A few months ago I was made to switch apartments. For reasons too tiresome to explain here I was forced to spend a couple of evenings in a cheap-as-chips hotel in Jordan while my new accommodation was being sorted. Actually, the hotel wasn’t half bad. It wasn’t a rat-infested version of The Shining with a dead hooker in every bath. In fact it was very reasonable indeed, with eminently habitable rooms, decent TVs, and a charming desk staff. It was also a Christian hotel. What’s that, you may ask? Well, that’s where you discover bibles strategically placed throughout every corridor and corner of the hotel. Leviticus with your morning coffee, sir? No problem. A bit of Jeremiah with your daily newspaper, madam? Certainly. And naturally, with this being The House of the Lord, there was a bible tucked away in every drawer of every room.

The book in my room was a bilingual edition of the New Testament published by The Bible Society of Taiwan. It had a leather-bound midnight-blue cover and handsome gold-yellow leafing. I was impressed. Having been raised in a seminary school by a murderous pack of Irish-Roman Catholic priests, curiosity caused me to have a quick flick through its pages to see if it matched up to the King James version. The Magnificat was spot-on; the Sermon on the Mount leapt from the page with poetry and power; and The Prodigal Son read like a dream.
These Taiwanese Society folks knew their stuff.

Satisfied, I put the book back in the drawer and went about my business. But when I returned to the hotel later that evening I found the book lying open, and face down, on my pillow.

This unnerved me.

Whoever had done this (room service I presume) had left the pages open at The Gospel of John, Chapter 11. That’s the bit when ultra-baddie Caiaphas (Boo! Hiss! Hi, Mel!) plots to have Jesus killed. This unnerved me again. Was someone trying to send me a coded message? Was I being sent on a guilt trip? I closed the bible, shoved it into the drawer and went to bed, troubled.

The next morning I awoke late and rushed out to the office. However, when I returned to the hotel that evening I once again found the bible lying open on my pillow. The Gospel of John. Chapter 11. Let’s kill Jesus. I thought of calling reception to complain (only complain of what?) but thought better of it and rolled over to sleep.

The final morning, waking late for a third day straight, I made sure to put the bible inside the safety box. That should do the trick. But again, when I returned at noon, I found it back on my pillow. Freaked out, I studied the opened pages. Slowly it dawned on me... It wasn’t about killing Jesus at all – it was the first verses that were being drawn to my attention: the raising of Lazarus from the dead. Suddenly it all made sense. It was the room maid, in her own sweet way, telling me I was sleeping in too late and missing the free buffet downstairs. Lazarus, come forth!

JJ Healy