part two: Thursday

Cleopas stopped under a tree; the women joined him. Thursday afternoon was fading fast. "We're not doing very well; I don't think we'll make it today. Tomorrow morning, I guess. Let's see if we can make it to Bethany before dark. We have some friends there."

It was after sunset and nearly dark by the time they made it to Bethany. "Lazarus lives here," Mary Cleopas said. "His sisters, too. We can stay with them." But no one was home. Cleopas went to the next house to ask. When he called a greeting, a stooped and elderly woman appeared. "Lazarus?" she said, looking suspiciously at Cleopas. "They haven't come home." She came outside, looking at the two Marys. "You friends of his? Some of those Galileans? A crowd of them have been here all week, all following that Jesus fellow."

"Yes, ma'am. I am Jesus' mother; this is my sister. These are friends. And yes, we are from Galilee."

"They left this morning. I figure they went into the city, like they've done every other day." She shook her head. "Strange they haven't come back." With a harrumph, she turned her back on them and went inside.

It was clear that they had no friends in Bethany. They went to the edge of town and in the moonlight set up camp near an olive grove, sheltered by the trees from what had become a chilly north wind. Without lighting a fire, the four of them ate in silence, and lay down for the night.

Mary tossed fitfully, unable to sleep. A darkness had been growing on her since midday, and now it was stifling. The full moon was at the zenith; midnight. She lay wide awake, dread heavy on her. As if from a great distance, she saw him. He was alone, on his knees, a tiny speck in the darkness. He was saying something, praying. She could not make out the words or see anything clearly, but she knew he was in trouble.

Now she was in labor, propped up on a pile of hay. Joseph was there, helping her as best he could. Why now? Why here, in a stable? "God wouldn't do this to us," she thought. Had she made it all up, the angel, Elizabeth, all of it? The pain came, long, and stronger than ever. She pushed... of a sudden, it was no longer Joseph between her legs waiting for the baby... it was some kind of beast... a dragon, red and hideous. Its mouth was open, gigantic, a forest of sharp teeth, slavering foam like a mad dog she had once seen. "Come to us.... Yes.... come to us...." the voice came. Or voices; it seemed like many voices, all coming from the dragon. At first, Mary thought it spoke to her. No; it wanted her child.... "We will bind you forever...." And she could do nothing to save him. The dragon opened its mouth wider still, its breath a freezing gale, stinking of rotten flesh. All of her, body and soul, was in agony. She felt the baby's head pass through into birth.... the dragon's mouth was blackness, dizzying and vast.... "No!!!!! No!!!!" she screamed, seeing the dragon's eyes, its hunger as it prepared to swallow the child....

Salome shook her by the shoulders. "Mary! Mary! Wake up!" Mary was panting, drenched with sweat. "Are you all right? You were screaming," Salome said. Mary nodded; it was all she could manage. Salome sat beside her and held her as she trembled. Cleopas and his wife were there too; Mary Cleopas sat by Mary and helped hold her, Cleopas sat on the ground facing them.

Mary whispered, "He's in trouble."

a story (part one)

"Then one said unto him, Behold, thy mother and thy brethren stand without, desiring to speak with thee. But he answered and said unto him that told him, Who is my mother? and who are my brethren? And he stretched forth his hand toward his disciples, and said, Behold my mother and my brethren! For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother." (St. Matthew 12:47-50)

". . . neither did his brethren believe in him." (St. John 7:5)

-------
Mary waited for him, sitting on the bench and getting angrier and angrier as the hours passed. She was determined to wait as long as it took. Finally, she heard him at the doorway. As soon as he had blessed himself at the door, she said "And what was THAT all about?"

He bowed his head to her, saying nothing. He busied himself with laying aside his robe, taking off his sandals.

"'Honor thy father and thy mother.' Or does it still say that?"
"I honor you, Mother. I always have."

"You have a funny way of showing it. Ignoring me and your brothers, telling that crowd that they are more important than we are."
"That's not what I said."
"It sure sounded like it."

"I said that those who obey my words are my mother and sisters and brothers. I never said they were more important than you. But they are equal with you. There is no higher honor I can bestow on them."

"Those people, their loyalty is as thin as a layer of dust."
"I know."
"And you say such things about them?"
"Some will hear. Some will follow, even if it costs them their lives. And they are my brothers and sisters, just as surely as James and Joses, Judah and Simon, and the girls."

