cases only, ACC referrals…that kind of thing… I’ve only got a practising licence for three years remember – time management is important obviously. I’ve seen them before – burnt out healers, watch dolphins all day restoring their natural bio rhythms. It’s a worry.
Okay - red alert. We’ve got a swinging worship leader this morning and the 3rd upbeat number is a bouncing hallelujah type….people all around me are lifting their arms to Jehovah..and yes…..hands are waving. Mr Withered Hand has his eyes closed in ecstatic fashion. Good on him…go public why not…No pressure now mate …RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT. Must have seenme saunter in. Darn. The congregation is resisting rubber necking for sure, but lets be honest, they ALL have now seen the withered one. Stakes have just got higher…Relax…deep breathe……you can do this….
Yes…Mrs Munro, with the nice hat…Yes, I see his hand. Yes, we can all see the hand…thanks for sharing that with me, Yessssss….
Wretched is as wretched does.
Maybe Mr Unfortunate see the world with his twisted fingers, can feel them fall weak, deranged, useless, limp, falling robe-side, blood short-circuiting its trip back to the heart. Maybe his heart feels the rub of the eyes that stare. Maybe his heart feels the pain of the knuckles slopping from their mashed cages, all lazy and stubborn. Motion- less.
Maybe he’s just plain unemployed and bloody hungry.
Maybe a wife he has to concentrate to caress
Labelled and disabled. Handy Andy. The funny, funny jokes
Hi five dude !…, down low, no way bro.
It’s an ugly hand, even from a distance
Withered
Weathered
A wrist that won’t wrestle
Thumbs up to no one
A closed palm
ugly
What is a hand?
What is an arm without a hand?
A church bell without a donger
A jellyfish without a stinger
Flesh without a finger
Jolly without a roger
……AND THEN Mr Rabbi comes over:
‘Mr Jesus – the guy with the…’, eyebrows raise momentarily, ‘yeah….’ Eyes unsympathetic, checking his watch, uncomfortable, we’re teachers discussing the latest irritable student.
‘Aha’ I say.
‘You do know that….right……well….’
He looks me in the eyes. I’m supposed to nod approvingly. After all – IT’S THE FREEKIN SABBATH. OFCOURSE. IT’S THE FREEKIN SABBATH. He wants to scream it but he’s a slave to decorum. I look him at him and stare…
The sabbath.
Straightjacket day.
Seriously policed
We are all window shoppers in Amsterdam’s red light district without cash or credit -
Look around but don’t touch.
Do nothing.
And an old man lies near death in a carpark in Ponsonby –
‘It’s ok he’s probably just a bum sleeping…’
The sabbath
Straightjacket day
A day of rest…right
Like a commandment bastard child adopted into the mafia.
The sabbath
Celebration castrated
Straightjacket day
I still stare at him, Mr ‘No-Thanks-Were-Jewish; -Healings-ONLY-On-Wednesday-Nights at 700pm-At-The-Racecourse’-Rabbi awaits my response.
I look at the ‘Missionary SUNDAY’ banner placed prominently on stage – ‘Sunday’ capitalised, bold font, underlined. Just in case I forgot.
[Are Rabbi’s Rabbits ?: Both dig holes for themselves, screw themselves over (theologically) and a fair game for shotguns. Though Rabbi’s would make terrible pets – too bloody demanding. Mental note: reflect later for next batch of parables.]
I whisper with an increasing blood pressure to into Mr Rabbi’s big ear not so quietly:
This is no Tupperware party
I am not selling AMWAY
This is not cheesy Life Insurance
We are not surrounded by the superficial ill
We are in the midst of a polluting fog
Of the diseased, deceased, disabled and distilled
You can have the tithes and offerings backed by elevator music
The ching and the chang of the yen
We can offer burnt offerings till the slit cows come home
We can have the notices and the prayers of the faithful
We can drink wine from Lilliput glasses
And waffle and wafer communing on high
But I,
I pay no homage to calendars or candelabras
For do the broken care for the day’s names mystique
Or the quiet crazed dance of an altar side flame?
