The Final Judgement

<Translated into English>

For over a hundred years humanity has been dreaming of contacting an ‘intelligent’ species outside their own measly little planet. One look at their media and ‘cinema’ shows just how dissonant their view of reality really is. Of those films that deal with ‘alien invasions’ they are always war-like or feature conquests or persecution and even dissection in some cases! Why would any one visit such a backward planet?

The irony is that the hostility they display is not just limited to the infantile fantasies they create; for such a young species they are truly schizophrenic and one could almost say suicidal… which brings us to the current situation: the human race: should it be allowed to spread its disease to other worlds; should it be confined to its own planet or should we simply treat it as a failed experiment and sterilise the Earth and start again? The evidence is very simple and my case hinges on two angles: the desecration of the planet and the subjugation of the human race… by the human race. I’ll look at each one in turn.

The planet Earth is roughly 4.5 billion years old (give or take a few million) and humans have inhabited it for only 200,000 of those and in the course of that heartbeat they have drastically changed the face of the planet; granted for the first 198,000 of those very little had changed. Man lived in harmony with the planet; sought to understand the mysteries of the worlds around it but did nothing to drastically alter the landscape or damage her in any way. With the advent of a reductionist way of thinking man started to place itself on a higher plane of existence than the rest of the species that lived around it. One could say that, as it was still in its infancy it was still growing, allowing its ego free reign; exploring through its senses. But nothing has changed in the following years, if anything it’s gotten worse –rather than maturing and losing its sense of self-importance it has become even more egotistical!

With the advent of technology it has developed so many ways to rape and defile the planet; scourging the seas and polluting the air; literally defecating where it eats, never thinking about any of the consequences of its actions. It mines the land, scraping out the mineral deposits for no other reason than to pollute the land and make a desperate gamble for immortality. Are these the actions of a rational, mature, intelligent species? If this were the behaviour of an individual it would surely be considered suicidal!

But let us turn our view one hundred and eighty degrees then; let us look at the subjugation of the human race by the human race! Here we look at a schizophrenic entity with delusions of grandeur. Caught between the blind alley of what it calls ‘science’ and the sheer lunacy of it’s religious credo the human race has no real way of extricating itself. The religions are all juvenile attempts at controlling the mass population and the worrying thing is just how willing people are to be led. For such a ‘scientifically advanced’ species, they seem to enjoy being told stories no better than fairy tales and then go to war against those that hold differing views (equally as pathetic and fantastical).

Place a handful of humans in a room for more than twenty four hours and you will see violence erupt between them. Even though they are all alike it is amazing at just how many differences they see in themselves. From these ‘differences’ stems the other, and anything that is ‘other’ is feared and then hated. Human history is rife with this, but we must also factor this into the equation –one can only recognise that which rests in oneself. How can you hate something in someone else if it does not first reside within yourself? Therefore all of the hates and fears are down to mankind’s deep loathing of itself.

There is, of course, another factor that needs to be taken into account as a motivating force behind religion and that is power and ‘wealth’. There are certain humans that seek to rise above the norm and establish themselves as something superior –they do this by subjugating others; amassing great wealth at the cost of other’s who are their equals. These are the people behind the wars, behind the religions and though they might hide behind other excuses there is but one reasoning: fear. Fear of their own ineptitude; fear of their own mortality; of their own inequality and from that, again, breeds hatred. These are the ones that wield power like an unruly child in a temper tantrum –destroying the earth around them so they don’t have to look at the pain and fear that festers within.

There are those that follow neither creed; that live in accordance with the natural laws and should the decision be reached their souls will be taken in the balance and they will not suffer.

We have given the human race over two thousand years to improve itself; more than enough chances to reset it’s global karma, but it has snubbed these continuously.

From what we can tell there are three future outcomes for humanity – it will either pollute the planet and destroy it from within; destroy it from without through increasing conflicts and literally go nuclear or it will spread like a pestilence and infect the rest of its immediate galaxy when it finally works out the key to interstellar travel.