Mary was livid. She saw that Jesus was reading her like a book; he knew that that she was counting to twenty, trying to master her temper. That made her even angrier. She kept going; it had better be one hundred.

Finally she spoke. She tried to be calm, but her voice was shaky. "Jesus. My son. Don't you understand? You are the One. The Messiah. You need to inspire us, give us the courage to take our country back. Instead, you fritter away your days, telling all these wacky stories about the 'kingdom.' God will never give us another chance, another Messiah. And here you are, throwing yourself away."

"It doesn't work that way," he said.
"Well, how does it work?"
"You've heard me; I will be handed over to the Romans and they will crucify me."
"The Romans will have won again, and ten years from now, no one will remember you."

"And I will be raised to life again on the third day."

Mary tried to marshal her thoughts. As usual when she tried to talk with Jesus about these things, his words had a way of soaring off in impossible directions. All she could manage was a question, barely whispered:

"How can you know that?"
Jesus smiled, sat on the bench beside her. He took her hand. "How could you believe an angel?"
"Being pregnant is pretty hard to miss."
"But you believed first."

She stood up, her back creaky from sitting too long. She went to the door. Looking back at him in tears, she said, "If you come back to Nazareth, they will kill you. And I'm not sure but what I would throw the first stone." With that, she left.

-----------------
With a sigh, Mary laid her mending on the table. She went to the window, the one looking south. "He's really going through with it," she thought. "Everyone says he is going up to Jerusalem." She made up her mind, and headed for the woodlot, looking for James.

"No." James leaned on his axe, looking at his mother. "No. Never again."
"James. . . ."
"No. That fool is going to get himself killed. And no, you are not going there and getting tangled up in it."

That was too much for Mary. "Now listen here, James." She was shaking with anger. "I was tangled up in this before you were born." She shook her head, and took a deep breath. "There's no escaping it. I have to go."

In the end, Mary convinced her sister Salome to go with her. The two of them went to Cana and found Cleopas and his wife Mary. They had been disciples ever since that night three years ago, when the wine gave out at their wedding. And when Jesus had made more, out of water. "What does it take?" she asked herself. "What does he have to do before they will believe?" The four of them set out.

------------------------
They scrambled up the slope. Almost at the top, Mary slipped on a loose stone. She caught herself, Mary Cleopas helping her, but she wrenched her back. Straightening up, she grimaced with the familiar sharp pain in her lower back. "I hate this road," she said.

Joseph tugged the rope. The donkey didn't want to climb the slope, even without its load. Mary stood by the donkey, stroked his mane, and said "Come on," in as encouraging a voice as she could find. She didn't want to climb it any more than the donkey did. With a complaining honk, the donkey took a step, then another, Joseph still pulling. The donkey trudged up the hill. Mary trudged up behind him.

She must have drifted off again, walking down the south side of the hill. Everything seemed to run together nowadays, and Mary hardly knew what was real, what was memory or dream. "I miss him," she said to herself. "How did I ever deserve someone like him?"

----
The plane slipped, gashing the wood. James grunted. "It's no use," he said. He began gathering his things. Ever since his mother had left, James could think of nothing but that fool brother of his. Where had Jesus gone wrong? They had grown up together, studied Torah together, and the Prophets. And Jesus always understood it better. Better than James, better than their parents, better than the rabbi, better even than the doctors of the law up in Jerusalem. In his heart, James had come to believe that Jesus was the Messiah, just like everyone kept whispering. If it came to it, James was ready to stand with him. They would be like the Maccabees and take on the world.

But ever since Jesus had taken John's baptism and gone off in the desert, it was all wrong. When was he going to call an army together and get things rolling? The people were ready; all it would take was one word and they would throw off the Romans like so much chaff in the wind.

Instead, he had taken some crazy notion about the Suffering Servant passages in Isaiah, that it applied to him and that he was going to die. He couldn't die! He just couldn't. Not if there was a God in heaven.

Joses could take care of the shop while he was gone.

on Auto Mechanics, and Psalm 12

One summer in high school, I took a vocational school class in auto mechanics. It was fun, and one of the most useful courses I have taken at any level -- not because I do much auto repair, but because it has helped me understand how automobiles work, and when the repair shops are speaking truth to me. Or not.

Our family car is a beloved 1996 Honda Civic, which we purchased new and have driven ever since. In 1997, Honda issued an extended warranty on its emission control system, in a settlement with the Environmental Protection Agency. It seems that there was a flaw in the computer, making it more subject to pre-ignition than it ought to be, and failure to pass California emissions tests. At least in my case, this has been controlled easily enough by using higher octane fuel.

