Not of the musical type, unless we permit hymns into that typology.
Often, while walking down Dublin’s O’Connell Street and immediately past the GPO, a swift left turn startles me. Standing in front of me, bible in hand, is this gesticulating figure loudly roaring that Jesus is going to burn me in hell for eternity because while he loves me, I don’t reciprocate.
My lack of love for Jesus is assumed of course, because not having met the preacher from the sandwich board society in my life, he cannot possibly know that my lack of faith sustains me.
A glutton for punishment, on one of my latest forays into the street, I was met by a woman determined to make herself heard to the large footfall as equally determined not to hear her. Her strident voice sounded like a foghorn-cum-force field: the louder she boomed the further way from her pedestrians seemed repelled.
Her testimony was that she had been an alcoholic, but Jesus had rescued her. My sole observation was that Jesus by the very act of turning water into wine had substantially increased the number of alcoholics. If that got her thinking, she gave no hint of it. “Jesus” boomed even louder as I retreated up the street and away from it all.
From the frying pan to the fire, although on this occasion not those of hell. A matter of mere yards saw me accosted by another, eyeing me up like a Jehovah Witness does a doorbell, again making promises - but mercifully not threats - on behalf of Jesus.
In Henry Street, shooing them away is like playing wackamole, leaving me to think that St. Henry, the patron saint of the childless, the disabled, and those rejected by religious orders, might just have a new bailiwick.
Often, while walking down Dublin’s O’Connell Street and immediately past the GPO, a swift left turn startles me. Standing in front of me, bible in hand, is this gesticulating figure loudly roaring that Jesus is going to burn me in hell for eternity because while he loves me, I don’t reciprocate.
My lack of love for Jesus is assumed of course, because not having met the preacher from the sandwich board society in my life, he cannot possibly know that my lack of faith sustains me.
A glutton for punishment, on one of my latest forays into the street, I was met by a woman determined to make herself heard to the large footfall as equally determined not to hear her. Her strident voice sounded like a foghorn-cum-force field: the louder she boomed the further way from her pedestrians seemed repelled.
Her testimony was that she had been an alcoholic, but Jesus had rescued her. My sole observation was that Jesus by the very act of turning water into wine had substantially increased the number of alcoholics. If that got her thinking, she gave no hint of it. “Jesus” boomed even louder as I retreated up the street and away from it all.
From the frying pan to the fire, although on this occasion not those of hell. A matter of mere yards saw me accosted by another, eyeing me up like a Jehovah Witness does a doorbell, again making promises - but mercifully not threats - on behalf of Jesus.
In Henry Street, shooing them away is like playing wackamole, leaving me to think that St. Henry, the patron saint of the childless, the disabled, and those rejected by religious orders, might just have a new bailiwick.
I remember back in 2008 when the whole financial world came tumbling down, I was walking thru town and hearing some Godspell in the distance shouting Jesus Saves he kept repeating same until I got closer and I said hope he wasn’t saving with Anglo Irish to which he let out a torrent of abuse which wasn’t very Christian
ReplyDeleteDid he really turn water into wine🥃🥃🤔😂? Could you facillitate an introduction to this bloke, could save me a fortune🤠🤣😇😇
ReplyDeleteCaoimhin O'Muraile