None of these are acceptable and each of these are equally as probable. There is but one solution therefore to this question but only you can make the judgement.

Open the door

Thankfully there are still some thing's that can't be understood; things that have nothing to do with science , which is still too narrow minded, and religion, which is illusory.

For me, life was always black and white, and when I first took this case on I had no idea where it would lead me. It looked like just another missing person case but it took me to my innermost core and showed me such wonders that I’m eternally grateful for.

The facts of the case are simple; they always are on the first glance.

Tom Holmes had gone missing three months ago; he'd left no note and there was no indication of foul play. On the surface he appeared to be a very chilled, mellow and affable person; who knew his own mind enough to keep himself to himself. Very few people had a bad word to say about him; those who did obviously bore a grudge against him, but nothing to suggest that they would act on it. No, everyone had the same view about him -aloof but very likeable.

Digging a little deeper led to a history of mental illness and a struggle with a sense of self (something that I could, unfortunately, empathise with), but nothing that extreme.

What did seem odd were the circumstances leading up to his disappearance; Tom had taken every Friday off in May as annual leave from his job working for a local charity. On the last Monday of the month he failed to turn up at work, which was unlike him. He was always an early riser, punctual and never ill.

No one answered at his flat, nor did anyone pick up the phone. His family, such as it was, seemed to display no alarm when questioned and could offer up no explanations when his car turned up outside a church in Loxcastle (almost 20 miles away); they simply nodded as if in understanding. There was no sign of a struggle and no clue to his whereabouts. There was never any suggestion that his family would gain from either his murder or his disappearance, or indeed anyone else. He wasn't rich and no one had any vendetta against him.

I was hired by his manager at work, bizarrely enough. She seemed to value Tom as an employee and wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened.

“He'd... Tom had been with us for over nine years and kept under the radar most of that time.” Susan told me. Susan Eastell , Training and Competency Manager for the charity and his line manager. “But for the last few years he'd come up in leaps and bounds. Our own fault really; we didn't see what kind of talent he had and now I just don't want to see it all go to waste.” She seemed quite genuine, even started to fill up whilst answering the questions.

“What about his family?”

“I don't know – I couldn't read them. They didn't seem to … care... they showed concern at first, but more for my own sake than theirs.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“They wouldn't answer any question that I put to them. I asked them where he was or what happened to him, but they didn't seem to know.”

“That's hardly surprising, if it's the truth.” I ventured.

“No... it was the way they answered – more of a passive acceptance. It didn't make sense. His mother just turned to me and said that she would know if something bad had happened to Tom. And I believed her.”

I got that same feeling when I visited Tom's mother, Helen.

“Are you religious?” was the first question she asked me when we sat down in her lounge. Everything was very neutral but not necessarily relaxing.

“No..” I answered. “I don't think so... I mean I used to be, once -but I'm not sure what I am now.” I was surprised by the frankness of the question and couldn't help but answer honestly.

“Well, that will hold you in good stead during your investigation.”

“So you know when Tom is then?”

“No.”

“You don't seem to be very upset by his disappearance, don't you miss him?” I asked her, trying to get an emotional response.

“Of course. You've no doubt read up on him; he was well liked by most people and everyone misses him.”

“That doesn't exactly answer my question.”

“He was my son and I loved him more than you could possibly know, but I didn't always understand him.”

“How do you mean?”

“He was always closer to his father than me. They used to go for long walks together, just to talk. I don't know who was teaching who.”

“And where is your husband now?”

“Fishing, I expect. He does that a lot now, it affords him time to think.”

“You sound bitter.”

“Tom has found the peace he always wanted and my husband is at the door to understanding, as he puts it. It seems that no one gave a shit about me, or what I wanted.”

“I'm sorry.” I genuinely felt for her, life had robbed her of both men in her life and all she wanted to know was why.

