Whose Voice?

“I’m not into the business of crucifixion.”  But it was too late, he’d already hammered in the nails, one by one.  They were real nails: hand-made, thin and sharp . . . and long.  They had to be, for, between them, they carried the whole weight of the case he had constructed.

 “To see ourselves as others see us.”  That had always been his mantra, his philosophy of life.  If what others saw was good, then it was good.  So then, when it came to others, the same rule applied.  After all, did it not form the basis of this new appraisal system?  So he asked what others saw – the ones he knew, the ones who’d contacted him, the ones he bumped into – and carefully noted their concerns, their opinions, their insights.

His victim, the target of his attention, had a different view, a markedly different philosophy: “Know thyself”.  Consequently he spent much of his time and nearly all of his energy on introspection.  And, of course, he found himself infinitely interesting.  But, the truth, as he saw it, hurt.  So it was that he too began to look for others who would see him differently or, if he was honest, favourably – people who liked him.  Fortunately he found them and they bolstered his ego, just enough, and he got through another week.

When the two of them met, the crash was inevitable.  As he hammered in his nails, actually, not his nails, but the ones hand-made by others, he saw his victim bleed, writhing in pain . . . .and was shocked – did not the truth set a man free?  Surely, if this man could see himself through others’ eyes, he would be liberated, able to move forward, begin again after his rocky start, become the priest the parish needed him to be – was that not obvious?  Why could he not appreciate what was being done for him, the trouble he had taken to convey what others saw, what others told him – wasn’t that his role, isn’t that how the game was to be played?  The future of the two parishes lay in his hands – he had to ensure that the one who was their priest was aware of his faults and helped to move on, not for his sake, but for theirs – this pain would be the birth-pangs of a new future.  It was only after crucifixion that resurrection could come.

The parish priest was screaming – not out loud, that would be unseemly, unbecoming, a sign of pathetic and embarrassing weakness.  But the conversation, though unheard, continued unabated: “What about the things I put in my answers, the seven pages of notes that I made when all around me was falling apart and I was propping others up, sorting out their mess, caring for them and trying hard not to be judge, jury and executioner?”

“When I had to tackle them about their behaviour I spoke with those at a distance, who could see more clearly, who were more experienced, more skilled than I.  And when I did listen to those nearby, the ones at the sharp end, did I not heed their opinions, see it from their perspective, and, albeit reluctantly, change what I had already constructed?”

“And when I spoke with the ones involved did I not hold their lives gently so that their bruised-feelings, their injured-self-image would suffer no further damage?  Did I not end it in a better place than where we all began?”

“Was it not that the outcome was at least an open door, a way forward, two lives still intact and support already available to ensure that healing could take place?”

“Can the man not see what he is doing to me – why does he not care?”

The crash had consequences for them both –there would be, not a beginning, but an ending.  Both would be injured whilst trying hard to keep their very different philosophies intact, after all, were these not the things that their lives were built upon? 

One of them would remain, disillusioned, rejected, broken, lessened by his experience. 

The other would be chastened, temporarily, but able to shrug-off what did not match what he saw and therefore, what he knew.  His future was elsewhere, as his past had been, he could leave this behind and move on.

Those left to pick up the pieces saw something else – a bloody mess.  It was unpleasant to deal with and an unrewarding task, but, it had to be done and they got on with it.

They picked up the nails and considered whether to keep them – after all, they were, not mass-produced, but hand-made.  But how could they be stored safely, so that no-one else was cut by them, hurt by them, so that they would not pierce anyone else’s too-thin skin or pin another soul onto wood? 

So, in the end, they and the rest of the debris were swept, not under the carpet, but into the deeper recesses of the room labelled, ‘Do not disturb’.

And God watched it all, from the inside, and wept.  For no-one had thought to ask what she saw.