I love sweets, but I eat too many. This Easter season, having joyfully resumed eating them, I am trying to do so more responsibly. They are a most splendid gift from the Creator, and I offer my thanks to him for giving us not just food to sustain our lives, but to make our hearts glad.
For the first time in my decades of hanging out in kitchens, I have been baking cookies these few weeks. It seems to me that a Sweet Thing can be healthy in moderation if one designs it so, and I think that I can do it better than one finds in store-bought cookies. In this, I follow the lead of Diet for a Small Planet, and a lesser-known companion book, Recipes for a Small Planet, where the desserts are not only sweet and delightful, but high in protein, fiber, and other healthy nutrients. Here follows my contribution for today. All measurements are approximate, for I assembled it yesterday in the way I most love -- without measurements, and guessing at what might taste good.
One should begin with the step I too often forget: set the Butter out on the counter so it will not be rock-hard when the time comes for creaming it. While you are at it, wash and cut the Rhubarb into small pieces, put some sugar with it (this sugar is in addition to the half-cup mentioned shortly), and set it aside. Preheat the Oven to 375 or so. Grease a 9" by 9" baking pan.
Then, prepare the Cornell Mix:
1 c. Whole Wheat Flour (it is not worth cooking with the white stuff)
1 T. Soy Flour
1 T. Powdered Buttermilk (I found some at a local grocery; it is great for cooking, because we don't use enough buttermilk in fresh form to be worth purchasing it for a recipe. If you can't find it, use regular powdered milk, or "real" buttermilk, adjusting the liquids that follow)
Add a few more things to the dry ingredients:
1 tsp. Ginger
1 tsp. Baking Powder
1 tsp. Baking Soda (1/2 tsp. if using regular milk instead of buttermilk)
¼ tsp. Salt (omit if using salted butter)
Sift the dry ingredients together and set aside.
The moist ingredients:
½ stick Butter (more or less is fine), preferably unsalted
½ c. Sugar (more if you like it sweeter)
1 tsp. Vanilla Extract
¼ c. Vegetable Oil
about 1 c. Peanut Butter (this is VERY approximate; just throw in a good-sized glop and that will be about right. Either creamy or crunchy peanut butter is fine; whatever you have on hand)
1 Egg
¼ c. (or more) Water
Be mindful of the cow and chicken involved in this enterprise, and buy the butter and eggs from sources where the animals are treated responsibly.
Cream the butter, and cream the sugar into the butter, adding the vanilla extract as you go. Add the vegetable oil and peanut butter, and continue creaming it all together.
In a teacup or small bowl, beat the egg lightly, adding the water to it (especially if the egg is "old." It takes us six months or so to use a dozen eggs, and by the end of that time, they are mostly still quite usable, but drier than they once were; a little water helps it beat up more easily. And always break your egg(s) into a separate bowl, just in case all is not well). Add this mixture to the butter/oil/sugar mix, and blend it all together.
And now, the Additives:
1 c. Quick Oats
1 c. Unsalted Sunflower Seeds (hulled. These are to complement the peanut butter, making a complete protein. And they taste good.)
About 2 cups of Rhubarb
and 1 cup of Raisins (if you have more rhubarb, use less raisins, and vice versa)
The final steps:
Add the Flour mixture to the liquids and mix well.
Add the Oats, Sunflower Seeds, Rhubarb, and Raisins.
Stir it all up and spoon it into the baking pan, smoothing it out so it looks pretty.
Bake for 45 minutes to an hour or so, until it browns slightly on top and a toothpick comes out clean.
Enjoy. It is very crumbly if you eat it while it is still hot (I did; I have no patience), but exceedingly good. A bit of reduced fat vanilla ice cream on top doesn't hurt, either. Once it cools down, it remains quite moist, similar in texture to a carrot cake. As with the same, I suspect it would be good with a cream-cheese frosting, but I'm not going there; "Eat responsibly," I tell myself.
This is pretty good as a high-protein dessert, if you don't mind the modest amount of saturated fat, and the calories. I suspect it has a few.
[P.S. -- if you are going to keep it around for more than three or four days, put it in the refrigerator. With all that rhubarb and sugar, the one I made last Monday has started to ferment, what is left of it, that is.]
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Torah, American government, and me
In the Daily Offices, we began the Torah on the First Sunday after the Epiphany: "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. . . ." By design, we came to the first part of Exodus in the final weeks of Lent, with the plagues upon Egypt. On Easter Day, the first lesson at Matins was Exodus 12:1-14: "This month shall be unto you the beginning of months: it shall be the first month of the year to you. . . ."
This week, we have come to Sinai. Yesterday, we read of one of the pivotal moments in all of human history: "And God spake all these words, saying, I am the LORD thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Thou shalt have no other gods before me. . . ." After this most exalted chapter, the twentieth of Exodus, the Lectionary skips ahead to chapter 24. By doing so, something important is missed.
I have voiced my opinion of the omission of parts of the Story in other places. It all matters, even the parts that do not apply directly to us who live not by law, but by grace. I make it a point to read all that is skipped, mostly on the bus commuting to and from work.