Nonetheless, the extended warranty included some work that could be done at any time before the vehicle reached fourteen years from its date of sale, or 140,000 miles: new ignition wiring, distributor cap and rotor, new spark plugs, and an oil change. Having saved the paperwork all these years, I presented myself at the nearest Honda dealer last month, two months shy of the car's fourteenth birthday.

They were not at all pleased to see me. After some hemming and hawing and looking it up on their computer, they admitted that they were obliged to do the work. But they did not want to let me escape for free. "Your CV boots are cracking," they said. "And your brake pads are down to ten percent, maybe less. And your wiper blades all need to be replaced." They helpfully prepared an estimate for the recommended work: over $600.

"Thank you very much," I said. "I'll look into these things" (unspoken but thought: "And I sure won't be coming to you for the work.")

This dealership "got" me once, and I have not forgotten. Years ago, I had the vehicle in for routine maintenance, and the service representative said "You do know that it is time to replace the timing belt, don't you. It really needs to be done. If it breaks, it can destroy the engine." I didn't think it was time, but I trusted them enough to say "If that is in the recommended maintenance schedule, then go ahead." After paying them several hundred dollars for the work, I got home and looked it up in the service manual. The timing belt replacement was not due for another four years.

I replaced the one wiper blade that was bad; the other two are just fine. Yesterday, the weather was finally good enough for me to be outside puttering around, so I got under the car to check the CV boots and brake pads. All are fine.

It is for such as this that auto repair shops get a bad name. It is wrong for them to take advantage of customers by selling them unnecessary repairs. It diminishes the level of trust in the community; every lie does this, and lies by people who ought to know their business perhaps most of all.

And I won't even start on politicians.

"Help me, LORD, for there is no godly one left;
the faithful have vanished from among us.
Everyone speaks falsely with his neighbor;
with a smooth tongue they speak from a double heart."
(Psalm 12:1-2)

Bach, Howells, and the Communion of Saints

This time, I was ready. After my abject failure at Bach a couple of weeks ago, I worked especially hard on today's long list of music. I got up with my alarm; I was at the church in time for a good warmup before Matins. The major issue of the morning service was the Bach setting (the larger one) of the Vater unser, from the Clavierübung. It is a magnificent piece, with the chorale tune in canon, and what amounts to a trio sonata movement woven around it. It went pretty well; one measure got away from me in part, but the overall effect was what it should be. The choir had a fine anthem by K. Lee Scott on a Timothy Dudley-Smith text, "The love of God who died for me." S., the teacher of violin at the university, played an obbligato line with energy, the choir sang well, and the congregation joined for the final stanza. The hymns went well, as did the postlude, the smaller setting of the Vater unser.

Martin Luther wrote a series of hymns to help teach the Catechism. In the part of the Clavierübung that is for organ, Bach took each of these Catechism hymns and wrote not only a small, manuals-only, setting -- analogous to the Lesser Catechism, for which the hymns are meant -- but a large setting, analogous to the Greater Catechism, which explores the same ideas in depth. The larger Vater unser setting is an extended meditation on the Lord's Prayer. Perhaps one aspect of it might be the halting and stumbling nature of our prayers, which nonetheless, carried by this great Prayer of our Lord and his Church, persevere. Much more could be said, but all of it would be inadequate; the music is its own description.

It did not strike me until this morning what the smaller setting is; it is the Lord's Prayer as a child would say it. Gone are the convolutions of the large setting; it is simple, direct, and pure. I played it on a 4' principal, which seemed just right. It was the postlude, and a strange one (after my bombastic improvisation last Sunday), but I think it was the right music for the occasion.

There followed a committee meeting wherein some business was conducted which made me and a number of other people angry, and which (I fear) will have unintended repercussions. I should say no more of its substance in this public space.

After expressing my anger more than I should have to the excellent assistant priest, who (I think) spent the afternoon trying to pick up the pieces from the meeting by talking with as many participants as she could, I went up to practice for Evensong. "O Lord, open thou our lips: And our mouth shall shew forth thy praise." That was all it took; that opening into heaven, even in my mere practice for the prayers that were to come, put the afternoon in perspective. As if that weren't enough, there was the Psalm, which seemed a direct Word from the Father to me in my perplexity:

"Do not fret yourself because of evildoers. . . for they shall soon wither like the grass, and like the green grass fade away."

