Extract – Chapter 12 and the first page of Chapter 13

The dove resumes its place in Joseph’s dream, on the beam above Mary. It is the moment when Joseph puts his direct question to God –

JOSEPH: Why should a decent man, a decent man, whose deepest wish is to love his wife, and his God, and even someone else’s child, have such hateful feelings about it all that he hates himself for having them?

Of course! The man is the sign you want! A simple, lost man, put before you in all his neediness. It’s all very well having Visions of Special Man, Universal Man, Man in the Image of God, no less, nailed to a cross and finding the answer to suffering right there in the terrible heart of it. Glorious indeed! – but how does it work out in the ordinary little world of actual little people?

Well, here’s your ordinary little actual, staring you in the face. Take him into the truth with you and let him find out for himself how what he’d thought was grim reality dissolves into the illusion it always was. You won’t have much explaining to do after that.

JOSEPH: Why won’t you answer?

Mind you, this is tempting. The man wants words and, thanks to Satan’s tuition, God feels a lot more at home with them now. So – perhaps just a brief apologia, an account of why the human condition is as it is, wouldn’t come amiss as a preamble to paradise regained? There’d be a nice kind of balance to that, too – i.e. some sort of recognition for Satan. Which is ... yes, ‘tempting’ is the word.

JOSEPH: (Insistent) Why should a man have feelings he hates? Tell me that! What’s the point? Why do you do it to us?

But no, get thee behind me, it’s the first explanation that does it. Start throwing ideas and concepts into the flow and you’ll soon find yourself marooned on the same rocks as the man himself, thinking as he does, trying to understand life so that it can be reduced to the knowable, and controlled. Explain, however regretfully, why suffering exists, and you begin to authenticate it and put it on the road as an accredited traveller. The next thing you know, it will have taken on a life of its own, presented itself as a test of character, refined the concept to the point of recommending martyrdom as the completion of an ideal life, and installed misery as the operating principle of the Universe.

JOSEPH: Or are we just your playthings? Is that it? Are you enjoying this?

Oh, but that’s terrible! Is that what they think? You must surely rebut that!

Yes indeed – but don’t make a speech about it. Just show him.

God reaches out his hand.

GOD: Come.

Joseph stares at the hand.

JOSEPH: To Hell?

Another irony. How odd that the answer should be yes, Hell being where Labass’s finger is at this very moment on Heaven’s button.

GOD: Just come.

His tone and gesture are so powerfully benevolent that Joseph feels himself being sucked in. Almost impossible to withstand this. But he does.

JOSEPH: Not till you answer me.

So here we are again – that baffling variation on the moral dilemma: what do you do with someone so stubborn that he refuses his own salvation? Knock him out, as you would a drowning swimmer who struggles against you, drag him to the shore and save him anyway? For the second time on this sometimes-less-than-holy night, God is about to grab hold of Joseph for his own good – and there goes that soft little murmur again.

The dove has moved further along the beam, now to a vantage point above the unfinished crib.

Both man and God look up. For the first time, Joseph smiles. With no more than a dove’s murmur comes his first real feel of guidance, and from on-not-very-high too. Seems more likely from a bird, somehow, than from God.

Yet there’s no calculated irreverence as the man turns his back on God; he simply knows now that he has something to do which must be done. He goes over to the crib …

JOSEPH: Yes. Right. This needs finishing, before anything else.

… whatever that ‘anything else’ might be. Hell or whatever, it can all wait. Heaven would have to wait too, were it on offer. The present moment is the sole property of Joseph and this piece of wood he’s just picked up.

This lovely piece of wood. Shaped by him, with love, planed smooth and scrupulously dovetailed, fashioned into a panel which will complete, with love, a crib for a child he can’t bear to think about, but would love to. Would love, too.

Now ask yourself this, Joseph, for the answer will serve you as a compass. If this wood could speak, what would it say?

The voice that replies in his mind is feminine, and strangely familiar.