Why does it matter that God goes straight from the Ten Commandments to all this business about oxen, and pierced ears, and what happens if your sheep gets into your neighbor's field and eats his wheat? It matters because the Law of God must immediately lead to very specific acts of righteousness in the most ordinary affairs of daily life, personally and as a community. If it does not, we have missed the point of it.
This does not mean that we should enact a Judeo-Christian version of Sharia Law, wherein a statement such as "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" (22:18) leads to women being judicially executed by a Christian community simply because they are eccentric. Many would argue that "Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot" (21:24) is not the best way for a modern community to administer justice. Many other judgments, and many of the dietary regulations that soon follow, are more suitable to an ancient agricultural community than to ours.
But these matters must not be entirely glossed over. The community must somehow administer justice if it is to survive -- and, I think, it must do so in order to be pleasing to God. The Law of God as expressed in the Torah is one of the foundations making possible any community that amounts to more than "might makes right." The Torah ought to remain the standard by which any other system of jurisprudence or ethical teaching is evaluated.
In the United States, and especially in the South, activists periodically try to erect the Ten Commandments on courthouse lawns, where they used to be in many cases before "godless liberal judges" ordered their removal on grounds of separation of church and state. In this matter, I stand with the right-wing activists, adding that if the non-Christians of the community want to erect statements of their moral values beside the Commandments, that would be all the more excellent. I would love for our county courthouse to have a granite monument on its lawn graven with the Ten Commandments, another with the Four Noble Truths and the Noble Eightfold Path, another with an appropriate passage from the Koran, others with principles from Confucius and from the long wisdom of the Hindus, others offered by every branch of our community. We need such reminders that Law is more than just Expediency.
And we need reminders that Law must always protect the weak from the strong. "Thou shalt neither vex a stranger, nor oppress him: for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt. Ye shall not afflict any widow, or fatherless child" (22:21-22).
It is manifest that American jurisprudence and government do not measure up very well to these standards. It is not so much "might makes right" these days as it is that "money talks." When the big banks can spend $1 million a day to influence about five hundred people in Congress to ensure that they can continue to cheat the poor out of their retirement savings, when there is a straight path from Wall Street to the Cabinet and other positions among the president's close advisors, when Big Pharma and Blue Cross-Blue Shield managed to get more from the health care reform than common people, we are falling short.
But the Law of God does not leave room for righteous indignation, for it is equally manifest that I, personally, do not measure up to these standards, nor does any son of Eve or daughter of Adam, save one. This is one of the key lessons that must be learned from the Torah: we cannot live up to it. It is a clear teaching of St. Paul, but it is equally clear in the Psalms and Prophets:
"Every one has proved faithless;
all alike have turned bad;
there is none who does good; no, not one." (Psalm 14:3)
The answer to this dilemma is stated in today's Epistle, among many other places, where St. Paul writes:
"And you, being dead in your sins and the uncircumcision of your flesh, hath he quickened together with him, having forgiven you all trespasses; blotting out the handwriting of ordinances that was against us, which was contrary to us, and took it out of the way, nailing it to his cross." (Colossians 2:13-14).
This week, we have come to Sinai. Yesterday, we read of one of the pivotal moments in all of human history: "And God spake all these words, saying, I am the LORD thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Thou shalt have no other gods before me. . . ." After this most exalted chapter, the twentieth of Exodus, the Lectionary skips ahead to chapter 24. By doing so, something important is missed.
I have voiced my opinion of the omission of parts of the Story in other places. It all matters, even the parts that do not apply directly to us who live not by law, but by grace. I make it a point to read all that is skipped, mostly on the bus commuting to and from work.
Why does it matter that God goes straight from the Ten Commandments to all this business about oxen, and pierced ears, and what happens if your sheep gets into your neighbor's field and eats his wheat? It matters because the Law of God must immediately lead to very specific acts of righteousness in the most ordinary affairs of daily life, personally and as a community. If it does not, we have missed the point of it.
This does not mean that we should enact a Judeo-Christian version of Sharia Law, wherein a statement such as "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" (22:18) leads to women being judicially executed by a Christian community simply because they are eccentric. Many would argue that "Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot" (21:24) is not the best way for a modern community to administer justice. Many other judgments, and many of the dietary regulations that soon follow, are more suitable to an ancient agricultural community than to ours.
But these matters must not be entirely glossed over. The community must somehow administer justice if it is to survive -- and, I think, it must do so in order to be pleasing to God. The Law of God as expressed in the Torah is one of the foundations making possible any community that amounts to more than "might makes right." The Torah ought to remain the standard by which any other system of jurisprudence or ethical teaching is evaluated.