“Why? Even you on the pathway, presumably, probably without you ever knowing it. It seems that everyone is on their path except for me.” I shrugged, unsure of what to say. It was obvious that she had no idea what had happened so I asked the only question that was left to me.

“Which pond does your husband fish at?”

“Furners Green at Slaughley.”

“Yes – I know that pond well.”

“Of course you do.”

I was perplexed by her outlook. It was as if she was torn in two. She was both in denial of the circumstances of her son’s disappearance but also accepted that he was gone.

I drove over to Furners Green, not wanting to waste any more time. I'd spent many happy memories with my father there and actually caught my first fish there; it'd taken four years of perseverance until I landed, what a that time seemed like a monster, but was only just a pound in weight.

Tom's father was at the third swim and almost seemed to be expecting me.

“Did your wife call ahead and warn you that I was coming?” I ventured.

“No – we're not on speaking terms at the moment. That will pass, though.” He seemed very amiable, completely at odds with the way his wife was.

“What caused the rift?” I asked.

“Oh.. It’s always been there, one way or another. Sit down, please; pull up a rod.” I did so; the first cast feeling magical.

“What can you tell me about Tom?”

“It's difficult to say; there were times when the dividing line between father and son became blurred.”

“In what way?”

“He was possessed with a wisdom beyond his years, and the older he became the more he allowed this to show. He didn't suffer fools gladly so spent most of his life alone. It was far from an easy life; although you'd be forgiven for missing the signs -he internalised everything. He paid for his knowledge though through much soul searching and he never rested until he found the answers.”

“You sound as if you admired him.”

“Yes, strange as it may seem. He was my son, but he belonged to nobody. I saw him grow, helped him where I could and soon I was learning from him.”

“Do you know where he is? What happened to him?”

“I don't know where he is, but I'm trying to understand what happened. I'm almost there, I think... at the doorway, as he put it once.”

“Your wife used the same phrase when describing you.” I ventured.

“Did she?.. Yes, I'm just trying to understand how to open it, I suppose.” He paused and cast the line out again. I followed suit and there was an immense sense of satisfaction and calm. Something I'd not felt for a long time. “What about yourself?” He asked.

I was taken aback by the question; it had been a while since anyone had asked me that. “Well, I guess I'm ok.”

“You guess... That's the problem these days – nobody knows for sure. People no longer ask with intent and no longer care about the answer. Tom cared... that was why he suffered for it. Are you religious at all?”

“Your wife asked the same question.”

“Yes... Tom and his mother rarely saw eye for eye. As he grew he saw the pitfalls inherent in religion, saw it for what it really was and loathed it. However, his mother was the religious type and was an enigma to him, but he couldn't bear to hurt her; so they barely talked. When they did, what started out as a reasoning debate would end in an emotional argument -neither side backing down.”

“Oh... yes, I suppose I can understand that. But, in answer to your question, no... I'm not religious in the slightest.  I confess that I don't really know what I am – the closest I could pin it down to is Buddhism.”

“I would say that we're on a similar path then. I never knew that there was a path until Tom showed the way. Your path is the most important thing – it is your life. You can choose to ignore it, to fight it or to walk it. The first will lead to endless recursion; the second to pain and frustration but the third will lead to understanding and peace -or that is what Tom believed.”

“And you?”

“I ignored mine for many years and kept repeating the same mistakes...  but under different guises, I guess. Now I'm becoming more aware of life happening around me.”

“What did happen to Tom?”

“I don't honestly know... but I've been expecting someone to come looking for him. Someone like you, actually. Someone that might actually understand.”

“Why?”

“So I could give them these.” He reached into his backpack and handed me three A5 notebooks.  “The handwriting is pretty illegible, but if you can translate them they're his words... maybe then you'll find the door you're looking for.”

I took the books and thanked him. “If you want to talk, I put my mobile number on the inside cover.... by the way – I think you've caught a fish!”

