Jesus, did he exist? - thirty-three teachings that have stood the test of time

Here are some of the teachings of a 1st century man, described in literature, but claimed, by some, never to have existed. The teachings seem very humane and sensible, and apart from the mentions of "God", quite devoid of superstition. Taken on merit, these teaching are evidence of a highly enlightened mind.

1. That God is a loving Father.
2. That like any loving father, God has expectations of his children.
3. That every person who walks this earth is your neighbour, and worthy of your kindness in times of trouble.
4. That you should treat others as you would like to be treated.
5. That showing loving kindness means responding to the needs of those around you- the lonely, the poor, the disadvantaged, the incapacitated and those who may be suffering as a result of their own doing.
6. That women should be educated, along with men, and have their voices heard, along with men
7.That the poor, the sick, the disabled, the mentally ill, the foreigner and the person who holds to a different faith have the same human rights as the majority.
8. That rape is totally abhorrent.
9. That ritual cleanliness/uncleanliness is a load of nonsense.
10. That the words that come out of a person's mouth are more important than whether the food that goes into it is kosher, halal or even tasty.
11. That everyone ought to have enough to live on, even if they cannot do a full days work.
12. That having a day off every week is good for people.
13. That you shouldn't fuss about your appearance.
14. That when someone does you an honour, you should respond appropriately.
15. That if someone is determined to act like an absolute dickhead, you should turn your back and walk away.
16. That being preoccupied with money can seriously get in the way of living a good life.
17. That before we criticise others, we ought to take a long look at ourselves.
18. That sometimes we have to use a good deal of courage to break from patterns of behaviour that are wrecking our lives.
19. That a sincere apology can turn around a situation.
20. That forgiveness is healing.
21. That greedy, disrespectful people need their butts kicked.
22. That bigots who think they are better than those around them have seriously missed the point.
23. That you can help a person who knows they need your help, so it is worth putting in the time with them.
24. That we are individuals, and what is good for one person might not be appropriate for another.
25. That there is no ordinary task that is beneath our dignity so if something needs cleaning up, then just do it.
26. That sharing a meal together, whether it is a formal dinner or a barbecue on the beach, is important for relationships.
27. That truly dangerous people can often be hard to recognise.
28. That a great leader is one who serves the people that he is leading.
29. That if what you have to say really matters, say it, even if you are despised for doing so.
30. That sometimes it is best to be silent.
31. That we may be called upon to make major sacrifices, for the good of others.
32. That death is not the end
33. That one good person really can make a very big difference.

Image of Jesus from a catacomb in Rome, 3rd century AD.
Previous images had not attempted to depict him as a
Jewish Rabbi but had used a symbolical figure of a
shepherd with a sheep on his shoulders

Italian poem No 11.

The Basilica of Saint Anthony of Padua

Pilgrimage to Padova

Do you remember Sant' Antonio's?

The domes and towers and pinnacles and sky;

two ancient nuns who, limping arm in arm,

each bore a portion of her sister's load,

pied against the orange bricks of noon,

a focus of intensity and eye? 

Gattemelata by Donatello

Do you recall the warrior on his steed,

so purposeful, yet humble, looking down

over the chasing children and the crowds

of tourists and of pilgrims and the town

that once he served and set him up on high?

And does your mind still hold

that vision of perfection-

dark and light,

the arches and the heavens and the gold,

the blazing star on blue mosaic night;

the tiny babe of bronze

with face so sweet

that sits within the Virgin Prophet's lap

as if still in the womb and raises up

his little hand to bless the majesty

of frankincense and gold,

the dripping candles and the thousand prayers

laid daily by the humble at his feet?  

Remember how we walked by the canal

as darkness fell that night,

and looking up,

we saw those minarets against the pink

and smoky blue of evening?

Swallows flew in pairs and suddenly

a bell rang out,

so clear and cold and high.

Ding-ding! Ding-ding! Ding-Ding!

Another answered lower

and another, slower, deeper still,

till one by one each bell was called to chime

until within the sweet cacophony

the last and largest spoke with solemn voice

that told of death and of disaster grim.

Dong! Dong! Dong!
Do you remember when
that dreadful man appeared

out of the darkness while I stood alone

upon the bridge? 

The moon over Sant'Antonio's

My flesh turned to stone:

I could not call for you or run away!

And suddenly you loomed against the sky

in that big jacket,

looking hugely broad and tall and fearsome!

How he shrank away

and vanished like a startled rat!

Remember then how smug you took my hand

and pulled it through your arm?

"Let's now wind up the day,

and go and find a place to eat!" you said.

We took our dinner in a small cafe.

Remember how the waiter made us laugh?

He walked like Charlie Chaplin with his tray

and scuffing feet

and dragging cuffs;

the same moustache:

it could have been his brother!