Thank you. It would say Thank you.

For what?

For shaping my purpose.

That isn’t enough.

For bringing forth my beauty.

Not remotely enough.

For being a good man.

Am I? What about the thoughts I have?

You are a good man.

Evil thoughts!

You are a good man.

Are you saying they don’t matter?

I’m saying that you’re a good man who has always done his best.

But my best isn’t good enough, is it?

You weren’t blest with a better best to do, were you?

Well ...

You – are – a – good – man.

Really? Really?

Good enough.

Good enough for what?

To help him.

Him? Who?

He who needs your help.

He needs my help?

He does.

To do what?

To be God.

What am I supposed to do about it?

No reply. Was it Mary’s voice? It was certainly female – but Mary’s sound asleep ... Not that that’s ever made much difference, has it?

And still the silence. Does that mean he already knows the answer?

Yes. And he does.

JOSEPH: I’ll tell you something –

He turns to finish the sentence only to find God already at his elbow, staring at the panel in his hand as if he’d dearly like to touch it, but is too circumspect.

Something is changing. Here in this lamp-lit, fire-lit, star-lit, moon-lit, dream-lit life of a good man, the boundaries between God and Dreamer blur and flicker. Mary sleeps, the animals sleep, the dove presides, and Joseph finishes his sentence.

JOSEPH: I am a good man.

And so he is. So he is. And that’s a good piece of wood, too, worked by a good man. It has presence in the Universe, as does the man. Both are complete in themselves, yet both parts of each other; and then parts of something bigger still – and so on and so on, up and up, until ... Man and God contemplate the wooden bridge between them.

JOSEPH: And what I do is good. And this is what I do.

Which is, to God, miraculous. Compared to the works of Joseph, His own acts of Creation seem rather witless. The only thing you’re ever sure of is your neediness, but for-what you don’t know until the whatever-it-is appears: another galaxy, another molecule, another bug, another species – another relief. That’s what it is, really: the grateful sigh, the ache assuaged, the yearning mollified – a kind of joy, certainly, but not to be compared with making something with your own hands, knowing what you set out to do, seeing it appear, savouring each long moment as you work it into being ... God’s attention is enrapt as Joseph bends over the crib to test the fittingness of its final piece.

The dovetails push snugly into position. Perfect fit. Of course.

JOSEPH: That’ll do. Just needs gluing now.

He removes the panel again. On the fire stands a pot of glue. He picks up his tongs, removes the pot, inspects the glue, gives it a stir, puts it back.

JOSEPH: Give it another minute or two.

Another minute or two, dear one? Take as long as you like! You’ve never had so much time in your life – as if it’s come to a stop, really, just for you, and with plenty left over for getting to know ... but what to call Him?

Joseph rehearses Names learned in his long years of piety: God of the Covenant – He Who Endures – Supreme Majesty – He Who Sees – He Who Battles the Wicked – The Compassionate One – The Jealous One – The Righteous One – The Faithful One – The Holy One – The Awesome One – The One Who Is Powerful – The One Who Is Mighty – The One Who Is Great ...

And so on and so on. Everything but The One Who Is Needy.

And yes, you have, that look on his face, you have seen it before, exactly that look. Can’t think what his name was, either – that first apprentice you had, that lad, him. Worst of the lot by a stretch – had this amazing knack of getting things wrong even when it would have been easier to get them right. Even the glue reminds you of him – couldn’t let him near it, could you? Anything he joined together needed you to put asunder, and as fast as possible ... Wasn’t that long before you unstuck him too, though, was it?

Well?

It is, it’s that same look.

Well?

Well, yes, perhaps I could have done better. Could have been a bit more patient with him, perhaps. A lot more. Wouldn’t have hurt, would it? Would have done me as much good as him. More, likely. More good than kicking him out was anyway ...