In the United States, and especially in the South, activists periodically try to erect the Ten Commandments on courthouse lawns, where they used to be in many cases before "godless liberal judges" ordered their removal on grounds of separation of church and state. In this matter, I stand with the right-wing activists, adding that if the non-Christians of the community want to erect statements of their moral values beside the Commandments, that would be all the more excellent. I would love for our county courthouse to have a granite monument on its lawn graven with the Ten Commandments, another with the Four Noble Truths and the Noble Eightfold Path, another with an appropriate passage from the Koran, others with principles from Confucius and from the long wisdom of the Hindus, others offered by every branch of our community. We need such reminders that Law is more than just Expediency.
And we need reminders that Law must always protect the weak from the strong. "Thou shalt neither vex a stranger, nor oppress him: for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt. Ye shall not afflict any widow, or fatherless child" (22:21-22).
It is manifest that American jurisprudence and government do not measure up very well to these standards. It is not so much "might makes right" these days as it is that "money talks." When the big banks can spend $1 million a day to influence about five hundred people in Congress to ensure that they can continue to cheat the poor out of their retirement savings, when there is a straight path from Wall Street to the Cabinet and other positions among the president's close advisors, when Big Pharma and Blue Cross-Blue Shield managed to get more from the health care reform than common people, we are falling short.
But the Law of God does not leave room for righteous indignation, for it is equally manifest that I, personally, do not measure up to these standards, nor does any son of Eve or daughter of Adam, save one. This is one of the key lessons that must be learned from the Torah: we cannot live up to it. It is a clear teaching of St. Paul, but it is equally clear in the Psalms and Prophets:
"Every one has proved faithless;
all alike have turned bad;
there is none who does good; no, not one." (Psalm 14:3)
The answer to this dilemma is stated in today's Epistle, among many other places, where St. Paul writes:
"And you, being dead in your sins and the uncircumcision of your flesh, hath he quickened together with him, having forgiven you all trespasses; blotting out the handwriting of ordinances that was against us, which was contrary to us, and took it out of the way, nailing it to his cross." (Colossians 2:13-14).
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Holy Week, Easter, plainsong, and indulgences
Over the last several weeks, there has been some good liturgy and music, and some bad. Some thoughts in review:
At one time, I had hoped that the adult choir could sing Bruckner's setting of Christus factus est for Passion Sunday. It became clear that they couldn't. Instead, we sang the proper plainsong gradual with the same text, using the English-language version in Bruce Ford's excellent American Gradual (available as a PDF download, for those who might be interested in it).
The youth choir was scheduled to sing at the contemporary service. I could not find a suitable anthem, and I wanted them to experience plainsong, so they ended up also singing one of the Passion Sunday propers from the American Gradual, the Offertory (Improperium, based on verses from Psalm 69).
Both of these plainsong propers were challenging. To their credit, both choirs took them seriously. The youth choir knew it well enough, but they could have sung it louder. We were missing almost half the choir, including some strong singers, but that is no excuse. Nonetheless, I remain convinced that it was the right choice for them, proper for their spiritual and musical development -- mine, too, for I learned a lot from teaching it to them.
As it transpired, the Improperium came at a point in the service when it was what needed to be said. We had heard St. Luke's passion narrative, but that had been followed by fifteen minutes of announcements, all having to do with the sale of this and that for various fundraising projects, ending with someone saying that she thought we should sell indulgences: a great way to raise some money. And, to our shame, certain people thought it was a terrific idea and we are doing exactly that; we heard another invitation to buy them in today's services. "Lighten up; it's just a joke?" Martin Luther did not think so, nor did the Magisterium that opposed him. Nor do I. But that day, people were laughing, in high spirits. Forget about Christ on the cross. Who cares about that when you come to church to see your friends and have a few laughs?
Immediately after, the youth choir sang their anthem. It was as if it were from a different universe from what we had just been hearing:
"Shame and reproach have broken my heart, and it cannot be healed. I looked for sympathy, but there was none, for comforters, but I found no one. They gave me gall to eat, and when I was thirsty they gave me vinegar to drink."
Upon several weeks of reflection, I am increasingly convinced that, quiet as it was, it may have been the "still, small voice" for those who had ears to hear. One of the jazz musicians in the congregation complimented us on it after the service, though many other people, including the Rector, complained about not being able to hear it. I think I will leave it at that.
The adults did a fine job with their Christus factus est, and the traditional congregation appreciated it. The choir did excellent work throughout the busy week, highlighted by a heartfelt rendition of Mozart's Ave verum corpus on Maundy Thursday, and "My dancing day" at the Great Vigil. We had a newly composed prelude for brass and organ on Easter Day at the traditional service, and as is the custom, we finished with the congregation singing the Hallelujah Chorus. Unfortunately, I followed that with a sloppy rendition of Gigout's "Grand Choir Dialogue."
Not to be outdone, I gave an equally sloppy reading of Vierne's "Carillon" from the Twenty-Four Pieces on the following Sunday. At least the Messiaen at the end of the Great Vigil went well enough, a movement from the Book of the Blessed Sacrament, "The resurrection of Christ." It was, again, what needed to be said at that point in the liturgy and the week, a vision of angels and light: "Why do you seek the living among the dead?"