I am not bound to form or format
Or the formica kitchen bench replete with teas and coffees and superwines
and fresh baked muffins awaiting the faithful and today’s visiting
No….
Now I start to haemorrhage on the inside, forehead veins proud. I imagine myself on the set of Mastermind. Confident. Superior. Knowledgable. All psyched in a plush, black throne lazyboy. I shift gears
No….
So to you good Sir,
Go live in yellow submarine where the band begins to play
Where all your friends are all aboard
Where you sail into the sun
Sky of blue
Sea of green
And go beneath the waves to a life of ease
And from there,
Please,
Weighed down by the concrete of your heart – go to hell
Wanker
Your teko doesn’t stink, alright
Yet show me how your armpits aren’t cursed at noon in the desert
You know no grace
And your gaze is ice
In the end I will slice you like the Jap’s slice whales
-go to hell wanker
freely masturbate with your 2 perfect hands
for they pleasure only you
but this man
I turn, we look, his raised eyebrows follow my lead
That man
Worships me with only one perfect hand
A saviour waver
AND I love him
He looks at me. all offended like and checks his watch again and says something I can’t quite hear over the repetitive chorus. I’m sensing he don’t like me. Immediately I am crossed off his Christmas Barbe’ list.
AND THEN pumped I kick into show time. I rear from my seat winking at the leader mid further repetitive chorus and the drummers cymbal obsession and quickly dismiss the OHP technician with a pleasant courteous glance, tap my mic, cough, phlegm and hack as if on a marae. The guitarist trips over cables as he disappears of stage, a howl of feedback destroying the manufactured ambience.
A hand needs healing.
I think of the evil that hands do and then don’t think about it.
A hand needs healing.
I remain calm. The Rabbi’s babble menace and then I tap the mic again.. Silence reigns (Only Mrs Sloper can be heard clinking and clunking above the burgeoning whistle of the Zip out back).
I must be sensitive. I must be sensitive. I must be sensitive I tell myself.
Decide not to go for the philosophical, yet entertaining introduction along the lines of the sound of one hand clapping……too cheap I decide. I am tempted though.
Decide against ‘knock knock’ jokes too under the circumstances.
I must be sensitive. I get flustered and go for the pseudo military approach. Roman captivity and all that – should be satiric I figure – combined with an accentuating the positives. The man with the withered hand has at least two good feet I figure.
‘Stand up’ I say.
Mrs Crankshaw beams a smile you could sell as Mr Unfortunate stands. Temple audience respond on cue and without reserve. They watch the holy men squirm, the people, for sure the people they now be feelin’ the healin’ about to be dealin’. There was an air of anticipation.
‘Stretch out your hand’. It had to be done. You have to take a risk. Everyone had seen it already anyway, no one gasped in shock. I figured too that the man knew which hand to stretch out – I was still in ‘Mastermind’ mode obviously.
The man stretches.
Bingo.
A man’s hand is hinged back real and working
Whole
Good as new
Smiles all round
And everyone lived happily ever after.
Well nearly but not quite.
It’s the Sabbath remember.
The holy day
Where you can’t play rep soccer in the early 80’s
Mr Rabbi and the other Mr Rabbis saw the miracle.
Witnesses.
Witnesses scared witless.
One witness, a scared witless witness called then his church secretary mistress:
‘Look Love, sorry to interrupt but…..’
Synagogue. Some temple some place
Damn, that’s my chair…..sheeez
Mental note: Must talk to Mr Rabbi-what’s-face re: name tags…..can’t remember that bloke’s name. Talked him last week…B name? I’m sure… Ignore eye contact… Bruce, nah… Barry… no… Mental note: Exit early, don’t lag.
Missed the first song – couldn’t get a park. Not such a bad thing really. Silver lining perhaps. Don’t need to look over my shoulder … yep thought so…Derek’s mixing again…guitar’s too soft, can’t hear the blimmin kick again…what’s the point..…..