I sat down and read Tom's words that night, cover to cover -no sleep until I finished all three and by the end I'd never felt so refreshed. The handwriting was terrible to start with but I was determined to understand. Slowly I began to recognise words out of the meaningless jumble and then pieced whole sentences together; pretty soon I was just reading it as if I had been the one who wrote it.

Tom's initial journey felt so much like my own -we had read similar books and almost drawn the same conclusions, I had read Colin Wilson's Outsider and understood the premise but felt alienated by its preponderance on figures from literature -I'm not well-read in the slightest and found it hard going. Tom took to it like the proverbial and even managed to draw conclusions to films such as “Five Easy Pieces” with Jack Nicholson.

But where I had given up reading at books like “The Celestine Prophecy” and the “History of Now”, Tom had delved even deeper.

Tom suffered from depression brought on from an underactive thyroid; I felt guilt over a friends suicide. I felt initially spurred by a wish to have been there to help which turned into helplessness due to the realisation that there was nothing I could've done to help. In the end I accepted her death in a way that I never could my life. There was a constant comparison to her life; the constant what-if scenario and ultimately living my life for her. None of this showed as no one ever got close enough to catch a glimmer. Life is tenuous enough as it is and very few people are strong enough for their own lives let alone two. I wanted to cast no ripples for others to find. I had accepted the way life was and did what I could to get from A-B with little residual presence.

Tom was different. He had no control over his depression and that forced him to find alternatives; not through drugs and escapism, but through coping mechanisms and understanding. He never gave up.

True, there were lulls and times when he was down and his journal became heart-rending. Life seemed to happen at once, no holds barred and constantly testing for the weaknesses to exploit -no matter how carefully constructed the armour it found that one chink and struck.

But Tom never saw it as an attack but as a way to move forward, to become stronger. He felt the pain and moved through it, allowing life to show him things. He was a deep believer in synchronicity and preferred Jung's views to Redfield.

To Tom, Redfield tried to sell a concept, cheapening the truth to fit a mystery caper; a race against time. Jung understood the hologram, the semiology. As above, so below; the world became a reflection of the individual.

It was frightening just how much I could relate to this. Tom’s writing style was direct and pulled no punches. At times it was so emotionally raw but that just made it all the more real.

In the last journal I began to see how he had been tying up loose threads; the small, inconsequential details that people just don't notice. He'd reached an understanding that few people ever attain, and upon finishing the last page I knew that there was only one place I had to go.

It was still dark when I reached Loxcastle Church but, strangely enough, the church was still open and unlocked. I half expected to find Tom's car parked outside. The church was cool inside and it took a while for my eyes to become accustomed to the dark.

The church smelt of misplaced hope and the ravages of time. I used to feel oppressed on the rare times I visited these places, now I just felt sad.

Somehow I knew where Tom had sat, on the front row, at the far right corner and I did the same. A sense of warmth and peace drifted over me and I knew that I'd chosen correctly. I closed my eyes.

My life had taken me down so many dead ends and blind alleys; and here I was in yet another. But I thought back to the initial decision to drive out here. There was no procrastination, no doubt: it had felt right and there seemed no reason to question it; despite the absurdity. Sitting in this seat flew in the face of logic, yet the feeling I was now experiencing was one I'd almost forgotten existed... Acceptance.

I don't know how many times Tom had visited this church, it didn’t matter: his total acceptance of life led to an understanding that is only just beginning to speak to me now.

I know he didn't commit suicide; that would have been abhorrent to him. No, he realised that he'd lived his life as best he could. He knew that he had a choice: to stay or move on. His decision was simple and came as a surprise only to his mother who could not understand due to her blinkered 'faith'. His father understood and, although it went against every instinct, gave his blessing.

I believe that Tom realised his truth, this true self. It's a concept that I can understand now, but only as a concept -I'm a long way to realising it in myself. I don't know whether I could make the same decision that Tom made, but I do know that he's given me more to live for. His journals, his journey has given me the keys to finding my very own door and I look forward to the day when I can finally walk through it.