Our principal liturgies through the period were badly conducted, with Passion Sunday, the Great Vigil, and Easter Day being the worst. One of our teenage acolytes characterized the Vigil as a "major liturgical fail." He was right. I made my contributions to these failures with slipshod work on the bulletins and errors at the organ, to say nothing of my failure to elicit a stronger sound from the youth choir. But, as I said to someone after one of the services, "Christ is still risen."
Life goes on. We had excellent liturgy and music (except for my postlude) the following Sunday and a good jazz Eucharist this morning. The choirs are working hard and determined to do their best; I am, too. This week gave me a lot of time for organ practice, and I have used it. The lesson for me at the organ is that it is not enough to know the music well; one must know it so well that when something goes wrong (a muffed page turn and a missed stop change, respectively), one can carry on without trashing several measures of music. More Messiaen is on the way -- for the Sunday (May 9) when we hear from the end of Revelation about the "pure river of water of life, clear as crystal" and trees whose leaves are for the healing of the nations, the "Serene Alleluias" from the Ascension suite, on which I spent about six hours this week, and Bach: the C major prelude and fugue in 9/8 time for the Sunday after the Ascension, and the Kyrie Gott Vater, Christe aller Welt Trost, and Kyrie Gott heiliger Geist from the Clavierübung for Trinity Sunday. I hope I can do these things in a worthy manner.
We all have much to do.
At one time, I had hoped that the adult choir could sing Bruckner's setting of Christus factus est for Passion Sunday. It became clear that they couldn't. Instead, we sang the proper plainsong gradual with the same text, using the English-language version in Bruce Ford's excellent American Gradual (available as a PDF download, for those who might be interested in it).
The youth choir was scheduled to sing at the contemporary service. I could not find a suitable anthem, and I wanted them to experience plainsong, so they ended up also singing one of the Passion Sunday propers from the American Gradual, the Offertory (Improperium, based on verses from Psalm 69).
Both of these plainsong propers were challenging. To their credit, both choirs took them seriously. The youth choir knew it well enough, but they could have sung it louder. We were missing almost half the choir, including some strong singers, but that is no excuse. Nonetheless, I remain convinced that it was the right choice for them, proper for their spiritual and musical development -- mine, too, for I learned a lot from teaching it to them.
As it transpired, the Improperium came at a point in the service when it was what needed to be said. We had heard St. Luke's passion narrative, but that had been followed by fifteen minutes of announcements, all having to do with the sale of this and that for various fundraising projects, ending with someone saying that she thought we should sell indulgences: a great way to raise some money. And, to our shame, certain people thought it was a terrific idea and we are doing exactly that; we heard another invitation to buy them in today's services. "Lighten up; it's just a joke?" Martin Luther did not think so, nor did the Magisterium that opposed him. Nor do I. But that day, people were laughing, in high spirits. Forget about Christ on the cross. Who cares about that when you come to church to see your friends and have a few laughs?
Immediately after, the youth choir sang their anthem. It was as if it were from a different universe from what we had just been hearing:
"Shame and reproach have broken my heart, and it cannot be healed. I looked for sympathy, but there was none, for comforters, but I found no one. They gave me gall to eat, and when I was thirsty they gave me vinegar to drink."
Upon several weeks of reflection, I am increasingly convinced that, quiet as it was, it may have been the "still, small voice" for those who had ears to hear. One of the jazz musicians in the congregation complimented us on it after the service, though many other people, including the Rector, complained about not being able to hear it. I think I will leave it at that.
The adults did a fine job with their Christus factus est, and the traditional congregation appreciated it. The choir did excellent work throughout the busy week, highlighted by a heartfelt rendition of Mozart's Ave verum corpus on Maundy Thursday, and "My dancing day" at the Great Vigil. We had a newly composed prelude for brass and organ on Easter Day at the traditional service, and as is the custom, we finished with the congregation singing the Hallelujah Chorus. Unfortunately, I followed that with a sloppy rendition of Gigout's "Grand Choir Dialogue."
Not to be outdone, I gave an equally sloppy reading of Vierne's "Carillon" from the Twenty-Four Pieces on the following Sunday. At least the Messiaen at the end of the Great Vigil went well enough, a movement from the Book of the Blessed Sacrament, "The resurrection of Christ." It was, again, what needed to be said at that point in the liturgy and the week, a vision of angels and light: "Why do you seek the living among the dead?"
Our principal liturgies through the period were badly conducted, with Passion Sunday, the Great Vigil, and Easter Day being the worst. One of our teenage acolytes characterized the Vigil as a "major liturgical fail." He was right. I made my contributions to these failures with slipshod work on the bulletins and errors at the organ, to say nothing of my failure to elicit a stronger sound from the youth choir. But, as I said to someone after one of the services, "Christ is still risen."
