An unexpected cure for all ills

Michael Abateo had been trying to open the door of the old Palazzo in Valetta. In the summer the central section of the door expanded with heat and jammed like a silent, sullen adolescent. Despite Michael’s pushing and shoving over the ornate gate, the ancient door showed no response. Not until Michael had hurt his shoulder and begun to curse at the wretched door did it suddenly open.  On a later visit, Michael felt that it was his cursing more than his shoulder charging that brought the ‘Open Sesame’ results.  So, Michael had taken to berating the door, before even trying to physically open it. So loud and foul had been his salutations early one morning that a middle-aged Maltese woman from three stories up lent out of her window and shouted, “Taghzaq fl-ilma” (literal translation - you’re ploughing water!). 

Michael had felt like an old fool. A foul-mouthed old fool. Eventually, his sanding of the wooden door had made opening the hugely heavy front door a childlike task. Now Michael gloated at how easy his life had become. He was reminded of a story his grandfather had once told him about an old Maltese priest in one of the villages. 

A husband had complained to the priest bitterly of his nagging wife and the wily priest had said,

“I could solve your problem but since you’d never obey my instructions the situation is hopeless.”

 A few more weeks of misery past and in desperation the husband returned cap in hand begging for help. The priest said,

“No, I know you will never take my advice, so there really is no hope!”

Another miserable week of the husband’s life passed and then he begged the priest,

“I will, I’ll do anything you say if it solves this problem with my wife”.

The old priest looked thoughtful and asked,

“Do you promise you’ll take my advice and do exactly what I say for as long as I say?”

For a moment, the husband hesitated thinking about what dire instructions could lie head but his misery and desperation drove him on.

“I will, I’ll do exactly as you say for as long as you say if it solves the problem of this awful woman.”

The priest’s instructions were shocking and concise. The husband blinked incredulously. He could not believe it and began to splutter in rage. But the priest merely held up his hand in a gesture of dismissal and said

“You promised! Surely you are a man of your word. I never said it would be easy.”

Reluctantly the husband agreed and followed the bizarre instructions the priest had given him. For one week he was to move a goat into his house. Then, he should return to see the priest. The husband duly obeyed and at the end of the week returned, dishevelled bristling with anger to the priest’s house.

“Everything is worse than you can possibly imagine.” He cried,

“My wife is crazy with rage at having this goat in our home. The whole place stinks and it eats everything it can find. Even my neighbours are not speaking to me. None of us has slept all week. I never thought my life could get worse but your advice has made my home a living hell!”

The old priest smiled contentedly,

“I never said it would be easy, I just said it would solve your problem.”

The husband held his head in his hands in despair and then shouted,

“What on earth do you mean my life has got worse, not better, you’ve solved nothing!"

The priest answered ominously,

“You haven’t completed my instructions”.

By now the husband was both furious and fearful. What other disastrous action would this old fool of a priest subject his family to now? He totally regretted ever coming to the charlatan but he also knew he’d given his word to obey, so he asked with real dread,

“What do I have to do now?”

The priest replied that the goat should be removed from the house immediately and in a week’s time, the husband was to return once more to the priest. Relieved beyond measure that no more animals or other bizarre practices were insisted upon the husband raced home to evict his unwelcome guest. A week later the husband returned to the priest looking clean and well rested. He had a rosy glow to his cheeks and his face was beaming.

“Ah father, the house is clean again, my wife and I have been able to sleep and enjoy our food. My neighbours have been round to see the new furnishings in the house. The blasted goat ate even the edges of the sofa and the curtains. As for the carpets we had to replace them all. There is no getting goat shit out of carpet, father!  The house smells fine at last and my wife has worked her fingers to the bone to transform the place. She’s begun singing again and she is no longer mad at me but she thinks you are quite crazy!”

The priest smiled and replied,

“Oh indeed? But sure, isn’t your problem solved as I said it would be”.

The husband blustered and complained a little and then had to admit that, for now, his home was indeed a happy place. The old priest hastened to reassure him,

“Now don’t you worry about your little problem ever again. Sure, now we know the solution I can always take the remedy to your door myself if it's needed.”

