W is for WESTERNS

I was the original 'man with no name', though I occasionally called myself Johnny, not the most western of names, I admit, and certainly not after the Duke Wayne, who hadn't crossed my radar, or should I say, my dirt track,at this early stage. But I had no doubt that I was a cowboy all the same, though not in the literal sense of the word, more a gunslinger really, but a good guy trying to clean up the town, which amounted to a collection of farm sheds out of which poked many a imaginary head just waiting to kill me off. And I was a marshall because it seemed to be cooler than being a sheriff, though 'cooler' was a word we used to describe the temperature then. I guess it felt more hip. Father Christmas had left a full cowboy outfit for me complete with frilled edges and I had the two shiniest six guns in town- that would be the farm sheds again. With the sheriff's badge pinned to my left side, even though I was a marshall, and my holsters secured with two pieces of string that left stinging red burns on my bare legs as I walked in my short trousers, I stepped out of the sheriff's office, temporary accommodation you understand, and in fact mum's kitchen and headed for the saloon - actually the byre in the middle of the yard. I must have downed at least half a dozen outlaws before reaching my horse, also with no name and in fact, my bike, then riding off in the direction of the orchard in hot pursuit of the rest of the gang whom I could just see over the hill of my imagination.

I remained a cowboy for several years, until the caps in my pistols ran out. There were only one or two shops that sold them, in rolls stuffed inside little round cardboard boxes. Each roll could last for a week or more, depending on how many bad guys were in town and if the injuns were out in the orchard, you could use a roll up all in one shooting spree.So many times, I just made the sound of a gun firing and it seemed to work because all the imaginary figures still fell. But I never lost my love for westerns, especially ones with indians,wagon trains, cavalry and forts and though I've long since turned in my six shooters, there's nothing better than sitting down to watch the stranger with no name raise his poncho one more time. I wonder where they deliver his post! And there's something curiously appealing about seeing your hero ride off into the sunset from whence he came, having put all the wrongs to right, broken a girl's heart and left the town a better, if slightly less populated place. But it didn't always happen. Sometimes the stranger wasn't even allowed to get off his horse, other times he had to leave in a hurry and occasionally, no matter what he did to help, it was just never enough to convince some people. Doesn't that remind you of somebody?

I can't help thinking how much of a stranger Jesus is to some folks. They don't want him about their lives, aren't prepared to listen to what He has to say and have no time for those who believe in Him.Yet He warns us about the repercussions of not only rejecting Him but also His followers when He says, 'For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.' And this isn't just a call to be socially aware of the needs of others but is really to show an outworking of God's love in our lives. The next time the stranger arrives, don't ask Him to leave straight away. He might never come back!