I played the Howells "De profundis" from the Psalm-Preludes for the Evensong prelude. It too was tailored for the occasion. My plans had been to do the Bach Passacaglia, but it became clear a week or two ago that I would not have it ready. As it proved, the Howells was what needed to be heard, not the Bach, and I would not have known that before today. About a half-dozen people who were at the meeting earlier were at the Evensong, as choristers or in the congregation. I hope that the music spoke to them as it did to me.

The Liturgy of the holy catholic Church. . . . and the Communion of Saints. I mentioned the assistant priest; I must also mention the Vestrywoman who is assigned to the committee as liason. After the meeting she sent a group e-mail to the Rector, the Wardens, and the committee expressing her displeasure with the manner in which the business was conducted. This woman, M., is a former chorister. She and her husband sang in the choir until they married and had children; the combination of law school and babies no longer permitted her to sing with us, though I hope they will return when their children are older. I hold her in very high esteem, and consider her one of the strongest people in this parish. I can hardly express what it meant to me to see that e-mail; it was like seeing Gandalf riding over the crest of the hill at Helm's Deep at the first light of dawn.

J.S. Bach, Herbert Howells, and others also reached their hands down the generations to this day, through their music. And young Molly after church this morning, walking at breakneck speed through the church ("Don't run in church, Molly!") with a friend, smiling and saying "Hi, Mr. Cassi!" and "Bye, Mr. Cassi!" as they went by, obviously glad to see me. And S. the violinist, and Martin Luther, and Timothy Dudley-Smith. And Thomas Cranmer, with his craftsmanship of the language of the Rite One Eucharist this morning and Evensong tonight. And Fr. T., the elderly priest who joins me for Sunday Matins. And his wife, who was at the meeting and whose opinions were crystal clear without her saying a word. And two of my online friends who wrote things that encouraged me and reminded me that we are all in this together; I thought of their words during the meeting, these people thousands of miles away with their own concerns and struggles, serving the same Lord in their places as I seek to do in this place. All of these people have been part of this day for me, for we are, indeed, all in this together.

"I believe in the Holy Ghost,
the holy catholic Church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting. Amen."

some thoughts on Lembas

One of my daily foods is bread. I make my own, using a bread machine: a rye and whole-wheat yeast bread with raisins and (when available) cranberries, sweetened with honey and sorghum. It is dense, dark, complex in flavor, and I love it.

This Lent, it occurred to me that I ought to give it up. In its stead, I am eating hardtack. My recipe is based on "The Joy of Cooking's" recipe for "Ship's Biscuit," with a good bit of adaptation to make it healthier. I had not made any for several years, but I used to make it as hiking or automobile-journey and camping food. I think of it as Lembas, the "waybread" of the Elves.

In reality, what I make is a form of "Cram," the waybread of the Men of Dale, for I am human, not elvish, not given the grace to make something as high and good as Lembas. But Our Lord took common human bread, not the bread of angels, and made it into the Holy Sacrament of his Body, so even our most usual bread has spiritual connotations, if we are open to them and eat with thankfulness.

Here is my recipe:

1 cup rye flour (see note below)
3 cups whole wheat flour
¼ cup soy flour
¼ cup powdered milk
(the above two ingredients, when added to the flours, make "Cornell mix," a complete protein)
optional - ¼ cup brewer's yeast (adds more nutrition, and a very nice flavor)
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ cup or less of vegetable oil

(Note: Rye's quick-growing properties, even in climates with limited sunshine, are perhaps what JRRT had in mind as the grain used for lembas. From "History of Middle-Earth," vol. XII: "The Eldar say that they first received this food from the Valar in the beginning of their days in the Great Journey. For it was made of a kind of corn which Yavanna brought forth in the fields of Aman, and some she sent to them by the hand of Oromë for their succour upon the long march. . . .
Now this corn had in it the strong life of Aman, which it could impart to those who had the need and right to use the bread. If it was sown at any season, save in frost, it soon sprouted and grew swiftly, though it did not thrive in the shadow of plants of Middle-earth and would not endure winds that came out of the North while Morgoth dwelt there. Else it needed only a little sunlight to ripen; for it took swiftly and multiplied all the vigour of any light that fell on it."

I once tried this recipe made entirely from rye flour; it is possible, but it turns out much better with the whole-wheat flour. It can be made from 100% whole-wheat flour, but I use the cup of rye flour for its connection in my mind with the above Lembas lore from JRRT.)

