Jesus Nut has been absent from town. Often he could be seen beside a
vehicle emblazoned with Christian catch phrases. His
conversations with the invisible would include dramatic gesture and
reference to the bible he held. His eyes glowing in a fever of
revelation. A passionate man, devoted to his message, a smiling
prophet of old.
I have often wanted to chat with him,
but once, by the police station, he shook the good book at the wife and
ever since we have been nervous of him. For me it is a puppy dog
nervous. He might follow me home. For the wife, I suspect it
is something else. She recognizes more clearly the tight
thread from which he hangs.
"Creative is" and that
other part of life which may sometimes resolve itself in the word witchcraft, both share
insights with minds which have accepted believing as a legitimate expression
of self in the way that our Jesus Nut has. He could perhaps have
chosen motor car maintenance, or wall building, or salesman into which to
put that part of his mind that rejects ordinariness. But there would
be no glory in that.
I picture him now amongst The Beatitudes,
looking for the one which might bless "to thy own self be true"
and smothering his disappointment when he finds no suggestion of