Life goes on. We had excellent liturgy and music (except for my postlude) the following Sunday and a good jazz Eucharist this morning. The choirs are working hard and determined to do their best; I am, too. This week gave me a lot of time for organ practice, and I have used it. The lesson for me at the organ is that it is not enough to know the music well; one must know it so well that when something goes wrong (a muffed page turn and a missed stop change, respectively), one can carry on without trashing several measures of music. More Messiaen is on the way -- for the Sunday (May 9) when we hear from the end of Revelation about the "pure river of water of life, clear as crystal" and trees whose leaves are for the healing of the nations, the "Serene Alleluias" from the Ascension suite, on which I spent about six hours this week, and Bach: the C major prelude and fugue in 9/8 time for the Sunday after the Ascension, and the Kyrie Gott Vater, Christe aller Welt Trost, and Kyrie Gott heiliger Geist from the Clavierübung for Trinity Sunday. I hope I can do these things in a worthy manner.
We all have much to do.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
No more a stranger, nor a guest
[a Sermon for Evensong of the Second Sunday of Easter; one of the two sermons that I have ever preached, on the last occasion when these lessons were appointed. Primary text: John 14:1-7, with reference to the Eucharistic Gospel: John 20:19-31]
------------------
Today is often called "Thomas Sunday" because of the Gospel that was read at this morning's Eucharist. "Doubting Thomas," we have called him, ever since. "Thomas, the first Theologian," is the name I prefer.
We Episcopalians sometimes call upon the theologian Richard Hooker for his "three-legged stool" of Scripture, Reason, and Tradition. In our discernment of how to act and what to believe, all three legs of the stool must play their part. In his way, perhaps Thomas was applying these criteria to the claims of the Resurrection.
Scripture? Yes, the Old Testament scriptures foretell that Christ must suffer and die, and be raised from the dead. Jesus taught this to the Twelve, repeatedly. They never understood. But we should not fault them overmuch; this take on the Old Testament was unorthodox, held only by their own Teacher. The disciples might not entirely trust that leg of the stool.
Reason? This is easy. Reason made it most profoundly clear that Jesus was dead. Quod erat demonstrandum.
Tradition? There is no tradition that would lead one to expect Jesus to rise from the dead -- except perhaps for one little wisp of hope, an idea that never quite disappears from the tradition, that this Story has a happy ending. The hope is summed up by Gabriel when he spoke with Mary: "With God, nothing shall be impossible." Again and again, from Noah's rainbow to Sarah and Abraham's impossible child, from walking through the Red Sea on dry ground to a shepherd boy killing a giant, from weak little Jerusalem standing up to the massed armies of the Assyrian Empire, to the return from exile, "those who sowed with tears" have become "those who reap with songs of joy."
We can forgive Thomas for not putting too much faith in such a hope. Would we, without two thousand years of Witnesses to the Resurrection?
- Stephen and all the martyrs.
- Francis and Clare, and all the other friends of Lady Poverty.
- Paul and Augustine and Aquinas and Luther and Calvin and, yes, Richard Hooker, and many others, who have "believed in order to understand."
Further, there is what the Quakers call the "Inner Light," which we sense in ourselves and see in others. This, too, is evidence that Christ is risen, and still "known to us in the breaking of the bread" and in many other ways.
-----------
And so, finally, to this evening's text: It is a favorite of mine, and of many of us. I prefer the eloquence of the King James Version, especially the first three verses.
"Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself, that where I am, there ye may be also."
"Many mansions."
Maybe something like Thomas Jefferson's Monticello -- without Adam's curse, which required so much upkeep and behind-the-scenes work that there had to be large numbers of slaves to keep the place up. Without them, the owner himself becomes a slave to the place. Some of us who have owned homes know of this.
But I gather that the Greek word used here is considerably more humble, perhaps closer to an apartment, or even a tent. I was disappointed when I first heard this. But imagine.... a tent and campfire by a Minnesota lake on a summer night, the loons diving and calling, the stars brilliant and clear and filling the sky. And again, without the effect of Adam's curse, which causes the mosquitos to consider Homo sapiens a choice delicacy. Yes, I would happily take that for an eternal dwelling.
Or it might be something like J.R.R. Tolkien's Rivendell. As Tolkien described it, Rivendell was "'a perfect house, whether you like food or sleep, or story-telling or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all.' Merely to be there was a cure for weariness, fear and sadness."
In a word, it is Home. It is the home we never quite find in this life. It is the sure and settled place where we belong -- and not alone, but in close communion with all those we love, and all those of every time and place who have called upon the name of the LORD.
Hearing all this, Thomas asks the basic question of Theology, and the basic question of all lost wanderers, of which our rootless generation is perhaps chief -- "how can we know the way" to such a place, such an end? How can we find the way home?
Jesus does not launch into a dissertation on eschatology, or the nature of knowledge. He says something far more astonishing: "I am the way."
Not just that: he adds that he is also "the truth, and the life." This relates back to the statement "I go to prepare a place for you." He does so, at least in part, by being himself "the way, the truth, and the life." St. Augustine interprets it best: "He prepares the dwelling-places by preparing those who are to dwell in them."
(here sing...)
The sure provisions of my God
attend me all my days;
oh, may thy house be mine abode,
and all my work be praise.
