......At the Gate

“Sir, the man in this story, the poor man Lazzarus, is he the same Lazzarus that Jesus later resurects?” asked Michael Malone with some small semblance of interest.

No doubt this will be a point of contention for Mike, I bemoan internally. “Actually Mike I believe they are two different people” submitted the yank, Father Walker.

Not that it really matters. It could be any poor man and any rich man. It's a parable.Fiction within fiction. It's the situation that matters not the characters. However some people, like Mike, tend to get caught up on small unimportant details like that. Silence though! Lets not ruin the argument with object reason. The library where we had gathered smelled vaguely of bleach or disinfectant. A hospital smell.

Daniel Bakeman leaned forward slightley and half raised his hand. The green in his school jumper seems faded. Stretched too. I can see the white of his shirt through the gaps. Only thing not weathered was his baby face. And his defiance.

“Sir, in all honesty, its stupid really” Dan began defiantley “I mean it's complete overkill if you think about it. C'mon it's not as though the Rich man was a murderer or something like that. All he done was ignore Lazzarus and some how that equates to an eternity in hell. It just seems a bit harsh” Dan making his point. A good one. “The Rich man did nothing wrong. He did'nt harm Lazzarus and yet he is punished. I just don't agree with that”

Some people in the class nodded in agreement while others, like Mike, seemed slightly agitated by Dan's opinion.

Father Walker smiled a seemingly all knowing smile. I should ask him a question. Seem attentive.

“Sir, am I right in thinking that the abyss in between heaven and hell in this story is meant to represent the huge gap in the living standards of the poor and rich people of the times” I already know that I'm right. I usually am in matters like this. Always top of the class . The others never seem to expect it. I seem to reserved in the class to get such high marks. I should speak out more. Show my intelligence, my understanding of the subject. Like that preso of the class Brian. He's absent today. They respect him because of his faith. I, of little faith, do not recieve any of respect people afford to those of a non-wavering faith. Faith; the willful suspension of disbelief in the face of evidence to the contrary. Faith, the fate of the devotees to the good book.

Not everyone here is so devoted to the book though. Not all the small religion class gathared in the cluttered library adjacent to their school, St Michael's, were here because of a geniune interest in the subject. Only five of our eleven seem stirred one way or the other by the message of the parable of Lazzarus and the Rich Man. The Others, slackers of the class who had only joined the class to avoid doing any measurable work, languished in the comfy, purple cushioned seats provided by the stout and jovial looking librarian. I must admit though, they are a nice change to the spine damaging, hard plastic chairs that we use while in most classes. Father Walker smiled at me. He see's me as the salvation of this class. I believe he thinks I am a enlightened youth in the midst of the riotous, unaspiring teens of the religion class. Touching really. “Yes Sean, thats exactly the message the parable is trying to convey to those who give some thought to it. It is also meant to explain..................” Despite my best efforts I lose concentration in the external dialogue of Father Walker and instead become entranced by the inner dialogue.I am wondering about inpoverished people. Like Lazzarus. What would Lazzarus be known as in the modern world? A beggar! Do I help beggars on the streets when Im in the city? Sometimes, when I have the change to spare.

What about notes? Would i donate notes to them if i had the notes to spare? Probably. Why not? What would I spend that much extra money on anyway. Then again there is a lot of stuff I could buy. I am very difficult to entertain and there is various different forms of entertainment money can provide. Risking my soul for the sake of trivial entertainment. Seems risky. And trivial. So I might just rot in hell with all manner of life long criminals, rapists, murderers and politicians for the sins of that moment. Not even a sin really. Just the suspension of my empathy for the less well off and their plight. Yet hell is the punishment. Thats just typical of the New Testament God. Playing favourites with the poor of the world, demonizing the rich. Say what you want about the Old Testament God but atleast you knew where you stood with him. He had measurable standards. Laws. If you obeyed them you were dandy. If not God hel.... well someone help you. Its kind of attractive really, the golden oldies system. Laws and punishment. Tasks and rewards.

