Towards
the end of the 1980s, I was part of a fellowship run by the free-church
(Methodist) chaplain in a men’s prison.
Every
Tuesday we went to share with them in prayer, worship and discussion. It was a
luminous and wonderful opportunity, where I made many friends and gained deeper
insights than I’d otherwise have had the chance to do.
Today,
reading the latest news of our British Prime Minister’s avid inclination to
drop bombs on Syria, and the struggle of saner people to stop him, a memory
came back to me from those Tuesday evenings at the prison fellowship.
In
prison, a grim humour flourishes that arises from familiarity with defeat and
despair. ‘Tell us a joke, Pen,’ an inmate would say, coming to sit beside me as
the men filed in.
One
of the men I knew there, the graduate of a seamless continuum of abusive authoritarian
institutions since he was two years old, had a ready store of jokes and funny
stories, mostly very politically incorrect, all very funny.
At
his most recent arrest, for which he had been sent down on that present stretch,
the magistrate had demanded to know, before sentencing him, if he had anything
to say for himself. Perhaps unwisely, he had reached into his breast pocket for
his packet of cigarettes, flipped open the lid, and muttered into it: ‘Beam me
up, Scotty.’
A
Star Trek fan, his imagination had been caught by a short dialogue between
Captain Kirk and some other staff member of the Starship Enterprise. The two
had teleported onto an alien planet, where some of the natives began to
approach.
The
dialogue went like this:
‘This
is life, Jim, but not as we know it.’
‘We
come in peace!’ – called out: but, in a sotto voce aside, ‘Shoot to kill.’
And
this amused Terry immensely. He recognized in it the pattern of established
hypocrisy embedded in authoritarian institutions everywhere. When he first
arrived at the prison, he had come to scope out the chaplaincy meeting, ready
to mock and cause trouble. But, finding us to be a cheerful and welcoming bunch
with a first-class jazz pianist, free-flowing strong tea and plenty of
biscuits, he softened towards us. In time, he’d be one of the first in the
queue, showered, his hair combed to perfection, wearing a clean shirt, eager to
see us.
And
often, as he slid into a seat alongside one of us, he’d murmur in greeting: ‘This
is life Jim, but not as we know it. We come in peace – shoot to kill.’
Because
he knew we’d get the joke; we’d understand that’s how it always is. As he once
said to me, ‘You can’t do anything about the government. Nobody can do anything
about the government. It was the government that killed Jesus.’
So
they did. Good point, Terry. Still at it.