The Burning Question

“I’m not religious, so I don’t believe in an omniscient narrator.”

This was the Tweet that started it all. For Peter it was the distillation of many months of thought and many years of doubt; it was very difficult to find something worth believing in; especially when Christianity was such a no-brainer. It was puerile and banal when he was a teenager (when he flirted with Catholic guilt…it was either that or become a Goth) and now it was crass and offensive. All Christianity offered was an easy alternative to the people who couldn’t figure out the answers themselves. And it had gotten so much more difficult since then; any freedom of thought was looked down upon with a great and spurious disdain.

To be fair, it was actually very difficult to discover one’s own path when faced with the supermarket full of faiths and religions; it was: a conflicting morass of tricksters, illusionists and frauds trying to sell you the ticket to the afterlife of their choosing (but only if you followed their twelve step prescribed and paid for plan). All the secrets of the universe were yours for the taking so as long as you could afford them and apparently there were always expansion packs and expensive add-ons that added years to your life; granted you the keys to illumination and gave you a larger penis provided you could afford them!

Peter had spent so many wasted years traversing these blind alleys of faith healing and mediums. There was a lot of experience and knowledge that he had gleamed from these encounters but not in the way he had expected. He’d learnt all the ways NOT to treat people and realised that none of the so called, shaman’s, wise men, high priestesses or mediums knew more than him; they were just great salesmen, that’s all.

What struck him though was the gullibility of the people around; how much they wanted to believe in something other than themselves often at their own cost (regardless of time, energy and money). It also became apparent that people didn’t want to do any of the hard work themselves. They wanted to be spoon fed the answers continuously in small, bite-sized digestible morsels, like baby food.  Religion made it easy; the indoctrination started at such an early age when the mind was malleable and the images and brainwashing could stay a lifetime.

Peter, a biblical name itself, loathed Christianity with a passion, but despite being so staunchly against it still found himself immersed in the archetypal imagery associated with it; it was all around. That wasn’t to say that there weren’t ‘good Christians’, but it wasn’t the religion that made them; they would have been genuine people regardless of the trappings. Christianity provided a crutch for people.

It was through reading about Joseph Campbell that he realised that it was the story that was so important; finding one’s own story away from the quagmire of the shifting identity that society tried to impose. ‘Be true to yourself’ seemed to be the creed that many Eastern philosophies espoused, or so it seemed to Peter, and that the key to leading an enlightened life was finding out what worked for you and you alone. The answers were out there for you to find, but you had to make the effort –like panning for gold.

Peter understood that the true message of alchemy had nothing to do with turning crap into gold but refining one’s self from the base material that other people gave you into the true spirit. Guilt had nothing to do with it! He knew that we all hold the spark of divinity but the aim of the game was in realising it.

“Go from misconceptualising to mythconceptualising.” Read his second tweet the following day and by this time his circle of followers had doubled to almost seventy! Word had spread fast.

What prompted his move from passive realisation to actualisation was the most trivial of confrontations in his local MacDonalds. As usual, inefficiency ruled and, despite the improved assembly line approach to burger building, there were longer queues and no real demarcation as to where one queue started.

Peter had joined one such raggedy queue and they were all covering two tills; both as ineffectual as the other; yet there were no grumblings and most people seemed content to exist in this limbo. However, there was one lady who took exception and barged across to get to the front of the queue much to the chagrin of the others.

“Don’t they feed you in Ethiopia?” was her killer retort when Peter asked her politely to get to the end of the queue. She then launched into a torrent of abuse which got her ejected from the store in the end. Peter couldn’t help but notice the small crucifix hanging from her neck and wondered whether that had anything to do with her arrogance; probably not as she seemed to be the type of crass and ignorant harridan that was currently in vogue. 

What was worse: there seemed to be more and more of that particular kind of unenlightened, selfish person around. And as religion offered no real alternatives when it came to finding a real path through the morass of life, Peter realised that it was down to him to offer at least his view of things; people could then make up their own mind. He was not going to let that woman and her type have the last say.