And just look at The Needy One – you wouldn’t think a pot of glue could be that exciting, would you? That same look. That’s all it was, really, the boy wasn’t stupid, and anything but mean, he just got excited. You should have been teaching him patience before woodwork. But then, you didn’t have that much of it yourself, did you, in those days?

And now? Joseph looks at Mary. A long, long look. He’d die for her. Doesn’t seem to matter what he thinks about now, even the regrets come with love.

Especially the regrets. There was something glorious about that lad. Wonder what became of him?

Joseph sees God staring at the glue as it blurps and thickens.

JOSEPH: Do you know what it’s made of?

God doesn’t, and would love to.

JOSEPH: Bones. Animal bones. (He nods towards the ox.) This is the last of his mother.

He notices how much easier it’s becoming to smile. This particular smile shapes the thought: maybe that’s what the fires of Hell are really for, to render you down to something useful. What a good idea – nothing wasted. Yes, perhaps that’s what Hell actually is, the place where things get recycled into making sense.

No, that’s what here is. If you don’t find it here, you won’t find it anywhere.

And the dove stays where it is, just where it should be, above the crib. To which, thus prompted, Joseph now invites God.

JOSEPH: Come and take a look.

God joins him. He senses delight. More teaching is coming his way.

JOSEPH: Just an old manger, see. Small as they go. Just right, really – except that all this side was rotten, so I had to tear it out. Must have been the side the animals fed from, you’d get a lot of saliva down there, over the years. Builds up in time, you’d be surprised. The other side would have been set against the wall there – it’s still good and dry, see. Have a feel. So that side was all right, but this one – well, it needed mending with a new one. Couldn’t patch that up, the rot would only spread. You wouldn’t want a baby breathing in rot, now would you?

God supposes that you wouldn’t – the man’s word is good enough for him. And just look at that glue!

JOSEPH: Only I didn’t have any timber. So what do you think? There was a pile of it in the corner there! Still some left, see. Prime timber. Could have sworn it wasn’t there when we came in, but I suppose it must have been ... (He searches God’s face.) Or was it a miracle?

Silly question – it occurs to him that for God either there aren’t any miracles or there aren’t anything else. Either way –

He hands God the panel.

JOSEPH: Cedar wood. Smell it. Nice, isn’t it? Not the wood I’d have chosen, maybe, given a choice, but it’s right enough. And it does have that smell to it. The baby’ll like that, I should think.

Tracing the grain of it with a fingertip, God is too engrossed in the beauty of the wood to see Joseph holding out his hand for its return.

So Joseph waits. It’s a pleasure to see God’s pleasure.

JOSEPH: Haven’t had the chance to pay for it yet, mind you. Must remember to pay; landlord of the inn, I suppose; when I get the chance.

Should always pay, shouldn’t you? When you get the chance.

Yes. You should always pay. When you get the chance. Is that was this is? God looks up from the wood and gives it back to Joseph.

JOSEPH: Another thing is, I’m being a bit naughty. You should always be careful what you put together. Different woods, different ages – which these are – they’ll start to disagree with each other, in time, shrinking and expanding in different ways. Better to start with what matches – if you have the choice. Or better still, start from fresh, of course – if you have the time.

Both of which God had all along, about everything that exists, if only he’d known it. But there was no one to teach him. Joseph gets the tongs again and lifts the gluepot off the fire.

JOSEPH: Still, he’ll be long past cradling by the time this starts falling to bits. He or she.

What a thought! Fancy growing up as this man’s child – he or she, who cares? – just fancy having a father who can teach you stuff like this!

Joseph examines the glue again. Ready.

JOSEPH: Here we are then.

He’s about to dip the brush, decides to invite God closer, finds that he’s already at his elbow again watching every movement.

JOSEPH: The thing to remember – don’t use too much glue or the surplus squeezes out when you fit it. Can be a nuisance to get rid of, that, especially if you don’t notice and it sets. If you’ve made your joint right, it won’t need much glue.

He puts a thin film onto the first joint.