There would I find a settled rest,
while others go and come;
No more a stranger, nor a guest,
but like a child at home.
(from a metrical psalm by Isaac Watts: "My Shepherd will supply my need")
---------------------
------------------
Today is often called "Thomas Sunday" because of the Gospel that was read at this morning's Eucharist. "Doubting Thomas," we have called him, ever since. "Thomas, the first Theologian," is the name I prefer.
We Episcopalians sometimes call upon the theologian Richard Hooker for his "three-legged stool" of Scripture, Reason, and Tradition. In our discernment of how to act and what to believe, all three legs of the stool must play their part. In his way, perhaps Thomas was applying these criteria to the claims of the Resurrection.
Scripture? Yes, the Old Testament scriptures foretell that Christ must suffer and die, and be raised from the dead. Jesus taught this to the Twelve, repeatedly. They never understood. But we should not fault them overmuch; this take on the Old Testament was unorthodox, held only by their own Teacher. The disciples might not entirely trust that leg of the stool.
Reason? This is easy. Reason made it most profoundly clear that Jesus was dead. Quod erat demonstrandum.
Tradition? There is no tradition that would lead one to expect Jesus to rise from the dead -- except perhaps for one little wisp of hope, an idea that never quite disappears from the tradition, that this Story has a happy ending. The hope is summed up by Gabriel when he spoke with Mary: "With God, nothing shall be impossible." Again and again, from Noah's rainbow to Sarah and Abraham's impossible child, from walking through the Red Sea on dry ground to a shepherd boy killing a giant, from weak little Jerusalem standing up to the massed armies of the Assyrian Empire, to the return from exile, "those who sowed with tears" have become "those who reap with songs of joy."
We can forgive Thomas for not putting too much faith in such a hope. Would we, without two thousand years of Witnesses to the Resurrection?
- Stephen and all the martyrs.
- Francis and Clare, and all the other friends of Lady Poverty.
- Paul and Augustine and Aquinas and Luther and Calvin and, yes, Richard Hooker, and many others, who have "believed in order to understand."
Further, there is what the Quakers call the "Inner Light," which we sense in ourselves and see in others. This, too, is evidence that Christ is risen, and still "known to us in the breaking of the bread" and in many other ways.
-----------
And so, finally, to this evening's text: It is a favorite of mine, and of many of us. I prefer the eloquence of the King James Version, especially the first three verses.
"Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself, that where I am, there ye may be also."
"Many mansions."
Maybe something like Thomas Jefferson's Monticello -- without Adam's curse, which required so much upkeep and behind-the-scenes work that there had to be large numbers of slaves to keep the place up. Without them, the owner himself becomes a slave to the place. Some of us who have owned homes know of this.
But I gather that the Greek word used here is considerably more humble, perhaps closer to an apartment, or even a tent. I was disappointed when I first heard this. But imagine.... a tent and campfire by a Minnesota lake on a summer night, the loons diving and calling, the stars brilliant and clear and filling the sky. And again, without the effect of Adam's curse, which causes the mosquitos to consider Homo sapiens a choice delicacy. Yes, I would happily take that for an eternal dwelling.
Or it might be something like J.R.R. Tolkien's Rivendell. As Tolkien described it, Rivendell was "'a perfect house, whether you like food or sleep, or story-telling or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all.' Merely to be there was a cure for weariness, fear and sadness."
In a word, it is Home. It is the home we never quite find in this life. It is the sure and settled place where we belong -- and not alone, but in close communion with all those we love, and all those of every time and place who have called upon the name of the LORD.
Hearing all this, Thomas asks the basic question of Theology, and the basic question of all lost wanderers, of which our rootless generation is perhaps chief -- "how can we know the way" to such a place, such an end? How can we find the way home?
Jesus does not launch into a dissertation on eschatology, or the nature of knowledge. He says something far more astonishing: "I am the way."
Not just that: he adds that he is also "the truth, and the life." This relates back to the statement "I go to prepare a place for you." He does so, at least in part, by being himself "the way, the truth, and the life." St. Augustine interprets it best: "He prepares the dwelling-places by preparing those who are to dwell in them."
(here sing...)
The sure provisions of my God
attend me all my days;
oh, may thy house be mine abode,
and all my work be praise.
There would I find a settled rest,
while others go and come;
No more a stranger, nor a guest,
but like a child at home.
(from a metrical psalm by Isaac Watts: "My Shepherd will supply my need")
---------------------
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
part five: a resurrection appearance, and an afterword
They walked together in the cool of the spring evening. It was the first opportunity they had found to be together, just the two of them. For a long time, neither of them said anything. They walked slowly, sometimes looking at one another and smiling. Mary thought, "I could do this forever. Just being with him... this is all I have ever wanted. All that I will ever want." Finally, Jesus said, "It was hard to see you suffer." Mary bowed her head. He continued, "But this is how it had to be. This was the only way that I could break the power of the enemy, of death and hell."
Mary stopped him. "Ever since you were little, I couldn't keep up with you. I have no place in such big things; I am just your plain old mother."