As Michael turned the key in the door and it opened easily he laughed at the fundamental truths of the old tale. A test, a challenge, a problem removed brought strange joy to the heart and a deep sense of gratitude. That old priest had known a thing or two about life.

Aged 13 and Writing to the Archbishop for answers

me around 13 looking annoyed in pigtails

When I was young, around 13, I wrote a letter to the Archbishop of the Church of Ireland. It was a heartfelt piece about how angry I felt about the people of violence in our community who regularly bombed and shot others. My question was how as Christians could we turn the other cheek to such individuals? How could we love those who hate us and do us harm? Living in an area of Northern Ireland prone to bombs and violence I really wanted answers. One of my playmates on our street later would be sent to prison for planting a bomb that killed others. She was released after many years for health reasons. Seeing the devastation killing created it seemed forgiveness was an inadequate response for the community. Wolves when allowed free reign will kill the whole flock. Acquiescing and forgiveness in those circumstances will not avail. Surely communities have a right to defend themselves from such abuse. But where do Christians  stand given scriptural demands of a higher moral standard?

I was surprised to receive a reply from the archbishop. It was unexpected and appreciated. He wrote of our duty of forgiveness not just in words but in hearts also. He recognised how hard this task was and how many in Northern Ireland struggled with the enormity of this call. It seems strange then that decades later the man of violence on both sides are not just released from prison but invited to play their role in government. In fact those not involved in violence in the past are seen as rather ‘weak watery’ types who have little role to play in this new peace. Centre stage are the redeemed bad guys whose pronouncements on political and social affairs receives much prominence. What is this strange new vista where not only are we to forgive those of violence but handover to them the reins of power. Not just devout Christians but atheists, agnostics and those of all Faiths are expected to turn the other cheek and pretend all the bloodletting never happened. 

The same scenario was repeated in Rwanda where almost 3/4 of a million were slaughtered in a matter of months. The new peace requires victims to swallow an unpalatable reality. Violence achieves results. Those who are terrorists today will be tomorrow’s government. Until someone more violent trumps the existing cards and takes his place at the peace table. So we perpetuate a system of injustice devoid of reward and punishment. Almost the opposite where violence is a new currency of political debate and is rewarded with depressing regularity. The only beneficiaries apart from those of violent tendencies are huge armament industries whose bank balances bulge with blood money. 

It almost feels as if countries are being used as military advertisements of just what weapons of war can achieve. Instead of staid military hardware conventions the new sales arena for this industry is unfolding on our screens in the nightly news. Look! Look! How powerful our strikes are, how many we can kill or maim, how quickly can we lay waste a whole urban city. As millions flee the violence should we demand they turn the other cheek? Actually we ask much much more. We demand they turn around and head back to the hell they have fled. We are annoyed they fling themselves and their offspring at our European borders and drown in our seas. That's the perverse thing about injustice. We no longer see the reality that exists but some coloured perspective of our own construction. Everyone is the hero of their own movie. We look on all events as to what effect it has on me and mine. It is a tendency that is rampant in people, in industry, in nations and even in how hard facts are portrayed. To defend our dignity our nation’s flags are hauled around our naked flanks. Bare of principle or integrity but proudly indignant of the precious soil beneath our feet. 

One human life is worth more than any of this. When you take another life you have lost the game. Everything shifts and you have to see things in a light that justifies your actions. To do otherwise would be unbearable. That shift is subtle but cataclysmic in consequences. You must go forward claiming justification for your actions or spend a lifetime regretting those actions and attempting to find some redemption. Perpetrators choose the easy path and we have chosen to look the other way. It is easier for us to think that when men of violence achieve their objectives we will have peace. But even in our worst dreams we cannot think our way into their heads. 

Violence warps the fabric of our very humanity it makes us walk among others like humans but devoid of humanity. We no longer seek forgiveness. We are full of self justified anger. We have no mercy and are hungry for more blood. We have developed a taste for such things. I would it were not so. If I was writing to my 13 year old self I would hesitate to put pen to paper. I would not unfold the terrible path that lay ahead. It would not be fair. The young need hope to weather such storms. It would be unfair to take that away. Perhaps, with hope in their hearts,  they will find a more just path than we have.