JOSEPH: That’s enough.

Then on to the next joint, another film of glue. Joseph looks to see if God is taking it all in. Not only is he – he’d obviously love to have a go himself.

Which Joseph considers. But no, this is too important. Might be the last thing he ever makes. Must be right.

Another film on another dovetail. Only one to go ...

He looks at God again. That same excitement, so eager to learn – but this really isn’t the time to let a beginner start experimenting ...

Not the time for what? What do you think you are, but a beginner’s experiment? What else do you think everything is?

He offers God the brush.

JOSEPH: Remember. Not too much.

God receives the brush with awe. Heaven, right here, on Earth.

He dips the brush; savours the moment; then, just as he saw Joseph do, draws it slowly up, squeezing the brush head against the inner rim of the pot to expel the surplus – only to feel Joseph’s powerful grip on his wrist before he lifts it clear.

JOSEPH: Here’s the trick of it. Squeeze till you’re absolutely sure you’ve squeezed enough – then give it another squeeze.

God gives the brush another squeeze. Joseph lets go of his wrist.

Big moment. God looks at Joseph to see if he has permission to apply the glue himself.

He has.

God begins to glue the last dovetail. His concentration is ferocious.

Hard for Joseph to keep his hands to himself. Then suddenly it’s easy. He relaxes into watching God take more conscious care over fitting this one piece of wood than he probably did with the rest of Creation put together. Not that Joseph knows that, of course.

Actually, somehow, now he thinks about it, he does.

God finishes. Joseph takes the panel from him and inspects it.

JOSEPH: That’ll do.

High praise. The question now is: who’s going to fit it?

God waits, obedient to the man’s decision.

JOSEPH: Just watch. Easy when you know how.

God accepts his apprentice status without demur. He’s being taught to walk before he can run. Not before time.

Joseph has the panel in place in seconds, smoothes the joints with his cloth, looking for any stray glue. There is none. He stands back. The job is done.

He considers the crib. Considers his life. Considers everything. Yes; the job is done.

JOSEPH: It is finished.

Mary sleeps, the animals sleep, the Star shines down, and Man and God stand together beside the crib. The dove stays where it is, above them. This isn’t over yet.

Joseph takes what might be his last look at Mary.

Then he looks into the crib as if he sees a real child in it. He touches where it would be, and lingers a moment.

Then he turns back to God. He is in the presence, he knows, of his saviour. Whatever that means.

He offers God his hand. That same hammer hand, brush hand, and now willing hand.

JOSEPH: All right.

God takes Joseph’s hand.

Whereupon they both dissolve. Into everything.

And this is what Labass, still at the controls of the Two Eyes machine, frozen in time and thought, finger glued to the on-button, cannot see:

A new configuration of particles admitting Joseph’s consciousness into their primacy as gracefully as if they’d been waiting for him, used as they are to giving thought shape. At the same time, held in God’s hand, the man knows himself as galaxies and stars as much as the elements that build them, and him. And the whole mighty structure of it, all fifteen-billion-years-across, forever curving back on itself so that there is no beyond, wafts as tranquil as sea-fern in the tides of latency. And it’s all Joseph.

He had thought that such peace was not possible, except perhaps by way of some notable discipline – which he notably lacks – of ceasing all thought; peace as Absence, an obliteration of what is undesired. But here is Presence, high activity, limitless expansion, outward and inward, transformation by an energy so overwhelming that he becomes it. Then it takes him further, to its source, and he becomes that; becomes the fountain itself, flow of pure being, life without fear or desire, never ceasing in its exploration to find new ways of knowing itself. Right now, knowing itself as Joseph.

This cannot be understood, or overstood, or even instood. It simply is, and you’re it. The Universe is as small as Joseph, he as big as it. The entanglement is total and there is nothing which is ‘else’. There isn’t a God, there’s nothing but God. What can you say of it but IT IS? What can it say of itself but I AM?

Holy night. Wholly Joseph.