Mental note- should musicians park in the temple carpark, or park out on the road for other punters? Leave message for Mr Rabbi during week.
I search around…. is Martha here today…Maybe she’s rostered for ‘the door’ meet and greet tonight…can’t remember…
I sit in the middle. Admire the stained glass. I fondle the newsletter. Fair next week, Ray’s in hospital again, Baptism next month… I could donate my sandal collection maybe…could polish them up……
I look up…oh there’s Martha up the front…
AND THEN oooooh no. A man with a hand, of sorts, catches my view. The grim limb. A man with a withered hand, the hand that rocks, AND yah verily, I say unto you, forsooth, does scare the cradle.
I run through possible beautician tips in my head:
- Give up on wrinkle cream
- Put watch on other hand
- Minimise all other jewellery. Do not attract unnecessary attention
- Accessorise - wear gloves.
So…I’m at the synagogue, missed the first song, bass players flat though I shouldn’t be harsh he’s just new. I see Mrs Crankshaw at the back pointing at her hand and pointing to Mr Unfortunate. I know, I know I glare back at her. As if I didn’t know. I ignore her.
It’s hard being a healer dealer. Expectations. Everyone wants a batteries included experience. See this – make it work.. This part – it’s broken. They all have a been sold a dud look about them. Most have been on ‘Fair go’ and ‘When Schlock Backyard Operations Go Wrong’. It breaks your heart sometimes. ‘So..mate what can ya’ do for me??’ they say. I spin the planets, bust a move. It can be impressive.
Sorry to sound like I’m grumbling…watched too much TV last night and after two Panadol the headaches still just beating. And it’s not that I’m not busy, I just think sometimes the union could be doing something more on my behalf.
Here’s my current schedule:
- Mondays: off
- Tuesday’s (home visits): Lepers, lepers, lepers, lepers
- Wednesday’s: Rabies, scabies, dropped babies
- Thursday (mornings): Warts, broken bones, Clymidia
- Thursday (afternoons): Dead people
- Friday’s: Dental, Urinal and Cosmetic issues
- Saturday’s: Men with small weeners, arthritis, paralytics
lobotomies, dandruff, manicures - Sunday’s: As the spirit leads/ As the Holy men watch/ As the spirit leads
Question: Should I wait till after the 3 fast songs but before the prayer for the city – or go for a healing amidst the 2 song reflective bracket pre-preacher? May be post offering?
Pre-preacher I reckon. He’s an out of towner. She’ll be right.
Mr Grim Limb seems the most likely candidate this morning. Mrs Cartwright’s nephew I suspect from the looks.
Alright, how am I going to do this? I should try and be sensitive. Who wants to be the guy with the crusty hand? Maybe I should say that hands aren’t everything….but then I make my living using my hands. Can’t carry a sheet of ply to easy with one hand man and it’s damn hard measuring up with a spooked one like he’s got.
(GEEEZ. Mental note: Check Diary. I hope that today’s miracle target with the munted hand wasn’t the same tree hugger trying to protect that freekin olive tree that day when I got a bit pent up and fiesty. Could back fire if I go for the pre-miracle interview option. Note: Don’t go for pre-interview…just in case …)
No it can’t be. Mental note: Check Diary anyway. It would be the right thing to do. Mental note grab his address casually, just in case need to send letter of apology…
Maybe I should play it low key, ham it up Los Vegas styles: ‘Everybody! Everybody..a1 .and a.2..and a 1 2 3…4 - Puuuut your haaaand in the haaaand of the maaan who stiiiills the waaaaater…c’mon now everyone singing……’
Maybe not.