Casey, the french canadian girl in our class is saying something to Walker. Nice legs, smooth long and seductive. What is she saying? “....all Im saying is that the punishment does not fit the crime. I don't understand how he could be punished so harshly with such little cause?” She seems kind of agitated by this detail. Passionate girl. What time is the Ireland match tonight? Dan, Mike and I are meant to be going. Father Walker reprises Casey “ The cause for his punishment was his lack of empathy. There was a man dying of starvation at the edge of his estate and he simply did'nt care. He was not a good man. He had no empathy”. What is empathy? Seeing your self in others. Feeling the pain of the less fortunate. A concept. I sit up straighter and try to focus on the topic at hand “Sir, what about his brother's?” People look at me. I flush slightly. Mike who had been resting his head on the hard wood table, giving us all a close up view of his scruffy brown mullet, poked his head up and looked at me. “What do you mean Tate?” inquired my mulleted unenlightened friend. That mullet is getting really long. Almost like a dog tail. “Well.......” what did I mean? Oh right the Rich man “ when the Richman is in hell and he see's Abraham and Lazarus his first concern is not for himself but for his brothers who he fears will suffer a similar fate to himself unless they can learn to sympathise and respect those like Lazarus” God that was a mouthful! Father Walker is already countering my statement with claims that one must look beyond the needs of his own flesh and blood to be in God's grace. I had wanted to finish my argument in this manner “As a result the point of this parable is null as it first suggests that the Rich man is without and human compassion for others as in the case of Lazarus but then shows while enduring unexplainable pain his first concern is for his brothers. This all causes the parable to become a paradox in itself.” but i felt it was too wordy. I thought I would just sound pretentious. Still, It would have been a better way to get my point across. I wonder what time it is? Class must surely be near it's end. What do I have next? Damn it I can't remember. I sigh aloud and Mike gives me a quick glance before speaking aloud to Father Walker and any others who may be listening to this theological debate. This verbal showdown between the metaphorical “Left” and “Right” sides of the religion class. Maybe I should try and finish my argument now...... can't though because Mike is in the middle of his own tangent.

Not rude enough to interuppt and not interested enough to listen, I begin twirling my pen between my fingers and humming the celtic symphony in my head. I look around the library. Casey smiles at me. A sign of soladarity. I hope. Hope she does'nt think Ive sided with her in this argument for any reason aside from agreeing with her assesment of unfair punishment. I just agreed with the sentiment of her argument.She, herself, had little to do with it. However people do read a lot into small things like that. I should'nt defend her again if possible. I don't have a side. I mean Casey is nice but her voice irked me. A dire voice. Nikki was agreeing intently with Mike's argument. Ironic considering Mike is an avid racist and Nikki is Romanian. Mike must be quite conficted right now. He loves to be agreed with but he really does hates foreigners. What is the next class? Mike is speaking about hell. Hell the ultimate tool of the church. Some say the Devil's greatest trick was making us believe he didn't exist. Really it was God's greatest trick making us believe that he does. You win more converts true brimstone than through nectar. Silence around me. The argument is ending. Mike has a smug look on his face believing that he has just won the argument. In reality others had just bored themselves of it. Many of the small congregation are begining to close their bibles with small thudds. Class must be nearing its end. What is the next class? I look over at Father Walker and say “Sir, the moral in this parable is kinda like what your man, Peter Mcverry talks about. Except, well, without the hellfire” Walker smiled unknowingly at the closeted heathen with encouragement. “Right you are Mr Tate, right you are” Father Walker began with a cheerful tone “The only real difference between the two is that Mcverry does'nt suggest a punishment like the one suffered by the Rich man as a result of neglecting the poor. Infact most Men of The Cloth nowdays believe all souls will go to heaven regardless of their sins or lack of as the case may be” Reward without any chance of loss or punishment? Then how can it be a reward if you don't earn it in some way. I wonder what kind of idea Mcverry is getting at. No task no reward is the usual way of faith. Surely if there is a Heaven you need to do something to gain admitance. “You must remember Mr Tate that what Jesus said in those days was considered contoversial” Father Walker is saying. Of course it was controversial! Christ's message is more or less condemning men simply because they are rich and others are not. Very communist if you think about it. The sin? Obtaining wealth and retaining it for yourself! The punishment? An eternity in hell! No repreive no second chance. My own dislike of religion is bubbling in my chest once again. It's little wonder that the rich or even the moderately well off of any generation would find it difficult to stomach such a message and I doubt..- “bringinginginginginginging!”The incredibly loud school bell bursts over the speaker giving me a small start and interrupting my thoughts. I close my library borrowed bible and slide it across the table. Pushing God Away. I quickly gather my books and I mutter a small thanks to Father Walker as I leave the library. Next class?....... History!