"No. You have every place in this. Without you, none of this could have happened."
"Do you know how I first started to understand who I am?" he said. "It was you. The way you believed in me, even when I was little, telling me the stories, the ones from the Prophets and the ones about how I was born, too. And your song. 'My soul doth magnify the Lord.' More than anyone, you do it. You 'magnify the Lord.'" He smiled. "I can remember you holding me as a little child in your arms and singing that."
"But I failed you. I thought that somehow I had gotten it wrong. You were -- are -- not the Messiah I thought you would be."
"You still believed. Always."
"No. I... I don't understand."
"Believing is not always like the sea on a calm day," he said. "Often as not, it is like a storm, when you think the boat is going to be swamped. But you go on, the best you can. That is what you did."
They walked on in silence. After a bit, Mary asked "Will I see you again?"
"Soon, I will return to my Father and you will not see me, not in this life. But I will be with you always, to the end of the world." With a smile, he added: "And you will be with me at my marriage."
Mary had no idea what he meant. She decided not to ask.
---------------
AFTERWORD
This story has been working in my head for three or four years; I posted a fragment of it on another site a few years ago. The impetus was twofold, reflected in the quotation of Matt. 12:47-50 and John 7:5 at the beginning. How did James, the "brother of the Lord," go from not believing to leadership in the Church and martyrdom? And Mary -- she was with the disciples at Cana of Galilee, and John's Gospel does not rule out her staying with them right on through, though she is not mentioned that I can find between Cana and John 19. Unlike St. John, the Synoptic evangelists do not indicate her presence at the Crucifixion. But who is "Mary the mother of James and Joses" in Matt. 27:56 (see also Luke 24:10), after James and Joses have been named elsewhere as brethren of Jesus (Mark 6:3)? If this is the Mother of our Lord, why doesn't Matthew say so? And St. Luke lists the Mother of our Lord among those present after the Ascension, along with "his brethren" (Acts 1:14). In short, where does she belong in this part of the story?
The four Gospels differ in detail concerning these events. Mostly, my fictional account is based on St. Luke and St. John. The coordination of even these two accounts is fraught with difficulties, many of which I have simply ignored and others which I have probably not handled adequately. One issue that preoccupied me for a while was an attempt at naming the women present at the Cross. St. John lists them at "his mother, and his mother's sister, Mary the wife of Cleophas, and Mary Magdalene" (19:25). Is he saying that his mother's sister is Mary the wife of Cleophas, or are they two different people? I looked at the commentaries on this, and I am not the only one who cannot figure this out; it appears that the Greek is as unclear as the English. Some commentators surmise that they are two people because it would be strange to name two sisters "Mary."
And that raises a narrative difficulty: there are too many "Marys" in this story. How does one differentiate them without being awkward? I took the liberty of referring to the wife of Cleophas as "Mary Cleophas," and made her a fairly major character. My identifying of Cleophas and his wife as the couple who were married at Cana of Galilee is pure fiction. But I am not alone in guessing that the unnamed companion of "Cleopas" on the road to Emmaus (St. Luke 24:13-35) was his wife. Needing a sister for Mary, I chose Salome, who is listed among the women at the tomb in St. Luke 24:10.
The dream sequences for Mary seemed to make sense for a woman who treasured things in her heart and had strong affinity to spiritual things. One of them is based on Revelation 12:1-5; the others are from obvious sources in St. Luke.
In meditating on the Scriptural accounts of these matters, I found unexpected peace with one issue: the familial relationship of Jesus and his "brethren and sisters." Are they the biological children of Joseph and Mary? Are they, as Roman Catholic doctrine teaches, "cousins" or other near kin, perhaps orphans taken in by their aunt and uncle? Are they children of Joseph by a previous wife? Elsewhere I have written about this, expressing my thought that it would be fitting for Mary and Joseph to have many children after Jesus was born, as a sign of God's blessing upon them akin to the children given Hannah after she "lent" her son to the Lord (I Sam. 1:27-28 and 2:21). I have come to realize that it genuinely does not matter. Whatever their biological relation, James and Joses, Judah and Simon, and their sisters lived in the household with Jesus, with Mary and Joseph the effectual parents of this large family. None of this is incompatible with the perpetual virginity of Our Lady, nor does it require it. However they came to be there, their practical relation as children of the Holy Family completely fulfills the blessing of children for Joseph and Mary.
In a sense, this story is "fan fiction," or "historical fiction." In another sense, it has been "lectio divina" for me, a way of living with these passages. There is, however, a danger: I must not do these persons offense by misrepresenting them, or projecting my thoughts and fantasies onto them. I must, rather, continue to live in communion with them.
Mary stopped him. "Ever since you were little, I couldn't keep up with you. I have no place in such big things; I am just your plain old mother."
"No. You have every place in this. Without you, none of this could have happened."