He wanted to start small he wasn’t going to start a religion like L. Ron Hubbard so it dawned on him that the MeetUp groups would offer him the best opportunities. This was not going to be “The Peter Cawl show”, it would be an opportunity to discuss alternatives and new ways of living. He wasn’t going to run it per se; a subject would be picked each week to discuss and it would be a mutual learning experience. There was no way that he would accept anyone who had a strong faith; he wasn’t interested in being converted or converting anyone himself. (this would actually be a test for himself as well for he had strong views so it would be important for him not to dominate and argue his points across). An open mind would be the main criteria and egos were to be left at the door. It was his group and he would be more than happy to stop anyone from joining who tried to break those rules.

He’d been a member of local MeetUp groups for about a year and had floated his ideas for his new venture with people he perceived had a like mind, and was pleasantly surprised by the interest it was stirring. The first meeting was on Monday in a local pub; he didn’t want many people there: too large a group would be counter-productive. He didn’t have all the answers and actually said so on his MeetUp advert. Too many people would have made the conversation unwieldy, not to mention difficult to host in a pub.

The eleven spaces filled up instantly and twenty people actually turned up. The pub landlord was overjoyed because it was a quiet night and actually gave out a few nibbles. The topic that night was “what does it mean to be Spiritual?”; debate was lively and enlightened. There was a nice mix of people, young and old, male and female with a mix of ethnic backgrounds as well; all came with open minds and hearts.

All agreed that the journey was key and no faith or religion had the answers; it was up to the individual to decide what worked for them. All left with much reading and research; and plenty of soul searching to do and all really wanted to come back which made Peter feel he’d made the right decision.

All? Actually no; at the end of that first night there was one man sitting alone at the far corner of the table with a dour expression; thin lipped, tight gazed. He eyed Peter with contempt and said nothing, just got up and walked out of the pub. Peter wondered whether he’d picked the wrong meet-up group by mistake, and when he checked the list of attendees at home he was sure of it. It was doubtful that the guy would return.

The feedback from the rest of the group was resoundingly positive; people were pleased that there was no hard sell, they had found a place to explore their own beliefs and ideas without being ridiculed. Yes, there was laughter, but none of it was personal.

Peter had left it open for people to pick what they wanted to talk about for the next meeting. Unsurprisingly, religion was touted by many but Peter thought it best to let the group bed in before they moved on to such a contentious issue; passions could run high and it would be better for people to know each other before letting off such steam.

He suggested UFO’s instead which had many people readily agreeing. This was a subject that he had looked into over the years and knew that there were many angles to cover from the Jungian perspective to the modern equivalent of Fairies. Again, the evening flowed and everyone joined in with their own interpretations; some had their own first-hand experience of lights in the sky and others were die-hard X-Files fans.

It was the sharp intake of breath that startled Peter as he walked home that night.

“Why do you insist on doing this?” The voice was hard, fragile; the body it belonged to was as well –thin and tall, short cropped hair. But the eyes still had a fevered look, unblinking. This was the look of a fanatic and Peter knew that he had to tread very carefully now.

“I’m not insisting on anything; people come to the group of their own free will –it’s a choice.”

“You’re leading these people astray; they’re weak. You should not be doing this.”

“I’m sorry you don’t agree with what I’m doing, but you don’t have to come to the group. That is your choice. I’m not hurting anyone.”

“That remains to be seen.” The man replied and walked past him into the darkness.

Two weeks passed by and Peter had almost forgotten the strange man and his piercing eyes. Until…

“You think you’re so clever don’t you?” It was the fourth week and Peter had hit his stride; people were really beginning to open up now and explore their own path; talk about their own experiences, whether it was about the Tarot or the I-Ching, or fairies and angels.

