The teenage pregnancy that must lead to an abortion.
The betrayed husband who must seek a divorce.
The appalled family, scrabbling for stones to throw.
The former friends spitting as you pass.
The future is written. It's the law. This must lead to death.
The pregnant girl and her husband, trekking to Bethlehem, away from the hatred.
The fear and pain of that first labour.
The slamming doors, the lack of help.
Here in the street, a carpenter and his wife.
It's inevitable. This must lead to the death of the mother and her child.
A house at last, normality. But what did he mean 'a sword will pierce your side'?
Wise men might know the answer, but they bring attention of the wrong kind.
Herod's murderers, Jesus' friends. Gone.
All his power against one small child. Only one possible result.
Great holiday, but where is Jesus?
Searched everywhere, but he's gone.
Thieves, slave traders, wild animals.
No sign, no hope, go to the Temple to pray against the inevitable..
A trial, a corrupt judge, a rigged verdict.
Thirty nine bloody lashes, a crown and more nails.
There's the spear, in his side. Dead end.
Enough of your 'and yet'
Inexorable, inevitable, that it would end like this.
Darkness, leading to darkness
because that's what it does.
Law demands law, sin demands blood.
And it has drunk its fill, but sucks in more, demands every last drop.
'And yet'! Ultimately, there is no 'And yet'.
This is mankind's story.
Born at great risk, lives a life of futility.
And whether good or bad, if there's any difference, dies.
This is my right and this is the story that I write.
A girl who believes in a different ending? Pah!
Naive! That's not how the world works!
A man who loves enough to take the shame?
Futile! I'll kill them all.
Feel my power, Mary. Sin fuelling the law, they will all reject you.
Go ahead, have your baby, die in childbirth, as people mock.
I write the ending, it is my right.
You survived that? Does that give you hope?
It only serves to increase your despair.
There are others who's hatred and jealousy I can use.
Kill them all Herod, you who think you are so powerful.
A puppet in my hands.
I pull the strings, I am Prince of this pathetic world.
I hate dreamers! Always dreaming of what might be
Rather than what must legally be.
Go to Egypt then.
I enslaved a whole nation there for four hundred years!
That's what I do, what must, inevitably, be.
Twelve years old, thinks he's a man.
Thinks he's more than a man.
But I know men, knew that first man. This one is no different.
Lost by his parents, soon to be lost to this world.
That is my demand, my insistence, my right.
See? Where is your hope now?
Rejected by men! Rejected by God.
Inevitable. Legal. Mine.
I write in darkness. On the corrupt earth. On the frozen hearts of men.
In the despair. In the haunted places. In the sealed tomb of Jesus.
What's your story reader?
I write it. Every despairing twist, each tear stained episode.
Every pathetic breath, every forlorn hope.
A flickering candle and then gone.
Were you hoping for better?
Listen to my laughter, as your dreams turn to dust. Again.
Mary Magdelene's view
First light. A new day. The light is dispelling the gloom.
That's what light does. It is a good law. It lets you see.
So I take the Myrrh. They thought it was for anointing the dead.
Because once you are dead you are dead. That's the law.
But I know someone who breaks law.
Myrrh is for the eyes. It restores sight.
Vision, without the blindfold of the law.
No body to anoint. No dead to mourn.
Just the bandages of death, wrapped up.
'It is finished'. He said.
The voice of the true writer of my story.
See, the voice of the accuser is silent.
His power is gone, his rights removed. Truth has banished his lies.
The foundations of his petty kingdom shaken and his stronghold plundered.
Law wrapped up, he himself bound, awaiting that final trial.
His story is over, but yours, yours reader, is still in the writing.
Those inevitabilities. Those law-fuelled anticipated outcomes.
The 'it always happens like this' endings
The 'I never get to...' endings
The 'nothing good can come of this' endings.
The 'others are better than me' endings.
The 'I don't have the resources' endings
All, the darkness inspired endings.
Are burned from sight in his new dawn.
I know the author. He loves writing better endings.
Unexpected, impossible, endings.
King of Kings from helpless baby, endings
The blind seeing, endings
The estranged family reunited, endings
The lame walking, endings
The boy defeating giant, endings
The penniless widow to satisfied woman, endings
The order out of chaos, endings
The possessed prostitute to honoured woman, endings
The dead friend to risen Lord, endings
God with us endings.
Truly, Happy Christmas, endings.
The pen is in His hands,
Waiting to record what you choose to have written.
Waiting to rewrite the past, recast the present, and write a better ending than you thought possible.
Step clear of the grave-clothes that bound you
of the law that blinded you
of the lies, the inevitabilities, that enslaved you.
Lean close to Jesus.
Feel his hand on your shoulder, see the smile on his face.
And let him whisper to you, what he longs to write.