Back to the recipe:

Mix the dry ingredients. Add the vegetable oil to enough water to make a stiff dough (about 1-1/2 cups, usually).

Turn it out on a board, and pound it with a mallet until it is about ½ inch thick. Fold it six layers thick (i.e., in thirds one direction, then in half the other direction). Pound it flat again. Repeat the process five or six times.

[Note: I live in an apartment, and the neighbors (and my wife) complain about the noise when I use the mallet, so I roll it out with a rolling pin instead. This works just as well, but you have to lean into it pretty hard.]

The final time, when it is about ½ inch thick, cut into shapes as desired (I do 1 inch squares), and bake on an ungreased baking sheet thirty minutes or more at 350 degrees, or until lightly browned.

The first time I made it, the surprise was the texture. I was expecting something cracker-like, or rock-hard as proper Hardtack is supposed to be. Instead, the little one-inch biscuits are, well, sort of "springy." Even without any leavening, all that folding introduces enough air so that they raise just a little bit, and have a very satisfying feel to them. They must, nonetheless, be eaten slowly; they are not something to wolf down.

From "The Fellowship of the Ring," chapter eight: "The food was mostly in the form of very thin cakes, made of meal that was baked a light brown on the outside, and inside was the colour of cream."

Mine are lightly browned on the outside and have just a bit of color inside. "Colour of cream?" Well, sort of. What one tastes is the elusive hint of natural sweetness from the whole grains. They are quite sturdy, but if broken, they tend to crumble.

The best part is their compactness and satisfying nature for hiking or other travelling; four or five one inch squares and a handful of nuts (I do a mix of sunflower seeds and peanuts) and a bit of dried fruit, all washed down with water, makes a very satisfying meal. Not filling by any means, but one finds that one can keep going all morning (or afternoon) on it. I have lived quite comfortably on this diet for trips up to a week. In hot weather, the biscuits start getting moldy after five or six days - I am not sure how wise it is, but I scrape off the mold and eat them anyway. That works well enough so long as the mold is not excessive, for the surface is so firm and non-porous that the mold does not penetrate for a long time and can be scraped off with a knife or a fingernail. With hardtack, one of the standard preparations in the old days before eating it (besides scraping off the mold) was to whack it hard on a tabletop, so that the weevils would scurry out. I have not faced that problem. Nor, sadly, have I mastered the art of making and storing it so that it will last for a long time. During the War Between the States in the 1860's, some in the Union Army were fed hardtack that had been baked and "put up" during the War of 1812. "Tastes the same as when it was baked," the men said (with considerable irony).

With Cram, JRRT was doubtless thinking of ship's biscuit, which had been a staple of the Royal Navy for generations and probably used in the Royal Army during his military service. He described Cram as "more of a chewing exercise" than anything else; certainly true of hardtack when it is well-aged. "Molar-breakers" is one term for it, and many creative ways to soften it to an edible state were developed, such as soaking it in coffee.

Though it has similarities, Lembas is something other than Cram. JRRT was perhaps thinking of Eucharistic wafers, the "viaticum," and the connections of the Eucharistic bread with Scripture passages such as St. John chapter 6 - ("I am the bread of life... he that eats this bread will live for ever." - vv. 48, 51) and with the Manna in the desert: Psalm 78:25, "So mortals ate the bread of angels..." Manna fits some aspects of the Lembas description very well: Exodus 16:31 - "And the house of Israel called the name thereof Manna: and it was like coriander seed, white; and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey." The people lived almost exclusively on manna for forty years, and although it satisfied every need, it did not satisfy desire: they grew tired enough of it to complain and desire the "fleshpots of Egypt" with the onions and leeks and cucumbers.

From "The Return of the King," chapter three: "The lembas had a virtue without which they would long ago have lain down to die. It did not satisfy desire, and at times Sam's mind was filled with the memories of food, and the longing for simple bread and meats. And yet, this way bread of the Elves had potency that increased as travelers relied upon it alone and did not mingle it with other foods. It fed the will, and it gave strength to endure, and to master sinew and limb beyond the measure of mortal kind."

At Easter, I plan to return to my yeast bread. I look forward to it, as Aragorn and the hobbits looked forward to the tables of the House of Elrond. But for now, I am finding my "lembas" satisfying in ways that I cannot explain except in spiritual terms. And I find that their virtue grows as this journey of Lent proceeds.