So the happy day

drew to a close

regaled by music of the concertina;

blissful sleepiness of food and wine,

of feet tired out with walking,

eyes with seeing,

mind with taking-in.

Do you remember still

the day we went to Sant' Antonio's?

I always will! 



© Tamsyn Taylor 

Italian poem No 7.

                                                                                                                                                        Foto: Basilio Speciari

San Gimignano Red

"I want a glass of San Gimignano Red,"
I told my husband,
"And the only place to drink it
is in San Gimignano!
"Where is that?" he said.
It's four and twenty cramped and stifling hours
away from Mascot
and a Fiat hired in Florence
and the breezy countryside with rising larks
and startled pheasants.
"Look!" Upon the hill there looms a city
built of kiddy blocks
and up and up the thirteen towers go-
Just how high can they go
before they topple over?
We share our bottle of San Gimignano Red
with Osso Buco and some garlic beans
at a trattoria in the city wall.
It's not the finest plonk in all the world
but Oh, what fun it is
to drink it here in San Gimignano!

                       ©    Tamsyn Taylor 




Dante Aligheri, in Purgatorio Stanza XXIV describes the gluttonous Pope Martin IV dining on Bolsena eels pickled in vernaccia.  Vernaccia di San Gimignano is the region's best known wine and the only white wine of Tuscany that is registered as Denominazione di Origine Controllata e Garantita.  However, the ancient Vernaccia grapes were harder to cultivate than modern varieties, and during the 20th century red wine varieties were planted.  "Rosso" and a "rosato" or rose wine was produced, the latter with a very distinctive character given by the Vernaccia grapes.  It was "rosato" rather than "rosso" that we drank that night in San Gimignano.  The proprietor had a gallery of portraits of himself drawn by visitors.  I rose to the challenge and contributed another portrait to the collection.  TT
                                       

Italian Poem No 1.

Afternoon in Venice

Italy

You promised me Italy-

the dream of bumble bees,

the hazy loaves of Tuscan hills

and colonnaded shadows deep with wine;

Steep streets with red checked tables cut to stand

where no chair ever could;

Pale shutters faded to the shade of autumn grass;

Light, iridescent glinting sparkling twinkling

in the long rays of the pale autumn sun;

Pale frescoes

faded to the pink of autumn skies;

walls of ripe apricot and sanguine orange,

crumbling ochre and the pale red bricks:

the flesh of Italy beneath its plaster skin;

Cool streets of small cafes and purple shadows

and the smell of bread warm from the oven

and of shining fish scales in the afternoon;

The sacred goldfinch in a window cage

sings of the Passion to the patient pheasant

who awaits his sacrifice upon a faience dish

decked with the fleur de lys;

The Ancient Roman shop-front,

and inside, the fashion of today, this minute,

never seen again:-

the shoes, the bags, the scarves, the gloves, the style;

the cars, the motorbikes, the leather jackets;

and the taps that will not turn, the drains that block,

the creaking lift and trains that do not go.

The singing countryside,

the hilltop town with bells to wake each morning;

and the nightingale

among the orange trees

to penetrate the stillness of the night

with essence of a long past Tuscany

where man and wife,

now smiling on their tomb in cool display of their commitment,

once clung with lust,

once sank, longing and deep

into each other's souls of desire:

their sighs are wind in pine trees,

the sudden rain that falls upon the earth,

their procreation and the dust
that lies across the bonnet of the hired car

was once child of their love, long turned to earth

and now part of the richness and the sacrament

of this enchanted feast,

the bread and wine,

the broken meat,

the olives and the fish.

And how I long to eat this feast,

and walk on hills whereon my feet

crush pungent oregano as I go,

and tiny strawberry plants

show trefoil leaves

beneath the holm oaks:

and the Trinity,

God of all wonder and all sacrifice,

God of all inspiration and all life

is there for all to see,

vision of colour and geometry

deep in the magic painted recess of a crazzled wall.
Part of my soul, my self, is in that land.

My spirit soars to fill the vaults and domes

of smoky sensuous darkness

and gold light of candles. 

My spirit rises like the bells on drafts of air

up from the swaying towers,

and sings with painted angels,

tier upon tier

in perfect cacophony

vermilion, green and lapis lazuli.

My spirit hangs suspended like the cross

between the pointed arches of the sky above

and marble floor beneath.

It burns with the brightness of the sacred lamp,

red as a pomegranate, in the sanctuary.

The Virgin smiles for me.

The Child forever lifts his hand for my atonement.

I am one with them:

A stranger in that place,

and yet belonging by adoption.

You promised Italy,

my place of dreams,

my church of golden singing

and rich banquet of the senses.

Take me there,

to satisfy my dreams

and hone the edge

of my appreciation

and my appetite for more.

©    Tamsyn Taylor