The Freethinker
IT’S being reported this week that Mel Gibson is casting around for new angles for his sequel to The Passion of The Christ, which will focus on Jesus’ alleged resurrection
Said the actor and producer:
That’s a work in progress. Very difficult material. It’s a very big subject. It’s going to take some massaging to actually get it to work just right, because if you’re going to do it, you’ve got to go all the way. It has to be spectacular.
In 2016, Gibson hinted during an interview with CBS Late Show host Stephen Colbert that part of the story might be what Jesus got up to from the time of his death on Good Friday and his resurrection on the third day.
Freethinker founder G W Foote provides some inspiration in this regard, because, one Christmas eve, he had a “vision” that amused him no end. He found himself in Heaven:
Thereupon my whole frame was agitated with inward laughter. I in Heaven, whose fiery doom had been prophesied so often by the saints on earth! I, the sceptic, the blasphemer, the scoffer at all things sacred, who had laughed at the legends and dogmas of Christianism as though they were incredible and effete as the myths of Olympus!
While he being given a guided tour of Paradise, he happened across God and Jesus having an acrimonious conversation:
My dear guide then led me through some narrow passages until we emerged into a spacious hall, at one end of which hung a curtain. Advancing towards this with silent tread, we were able to look through a slight aperture, where the curtain fell away from the pillar, into the room beyond. It was small and cosy, and a fire burned in the grate, before which sat poor dear God the Father in a big arm-chair.
Divested of his godly paraphernalia, he looked old and thin, though an evil fire still gleamed from his cavernous eyes. On a table beside him stood some phials, one of which had seemingly just been used. God the Son stood near, looking much younger and fresher, but time was beginning to tell on him also. The Ghost flitted about in the form of a dove, now perching on the Father’s shoulder and now on the head of the Son.
Presently the massive bony frame of the Father was convulsed with a fit of coughing; Jesus promptly applied a restorative from the phial, and after a terrible struggle the cough was subdued. During this scene the Dove fluttered violently from wall to wall. When the patient was thoroughly restored the following conversation ensued:–
Jesus. – Are you well now, my Father?
Jehovah. –Yes, yes, well enough. Alack, how my strength wanes! Where is the pith that filled these arms when I fought for my chosen people? Where the fiery vigor that filled my veins when I courted your mother?
(Here the Dove fluttered and looked queer.)
Jesus.– Ah, sire, do not speak thus. You will regain your old strength.
Jehovah. – Nay, nay, and you know it. You do not even wish me to recover, for in my weakness you exercise sovereign power and rule as you please.
Jesus. – O sire, sire!
Jehovah. – Come now, none of these demure looks. We know each other too well. Practise before the saints if you like, but don’t waste your acting on me.
Jesus. – My dear Father, pray curb your temper. That is the very thing the people on earth so much complain of.
Jehovah. – My dearly beloved Son, in whom I am not at all well pleased, desist from this hypocrisy. Your temper is as bad as mine. You’ve shed blood enough in your time, and need not rail at me.
Jesus. – Ah, sire, only the blood of heretics.
Jehovah. – Heretics, forsooth! They were very worthy people for the most part, and their only crime was that they neglected you. But why should we wrangle? We stand or fall together, and I am falling.
Satan draws most souls from earth to his place, including all the best workers and thinkers, who are needed to sustain our drooping power; and we receive nothing but the refuse; weak, slavish, flabby souls, hardly worth saving or damning; gushing preachers, pious editors, crazy enthusiasts, and half-baked old ladies of both sexes. Why didn’t you preach a different Gospel while you were about it? You had the chance once and let it slip: we shall never have another.
Jesus. – My dear Father, I am reforming my Gospel to make it suit the altered taste of the times.
Jehovah. – Stuff and nonsense! It can’t be done; thinking people see through it; the divine is immutable. The only remedy is to start afresh. Could I beget a new son all might be rectified; but I cannot, I am too old. Our dominion is melting away like that of all our predecessors. You cannot outlast me, for I am the fountain of your life; and all the multitude of “immortal” angels who throng our court, live only while I uphold them, and with me they will vanish into eternal limbo.
Here followed another fit of coughing worse than before. Jesus resorted again to the phial, but the cordial seemed powerless against this sharp attack. Just then the Dove fluttered against the curtain, and my guide hurried me swiftly away.
In a corridor of the temple we met Michael and Raphael. The latter scrutinised me so closely that my blood ran cold; but just when my dread was deepest his countenance cleared, and he turned towards his companion. Walking behind the great archangels we were able to hear their conversation. Raphael had just returned from a visit to the earth, and he was reporting to Michael a most alarming defection from the Christian faith.
People, he said, were leaving in shoals, and unless fresh miracles were worked he trembled for the prospects of the dynasty. But what most alarmed him was the spread of profanity. While in England he had seen copies of a blasphemous paper which horrified the elect by ridiculing the Bible in what a bishop had justly called “a heartless and cruel way.”
“But, my dear Michael,” continued Raphael, “that is not all, nor even the worst. This scurrilous paper, which would be quickly suppressed if we retained our old influence, actually caricatures our supreme Lord and his heavenly host in woodcuts, and thousands of people enjoy this wicked profanity. I dare say our turn will soon come, and we shall be held up to ridicule like the rest.”
“Impossible!” cried Michael; “Surely there is some mistake. What is the name of this abominable print?” With a grave look, Raphael replied: “No, Michael, there is no mistake. The name of this imp of blasphemy is – I hesitate to say it –the Free……” *
* Was it the Freethinker?
But at this moment my guide again hurried me along. We reached the splendid gate once more, which slowly opened and let us through. Again we flew through the billowy ether, sweeping past system after system with intoxicating speed, until at last, dazed and almost unconscious, I regained this earthly shore. Then I sank into a stupor. When I awoke the fire had burnt down to the last cinder, all was dark and cold, and I shivered as I tried to stretch my half-cramped limbs.
Was it all a dream? Who can say? Whether in the spirit or the flesh I know not, said Saint Paul, and I am compelled to echo his words. Sceptics may shrug their shoulders, smile, or laugh; but “there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in their philosophy.”
On reflection, Foote’s piece would be much more up Mel Brook’s alley that that of the deranged Catholic Traditionalist Gibson.
Note: Foote’s words are contained in Arrows of Freethought (1882). “Christmas Eve in Heaven” was penned in December 1881.
I’d love a cup of coffee
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