Yes I see him Mrs Crankshaw…thank you, under control…you can put your hand down now Mrs Crankshaw…
Wonder if he turns off the radio when ‘ Withered without you’ comes on…
On the positive side, he has got one good hand. Maybe I could just let it slide. I am a little tired and I could I guess have had a shave. I mean one good hand IS still a hand. You CAN wave ‘Hello’. Signal intentions at the intersection lets say. Does one good hand really deserve another He can count to five he just needs to be good at multiplying by two. Anyway, I believe the one-hand look was actually derigour in the Old Man’s original prototype. It was only at final submission stage did the bi-handed model gain acceptance across the board. Maybe I should be a little more selective….just go for bi-delimbed folk as a benchmark…urgent cases only, ACC referrals…that kind of thing… I’ve only got a practising licence for three years remember – time management is important obviously. I’ve seen them before – burnt out healers, watch dolphins all day restoring their natural bio rhythms. It’s a worry.
Okay - red alert. We’ve got a swinging worship leader this morning and the 3rd upbeat number is a bouncing hallelujah type….people all around me are lifting their arms to Jehovah..and yes…..hands are waving. Mr Withered Hand has his eyes closed in ecstatic fashion. Good on him…go public why not…No pressure now mate …RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT. Must have seenme saunter in. Darn. The congregation is resisting rubber necking for sure, but lets be honest, they ALL have now seen the withered one. Stakes have just got higher…Relax…deep breathe……you can do this….
Yes…Mrs Munro, with the nice hat…Yes, I see his hand. Yes, we can all see the hand…thanks for sharing that with me, Yessssss….
Wretched is as wretched does.
Maybe Mr Unfortunate see the world with his twisted fingers, can feel them fall weak, deranged, useless, limp, falling robe-side, blood short-circuiting its trip back to the heart. Maybe his heart feels the rub of the eyes that stare. Maybe his heart feels the pain of the knuckles slopping from their mashed cages, all lazy and stubborn. Motion- less.
Maybe he’s just plain unemployed and bloody hungry.
Maybe a wife he has to concentrate to caress
Labelled and disabled. Handy Andy. The funny, funny jokes
Hi five dude !…, down low, no way bro.
It’s an ugly hand, even from a distance
Withered
Weathered
A wrist that won’t wrestle
Thumbs up to no one
A closed palm
ugly
What is a hand?
What is an arm without a hand?
A church bell without a donger
A jellyfish without a stinger
Flesh without a finger
Jolly without a roger
……AND THEN Mr Rabbi comes over:
‘Mr Jesus – the guy with the…’, eyebrows raise momentarily, ‘yeah….’ Eyes unsympathetic, checking his watch, uncomfortable, we’re teachers discussing the latest irritable student.
‘Aha’ I say.
‘You do know that….right……well….’
He looks me in the eyes. I’m supposed to nod approvingly. After all – IT’S THE FREEKIN SABBATH. OFCOURSE. IT’S THE FREEKIN SABBATH. He wants to scream it but he’s a slave to decorum. I look him at him and stare…
The sabbath.
Straightjacket day.
Seriously policed
We are all window shoppers in Amsterdam’s red light district without cash or credit -
Look around but don’t touch.
Do nothing.
And an old man lies near death in a carpark in Ponsonby –
‘It’s ok he’s probably just a bum sleeping…’
The sabbath
Straightjacket day
A day of rest…right
Like a commandment bastard child adopted into the mafia.
The sabbath
Celebration castrated
Straightjacket day
I still stare at him, Mr ‘No-Thanks-Were-Jewish; -Healings-ONLY-On-Wednesday-Nights at 700pm-At-The-Racecourse’-Rabbi awaits my response.
I look at the ‘Missionary SUNDAY’ banner placed prominently on stage – ‘Sunday’ capitalised, bold font, underlined. Just in case I forgot.
[Are Rabbi’s Rabbits ?: Both dig holes for themselves, screw themselves over (theologically) and a fair game for shotguns. Though Rabbi’s would make terrible pets – too bloody demanding. Mental note: reflect later for next batch of parables.]