The voice took him by surprise; it was late and the group discussion had stretched out to three hours and the pub was close to closing. The landlord was a convert himself now and actually joined in with the debates. The man was sitting at the other end of the bar, and by the amount of empty glasses, he’d been sitting there since the beginning.

“You should have joined us.” Peter replied.

“Even though you don’t want any religious zealots to join you?” It was obvious that he’d seen the postings on MeetUp and read between the lines. “Answer my question –you think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“No… not at all. What makes you think that?”

“The answers are all there; right in front of you, yet you ignore it all. You blaspheme with every thought, action and speech. Why?”

“Quite the opposite… We don’t have the answers and between us we’re helping each other find the clues to what out paths might be.” Peter knew that he had to be careful. He was pumped up with the intellectual equivalent of adrenaline but oh, so tired. He wanted this person to go and leave him alone, but equally he knew that this was a powderkeg; all it would take was one spark.

“But the answers are right there in front of you, yet all you do is ridicule; why?”

“For you there are answers, which is great… but that doesn’t work for us. It’s not the same. Look; what’s your name?”

“Isaiah.” Figures, thought Paul.

“Look Isaiah, come to the group if you want. Put your side of the story if it makes you feel better. Explain to us why you feel.. what it is that you feel and we will listen. It has to be better than sitting on the side-lines like you do.

“Why, so you can all have your fun and laugh? It’s always easier to mock what you don’t understand.”

“That’s it –we don’t understand. And if you do, then you owe it to us to explain.” Isaiah continued staring through him. “Well, it’s your choice. I’ve given you a genuine offer; come and state your piece and we’ll listen; otherwise I’m going to have to ask you to stop stalking us.”

“I’m not.”

“Well… stalking me then. It’s very disconcerting and I could do without it. Why do you do it?”

“You know why.” It was obvious that Isaiah was in no mood to listen. It was either retreat or confrontation, so Peter chose the latter. He walked home without event yet he was constantly aware he was being followed; every time he turned around, however, there was nobody there –except God, he thought and chuckled.

His group had swelled to forty people now and the pub landlord had graciously allowed them to use the upstairs function room for the evening. Each evening went by without a hitch right up until closing time and then there would be Isaiah waiting at the bar; eyes piercing as everyone walked out. This was an accident waiting to happen but there would be no winners if Peter confronted him, so he decided to move the venue to a new location.

Everyone agreed and even chipped in so they could afford to rent out a village hall for a couple of hours a week. There were more than enough people to cover the costs and allow for tea and biscuits as well. Yet at the end of the first evening at the new venue, there stood Isaiah waiting outside, soaked to the skin from the pouring rain; such an incongruous sight. For the first time, Peter was afraid of him, afraid of what would happen to him if anyone realised what he was doing. Peter walked up to him: “I will meet with you.” Isaiah spoke quietly, just so Peter could hear and then just walked away back into the storm.

Next week the hall was packed to capacity; all wanted to understand; all were there to learn how the other person felt. Peter felt both proud and a little nervous; things were starting to roller-coaster out of his control. He had no idea whether Isaiah would turn up; or what kind of mood he might be in; he didn’t want a riot or a lynching on his hands.

Suddenly the doors opened to Isaiah. At first he just stood there, like a sheriff in a lawless town and Peter thought he was holding a cheap bottle of gin or vodka wrapped in newspaper –not the greatest of start's. As he strode closer it became obvious what he was carrying, but it was too late to do anything about it.

The match was struck, the soaked rag lit and with a horrifying scream Isaiah threw the bottle; smashing it at Peters feet, soaking him with flaming hatred. Isaiah stood there, staring at the figure now engulfed in fire, eyes wide with disbelief. The whole congregation drew breath as one at the sight that now met their eyes. Isaiah fell to his knees and began rocking back and forth, the same words echoing the thoughts of those around him.

“Why won’t he burn? Why won’t he burn? Why won’t he burn?”

Peter helplessly saw the fear awash in everyone’s eyes, looked to his hands and wept.