Dusk. The sky is filled with a yellowy orange glow. Not by the sunset though. Instead the county of Dublin itself was the source of artificial and sickly coloured light. Light that can blott out the stars. The lumbering visage of Croke Park Stadium was in the distance. Gardi men and women trying to keep order to the ferocious tide of a crowd in bound to the stadium, the source of the festivities. Like ants trying to quell an earthquake. Dan, Mike and I speedily pace down the long road to the stadium which seems to be paved with stall's selling cheap green scarfs, green shirts and of course green horns and whistles. Cause ,of course, green makes them Irish. I see some selling the tricolour. Green, white and orange. Well, at the very least it offered some diversity. As I side step a robust older man, dressed in a green wig and tricolour cape, I finally hear some music over the many twitterings of the crowd. I enjoy the streetside music. Rag-tag orchesta's of violins, guitars, fiddles and we even passed one man playing a bagpipes. Ive always been told that Ireland is famous for music because of bands like U2, I however find the streetside music more appealing. If a cultures life is It's music then this was Irelands heart. Money being gathered in guitar and violin cases. Ireland's heart?. Beggars with instruments. I hear mike over the music. Whats he saying?. I look around expectantly to reply but he's not calling me. Instead he is shouting, from what I tell through the racket, abuse at a group of eastern european looking folks. Who are we playing again? Bulgaria right. Poor Bulgarians. The match has not yet begun yet the are already being subjected to the vulgar insults of one, Michael Malone. We're late. In the distance i can faintley hear the Irish national anthem. A Soldiers Song. Dan leads they way, guiding us by an assortment of multi coloured Emos, toward the stadium entrance. People stream behind me, infront of me and all around me, many of them whereing agonised looks upon their faces as the finish or start their workshifts. The teenage Emos we had passed shared a similar look. A look of weariness. Everyone feels like that at some stage. Living is tough work and it is work you must commit to from your bith until your death. Life is the ultimate task and the greatest reward. A paradox! We are finally nearing the stadium. The small gate looks rather meager for the entrance to the cities best stadium. I hastily shove my hand in my pocket and feel for my ticket. Still dare. Dan was always telling me about the infamy of pick pocket dubliners. As we neared the entance to the ticket counters we all seemed to speed up considerably. Excitement taking hold. A small, black, rusted gate heralds the way to the event of the night. Eyes on the pavement in front of us the three of us proceeded, again gaining speed. Eyes on the path. Pavement. Pavement. Coke Bottle. Pavement. Vagrant beggar. Pavement. Daniel cordially side steps the scruffy old man while Mike, clearly less inclined with such formalities, skips over the mostly motionless old mans frail skeletel legs. One of his feet was blacked on the sole from the sooth on the streets of dublin while the other was covered scantily by a swiss cheese like sook. His toe nails........ long yellow and cracked from biting. He slowly gazed up at me blearily. His mouth was slightly ajar. His teeth are yellow any black. The grey hair on his beard and his head was knotted and frizzy. Mike and Dan are at the gate and in their eagarness to join the festivities they are oblivious to my absence. I have slowed down and for a moment I stare at the homeless man. He returns my gaze and i quickly avert mine towards the grafiiti on the wall behind his stone bed. Someone had sprayed "Eram quod es; eris quod sum," in green paint on the wall. Whatever that means. I look at him again. His face is covered in crack like wrinkles and facial hair. The wrinkles contain black dirt as does his beard. His ripped jeans are stained with all manner of substances. He smells of piss, vomit and cigarettes. I supress a wretch in my stomach, just barely though. Hurridely i shove my hand in my pocket and rummage around, never taking my eyes off the gaunt figure. Searching for change. Found some. I drop a £1 coin a £2 coin and two fifty cent coins on the ground in front of the old beggar and prepare to walk on. I have to catch up with Dan and Mike. The beggars emaciated hand brushes against the waist of my jeans near my pocket. I turn towards him, trying to hide my revulsion and suppress a look of disgust simulatanousely. He looks up at me into my eyes. His eyes are a light grey and big. I can see myself in them. “Thanks” he words strongly belying his ravaged appearance. Such a strong voice. An everyman voice. I nod politley in way of response and finally stagger on. I reach the gate. It's started to drizzle. The gatekeeper had raised his hood to keep hiself dry his hand out expectantly as he asks for the ticket. Beyond the gate I see Mike and Dan ,standing in a buzzing crowd, finally noticing my disapperance. The gatekeeper grows impatient “May I see your ticket, please” Quickley I once again rummage hastily in my now dampened pockets. My first grope yeilds no result and now I feel slightly foolish fumbling around in front of the ticket counter. “Excuse me for a moment” I say as I blush with embarassment and annoyance. I step away from the gate, ever searching for my wayward pass. I can feel the rain drip on my unprotected head and my heart in my mouth as I begin to panic. I take a deep breath to calm my ever jumpy nerves. Now I am looking down the road where the beggar had sat. The ground is saturated from the plentiful rain. Where the beggar had been lying there was a dry patch. I check my every pocket. My search is in vain. My ticket's gone. So's the Beggar.

ALL VIEWS EXPRESSED BY CHARACTERS ARE NOT MEANT TO BE OFFENSIVE

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