I whisper with an increasing blood pressure to into Mr Rabbi’s big ear not so quietly:
This is no Tupperware party
I am not selling AMWAY
This is not cheesy Life Insurance
We are not surrounded by the superficial ill
We are in the midst of a polluting fog
Of the diseased, deceased, disabled and distilled
You can have the tithes and offerings backed by elevator music
The ching and the chang of the yen
We can offer burnt offerings till the slit cows come home
We can have the notices and the prayers of the faithful
We can drink wine from Lilliput glasses
And waffle and wafer communing on high
But I,
I pay no homage to calendars or candelabras
For do the broken care for the day’s names mystique
Or the quiet crazed dance of an altar side flame?
I am not bound to form or format
Or the formica kitchen bench replete with teas and coffees and superwines
and fresh baked muffins awaiting the faithful and today’s visiting
No….
Now I start to haemorrhage on the inside, forehead veins proud. I imagine myself on the set of Mastermind. Confident. Superior. Knowledgable. All psyched in a plush, black throne lazyboy. I shift gears
No….
So to you good Sir,
Go live in yellow submarine where the band begins to play
Where all your friends are all aboard
Where you sail into the sun
Sky of blue
Sea of green
And go beneath the waves to a life of ease
And from there,
Please,
Weighed down by the concrete of your heart – go to hell
Wanker
Your teko doesn’t stink, alright
Yet show me how your armpits aren’t cursed at noon in the desert
You know no grace
And your gaze is ice
In the end I will slice you like the Jap’s slice whales
-go to hell wanker
freely masturbate with your 2 perfect hands
for they pleasure only you
but this man
I turn, we look, his raised eyebrows follow my lead
That man
Worships me with only one perfect hand
A saviour waver
AND I love him
He looks at me. all offended like and checks his watch again and says something I can’t quite hear over the repetitive chorus. I’m sensing he don’t like me. Immediately I am crossed off his Christmas Barbe’ list.
AND THEN pumped I kick into show time. I rear from my seat winking at the leader mid further repetitive chorus and the drummers cymbal obsession and quickly dismiss the OHP technician with a pleasant courteous glance, tap my mic, cough, phlegm and hack as if on a marae. The guitarist trips over cables as he disappears of stage, a howl of feedback destroying the manufactured ambience.
A hand needs healing.
I think of the evil that hands do and then don’t think about it.
A hand needs healing.
I remain calm. The Rabbi’s babble menace and then I tap the mic again.. Silence reigns (Only Mrs Sloper can be heard clinking and clunking above the burgeoning whistle of the Zip out back).
I must be sensitive. I must be sensitive. I must be sensitive I tell myself.
Decide not to go for the philosophical, yet entertaining introduction along the lines of the sound of one hand clapping……too cheap I decide. I am tempted though.
Decide against ‘knock knock’ jokes too under the circumstances.
I must be sensitive. I get flustered and go for the pseudo military approach. Roman captivity and all that – should be satiric I figure – combined with an accentuating the positives. The man with the withered hand has at least two good feet I figure.
‘Stand up’ I say.
Mrs Crankshaw beams a smile you could sell as Mr Unfortunate stands. Temple audience respond on cue and without reserve. They watch the holy men squirm, the people, for sure the people they now be feelin’ the healin’ about to be dealin’. There was an air of anticipation.
‘Stretch out your hand’. It had to be done. You have to take a risk. Everyone had seen it already anyway, no one gasped in shock. I figured too that the man knew which hand to stretch out – I was still in ‘Mastermind’ mode obviously.
The man stretches.
Bingo.
A man’s hand is hinged back real and working
Whole
Good as new
Smiles all round
And everyone lived happily ever after.
Well nearly but not quite.
It’s the Sabbath remember.
The holy day
Where you can’t play rep soccer in the early 80’s
Mr Rabbi and the other Mr Rabbis saw the miracle.
Witnesses.
Witnesses scared witless.
One witness, a scared witless witness called then his church secretary mistress:
‘Look Love, sorry to interrupt but…..’
posted by Honest Dave at 12:18 pm
1 comments
