The triumphal return to headquarters

At the eleventh hour: most of them take to their heels, upon sudden instinct to save their own precious skins. 

At the thirteenth hour: the gruesome torture, nailing, hanging and death now in the past – thank goodness – they collect around Him and put to Him their final wrong-headed question, which conclusively proves how they have perfectly misunderstood Him to the very end: ‘Master, will You now give our unique and superior nation the signal to seize world government in a swift military coup d’état, with Your supernatural help?’    

His reply, oblique as ever (that they should not be concerned about God’s timing), has a tinge of censure in it. 

It is as if to say, ‘Even after all that you have been through with me, after all that you have seen with your own eyes – you still miss the point of my cosmic mission: to turn spears into reaping knives, and to cause the lion to lie down with the lamb in harmony.’ And then, with no further departure overtures, He just rises up through the air like some human balloon – up, up, up, and out of sight!

Their astonishment is boundless as they stare wide-mouthed at the sky… (Where has He gone? To another planet? To some distant star? Where exactly?) It takes two strangers dressed in immaculate white to bring them back to where they are. 

‘You simplistic men! How ridiculous you look gazing at the sky for so long! That’s absolutely the wrong direction. Come down to earth. Disperse. And go make this earth your concern. 

As a matter of fact, as the founder of this final and eternal spiritual dynasty, this same Jesus will, in as visible a manner, return to earth to wind up universal history. Go publish the amazing good news, and distribute the wondrous benefits of His regime. You have such stupendous work before you. For, behold, the destiny of the nations is upon your shoulders…!

Meanwhile, up there, or out there, or around there, or here, or here-there – where you cannot point with a finger – the archangel in charge of heaven’s protocol rallies all the inhabitants of heaven for a grand reception, and shouts with resounding voice: ‘Lift up your heads, you everlasting gates, and let the King of glory come in! And who is this King of glory?’ (And all heaven choruses back :) ‘He is our Lord the Messiah, Son of the Father, unconquerable in battle and infinite in His sacrificial and tender kindness…’

All the corners and spheres and circles and multi-dimensional and multi-existential and trans-ultra-non-matter living entities of eternity reverberate with the applause of His triumphal re-entry. The celestial mystic choir take up their incomparable musical instruments and sing to Him a song of sublime majesty and mellifluousness, known as ‘Love Triumphant’ - which they have been rehearsing ever since before the beginning of cosmic time and shall sing forever and ever. 

He inspects a guard of honour commanded by Michael the archangel and mounted by all the militant angels of heaven, who ride chariots and horses of fire, and who hold in their right hands seven thunderbolts against the pretensions of Hell – and in their left hands olive branches as tokens of peace towards all humankind…

Then He sits down on His resplendent throne on the right hand of the Father, surrounded by a glory of light that no mortal being can glimpse at and still remain alive. 

And the 24 elders climb down from their lesser thrones, casting their crowns at His feet and calling Him by His many names – Conqueror of Hell, Silencer of Pandemonium, Dread of the Devil, Destroyer of Death, Antidote of Iniquity, Scapegoat of Humankind, Terminator of Pain, Healer of Nations, Victory of the Hopeless, Defender of the Helpless, Reward of the Undeserving, Shock of the Arrogant, Softener of Hard Hearts… (And the homage goes on forever…) 

Prof Timothy Wangusa is a poet and novelist. 

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