16th August, 2004

KEVIN I. GRANT

Dies Solis, Ante diem III Idus Iulias, DCCLXXIV AUC, Hora IX
(Day of the Sun, three days before the Ides of July, 776 years after the founding of Rome, the Ninth Hour)
The sun had passed its zenith, but its heat still made the air shimmer above the baked earth and cobbles of the street. Its light was blinding as it ricocheted off the white marble of the facade and columns of the Temple towering a hundred cubits into the cloudless blue dome of the sky. Men, with faces hooded against the glare, hurried into the blessed coolness of the shaded inner courts. It was the hour of prayer.
    Huddled in the small pool of shadow cast by an alcove, sat a man. His tattered garments served to emphasise, not hide, his thin, almost emaciated form. His skeletal and twisted legs were tucked under him so as to cause as little offence as possible as he held out gnarled and callused hands that also served as feet. Hopelessness was etched into the sagging and lined face. Shame ground into fatalism by desperation smouldered in the downcast eyes. Every day as long as he could remember, they had carried him to the Beautiful Gate to beg coin on which to live.

Sunday, 13 July 2003AD, 10:30am
I parked just in time to make the beginning of the service. He stood at the gate of the city as he had so many times before, in the bus interchange between the car park and the escalator that led to the church. He wore the gleanings of the op shops, several sizes too large for his gaunt frame. Even in hottest weather, he wore long sleeves to cover the marks of the needle on his forearms. His dishevelled locks, sprinkled with grey, hung long, lank and lifeless. At times, his blue eyes were bright, glittering and pin-pupilled with the power of the poppy, his demeanour slow and withdrawn. But mostly he was agitated, his eyes dull with the pain of withdrawal and desperate for the means to relieve it.

Dies Solis, Ante diem III Idus Iulias, DCCLXXIV AUC, Hora IX
Two men approached. Both were of medium height, dressed in the nondescript if functional robes of the working class. Peter, the older and the more sturdy of the two, was nearer the man at the gate and started slightly as man raised his voice in the whine of the professional beggar.

   "Money for the poor! Alms for a cripple, kind Sirs!"
    The younger man, John, immediately sensed the expectancy in Peter and the glory of the presence of the Spirit. They both stopped.

    "Look at us!" Peter's voice, deep and grating from years of shouting over wind and wave, was calm but clearly commanding.

Sunday, 13 July 2003AD, 10:30am
I knew better than to let him catch my eye. I kept my gaze fixed on the paving stones and plotted a course that would pass several metres away from him. He moved to intercept me.

    "Got the time, mate?"
    I tried to ignore him, but that day he was insistent, tapping his wrist as if I didn't understand his question.
    It wasn't his voice that made me look up. It was the gentle inner urging that came now and then.

   “Love this man as yourself,” it said.
    It was 10:30. I’d miss the worship. Surely the greatest commandment to love God unreservedly was more important than the second – more immediate?
    I flicked up my wrist to check the time I already knew.
    He didn't wait for the time. He launched into his spiel.

    "See, I came into town with me wife. She come down sick an' was took off to hospital. I got nuthin’ so I need money for the bus fare to go see her. Can ya borrow me a couple of bucks?"

Dies Solis, Ante diem III Idus Iulias, DCCLXXIV AUC, Hora IX
The man quickly raised his head and eyes, but there was only the hope of a little money to purchase his meagre dinner in the eyes. The hope died as he saw the hard-worn clothes and rope-scarred hands of fishermen. The eyes dropped again as he heard the same voice say,

    "I have no money, but what I have I give to you."
    As the man withdrew into his dark cave of hopelessness and shame, Peter reached out and took his right hand. His voice again took on the air of command.

    "In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk!"
    The brawny arm of the fisherman hauled the man upright as he scrabbled to cover his mangled feet. But even as he did so, the twisted bones and sinew of his ankles and feet straightened before his eyes. His hand fell limp and the rags fell away from the legs that were now smooth and curved with muscle.

Sunday, 13 July 2003AD, 10:30am
I knew how long it took to shake him off. So I did what any good citizen would do - I fumbled for my wallet, found the smallest note, and thrust it toward him. Ignoring his thanks, I headed for the escalator – the music was already pumping.

Dies Solis, Ante diem III Idus Iulias, DCCLXXIV AUC, Hora IX
Peter released his hand. For the first time in his life, the man stood on his own feet. It took several seconds for the realisation to sink in. Hope flooded the thin, careworn face. Joy blazed from the eyes. Tottering, he threw himself at Peter, inarticulate in his happiness.
    Peter's words were lost in the growing tumult as bystanders crowded round, but the name Jesus was clear among them. The man leapt, shouted and sang as for the first time he entered the Temple courts, into which no blemished man may enter. He was whole.

Sunday, 13 July 2003AD, 10:30-12:00am
The worship was contemporary, lively and loud.
    The message was Scriptural, relevant and challenging.
    Despite it all, my mind and heart were still on the street.

Sunday, 13 July 2003AD, 12:23pm
The doors hummed open as I stepped off the escalator. He lay on the pavement, eyes white and wide, gazing fixedly at the sun. His legs kicked feebly and spasmodically. People stood in a circle around him staring.
    I knelt by him. Saliva had dried in a white ring round his mouth. His breath snored, as his chest flopped in shallow gasps. The pulse in his neck was slow and erratic. I lifted him onto his side. His body was surprisingly light.
    I looked up at the gathering crowd, some clutching skateboards, others their Bibles. I caught the eye of the man with a mobile phone bulging at his belt.

    “Dial 000. Get the ambulance here fast. Tell them there’s an overdose at the civic bus interchange.”

Sunday, 13 July 2003AD, 12:23pm
Minutes crawled. His breathing became slower, his pulse more erratic. I prayed. His breathing stopped.
    I looked at the caked saliva. I wondered what viruses from shared needles it could contain. I had refused him the comfort of human contact because I begrudged him the time. Could I refuse him life because of my fear?
    I hauled the body onto its back, arched the neck and, sealing my lips on his, blew breath into him. My breath returned to me reeking of dried mucous, stale wine and unbrushed teeth. I closed my eyes to brace against the nausea to give the next breath. Sirens sounded in the distance.

Sunday, 13 July 2003AD, 12:28pm
The paramedic was quick and efficient. This was not her first overdose patient. The often-repeated actions flowed: oxygen; the hypodermic of Narcaine; cardiac massage.
    But it was too late. His eyes were open, but no-one looked out. The paramedic offered an antiseptic mouthwash I gratefully accepted. Anything to take the taste of death from my lips.

   “You did all you could. He did it to himself,” the paramedic said over her shoulder as she rolled yet another body into its plastic bag and zipped it up.
    I stood silently. In me lives the Spirit of life. Yet my apathy perpetuated hopelessness and my money bought death. Where in two thousand years have we gone so wrong?

Born in Zimbabwe, Kevin I. Grant now lives in Canberra where he works as a scientific advisor to the Therapeutic Goods Administration. His interests have been many and varied over the years: reading (from fantasy to theology), hiking, canyoning, kayaking, scuba diving, road cycling and mountain biking. But in all these his two primary passions in life have been his God and his family.

 www.kevinigrant.com