Recently returning from a couple of Study days in Wiltshire I sat reading on the Waterloo-bound train. It had begun its journey out west in Exeter. We were travelling in Wessex, so it was appropriate that I was reading Thomas Hardy, a respite from theology and the like. I was perhaps too engrossed when a man breezed past. He was the ticket inspector.
I missed what he said, but it was something like, "Any tickets from Salisbury?". Yes, me (following in the wake of some infamous Russians earlier in the year). I fumbled around and eventually found my ticket when he was half way down the carriage away from me. I left my ticket in my pocket.
Andover . . . Basingstoke . . . After Basingstoke he returned and I was more attentive. "Anyone from Basingstoke? Tickets please" he said. I wasn't from Basingstoke but dutifully put my hand toward my pocket again. He was off, gone to an older lady in mid carriage who gained his attention after getting on the train relatively recently.
This is what I wondered. Why is he inspecting tickets by request? If I had no ticket would I be likely to speak up - "Excuse me sir, I boarded at Andover without a ticket. Would you kindly fine me now?"
I figured this is a little like the way people approach the Judgment Day (if, they muse, it ever comes). God the Inspector walks among the millions - "Anyone here who shouldn't be? Any sinners to go to the Other Place? Anyone want to confess anything?". The silent hordes let the Day pass and quietly slip through the gaping net into the Everlasting Rest of the Blessed.
As if. The South West Trains ticket inspector may have imperfect knowledge, limited time and lazy technique but this isn't going to be the experience of meeting the omniscient, eternal God in whom we live and move and have our being.
I missed what he said, but it was something like, "Any tickets from Salisbury?". Yes, me (following in the wake of some infamous Russians earlier in the year). I fumbled around and eventually found my ticket when he was half way down the carriage away from me. I left my ticket in my pocket.
Andover . . . Basingstoke . . . After Basingstoke he returned and I was more attentive. "Anyone from Basingstoke? Tickets please" he said. I wasn't from Basingstoke but dutifully put my hand toward my pocket again. He was off, gone to an older lady in mid carriage who gained his attention after getting on the train relatively recently.
This is what I wondered. Why is he inspecting tickets by request? If I had no ticket would I be likely to speak up - "Excuse me sir, I boarded at Andover without a ticket. Would you kindly fine me now?"
I figured this is a little like the way people approach the Judgment Day (if, they muse, it ever comes). God the Inspector walks among the millions - "Anyone here who shouldn't be? Any sinners to go to the Other Place? Anyone want to confess anything?". The silent hordes let the Day pass and quietly slip through the gaping net into the Everlasting Rest of the Blessed.
As if. The South West Trains ticket inspector may have imperfect knowledge, limited time and lazy technique but this isn't going to be the experience of meeting the omniscient, eternal God in whom we live and move and have our being.
No comments:
Post a Comment