THE OTHER SIDE OF THE GARDEN PADLOCK

They came in the night. Before I’d seen them through the trees, my phone had buzzed and a text message from our neighbour appeared. ‘Irish gypsies’ had pitched up in the park, ‘just behind our fence’.

I went out to have a look and make sure the padlocks were tight. Sure enough, just the other side of the garden, camped in a wagon circle, were several caravans and cars, a humming generator, and a couple of transit vans. A small dog, out of sight, was yapping somewhere.

I find this thing so perplexing. On one side of the fence, the middle class homeowners peering out at the park in horror; on the other, the messy, rejected, despised travellers in their circle of litter, churning the dry grass under their wheels.

I’ve talked about this before. And one question still bubbles up. It’s irrepressible, like a thought that won’t behave, or a wrinkle you can’t iron out. One bold, dangerous, kind of unbearable question.

Where would Jesus be? Which side of the fence would you find him?

I don’t blame my neighbours for being afraid and angry. The park is for people to enjoy, for children and dog walkers and families, and it is not fair to take it over like that. But every time I think of it, my mind flip flops back to the other side of the fence - despised everywhere they go, rejected by society, considered outcasts and labelled by a lot of people as filth and vermin. The tax collectors were the same, and they did a lot worse than leaving rubbish in a park. The sinners, the lowlifes, the scum, the rebels, the thieves and the homeless - these were the people Jesus chose to spend time with, and when the rich, religious people reeled away asking why, he simply said things like: ‘It’s the sick who need a doctor, not the healthy,’ and ‘I came to seek and save the lost’.

And there I was, I tightening the padlocks. Jesus would actually be in one of those caravans, listening to Irish folk music and eating dinner round their fold-up camping tables. He’d be talking about the kingdom of God, playing with the kids, healing people who were sick, and teaching them about the Father.

Why can’t we do that? Why can’t I? And is it that simple?

I went out to the coffee van this morning to find that it had packed up and gone. A small section of stone slates remained there as evidence, but the fancy little indie coffee express with its arty board and its tables and chairs, had vanished.

A car roared absurdly across the park. Its wheels span as it darted around the trees.

“Scary, really,” said a lady with her hands on her hips. Her friend agreed. Over by the play park, more white caravans - some wedged right across the entrance and across the path. Loud country music blared from a distant stereo, and the little dog yapped into the still summer air.

Is it that simple?