"Do you know how I first started to understand who I am?" he said. "It was you. The way you believed in me, even when I was little, telling me the stories, the ones from the Prophets and the ones about how I was born, too. And your song. 'My soul doth magnify the Lord.' More than anyone, you do it. You 'magnify the Lord.'" He smiled. "I can remember you holding me as a little child in your arms and singing that."
"But I failed you. I thought that somehow I had gotten it wrong. You were -- are -- not the Messiah I thought you would be."
"You still believed. Always."
"No. I... I don't understand."
"Believing is not always like the sea on a calm day," he said. "Often as not, it is like a storm, when you think the boat is going to be swamped. But you go on, the best you can. That is what you did."
They walked on in silence. After a bit, Mary asked "Will I see you again?"
"Soon, I will return to my Father and you will not see me, not in this life. But I will be with you always, to the end of the world." With a smile, he added: "And you will be with me at my marriage."
Mary had no idea what he meant. She decided not to ask.
---------------
AFTERWORD
This story has been working in my head for three or four years; I posted a fragment of it on another site a few years ago. The impetus was twofold, reflected in the quotation of Matt. 12:47-50 and John 7:5 at the beginning. How did James, the "brother of the Lord," go from not believing to leadership in the Church and martyrdom? And Mary -- she was with the disciples at Cana of Galilee, and John's Gospel does not rule out her staying with them right on through, though she is not mentioned that I can find between Cana and John 19. Unlike St. John, the Synoptic evangelists do not indicate her presence at the Crucifixion. But who is "Mary the mother of James and Joses" in Matt. 27:56 (see also Luke 24:10), after James and Joses have been named elsewhere as brethren of Jesus (Mark 6:3)? If this is the Mother of our Lord, why doesn't Matthew say so? And St. Luke lists the Mother of our Lord among those present after the Ascension, along with "his brethren" (Acts 1:14). In short, where does she belong in this part of the story?
The four Gospels differ in detail concerning these events. Mostly, my fictional account is based on St. Luke and St. John. The coordination of even these two accounts is fraught with difficulties, many of which I have simply ignored and others which I have probably not handled adequately. One issue that preoccupied me for a while was an attempt at naming the women present at the Cross. St. John lists them at "his mother, and his mother's sister, Mary the wife of Cleophas, and Mary Magdalene" (19:25). Is he saying that his mother's sister is Mary the wife of Cleophas, or are they two different people? I looked at the commentaries on this, and I am not the only one who cannot figure this out; it appears that the Greek is as unclear as the English. Some commentators surmise that they are two people because it would be strange to name two sisters "Mary."
And that raises a narrative difficulty: there are too many "Marys" in this story. How does one differentiate them without being awkward? I took the liberty of referring to the wife of Cleophas as "Mary Cleophas," and made her a fairly major character. My identifying of Cleophas and his wife as the couple who were married at Cana of Galilee is pure fiction. But I am not alone in guessing that the unnamed companion of "Cleopas" on the road to Emmaus (St. Luke 24:13-35) was his wife. Needing a sister for Mary, I chose Salome, who is listed among the women at the tomb in St. Luke 24:10.
The dream sequences for Mary seemed to make sense for a woman who treasured things in her heart and had strong affinity to spiritual things. One of them is based on Revelation 12:1-5; the others are from obvious sources in St. Luke.
In meditating on the Scriptural accounts of these matters, I found unexpected peace with one issue: the familial relationship of Jesus and his "brethren and sisters." Are they the biological children of Joseph and Mary? Are they, as Roman Catholic doctrine teaches, "cousins" or other near kin, perhaps orphans taken in by their aunt and uncle? Are they children of Joseph by a previous wife? Elsewhere I have written about this, expressing my thought that it would be fitting for Mary and Joseph to have many children after Jesus was born, as a sign of God's blessing upon them akin to the children given Hannah after she "lent" her son to the Lord (I Sam. 1:27-28 and 2:21). I have come to realize that it genuinely does not matter. Whatever their biological relation, James and Joses, Judah and Simon, and their sisters lived in the household with Jesus, with Mary and Joseph the effectual parents of this large family. None of this is incompatible with the perpetual virginity of Our Lady, nor does it require it. However they came to be there, their practical relation as children of the Holy Family completely fulfills the blessing of children for Joseph and Mary.
In a sense, this story is "fan fiction," or "historical fiction." In another sense, it has been "lectio divina" for me, a way of living with these passages. There is, however, a danger: I must not do these persons offense by misrepresenting them, or projecting my thoughts and fantasies onto them. I must, rather, continue to live in communion with them.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
part four: the end of the Sabbath
James made the trip from Nazareth with all haste, toward the end stumbling ahead through the unnatural darkness. By the time he got to Jerusalem it was after sunset -- the beginning of Passover. No one was out of doors; no one but the Roman patrols.
What was he to do? Knock at random doors, where people were eating the Pesach? Accost a passing squad? "Pardon me; I am looking for the mother of Jesus, and his disciples." He would end up on a cross himself. "That might be the best way out," he thought. "My own brother, and I didn't stand by him alive. I could at least follow him in death." His old dreams of military glory, the two of them striding across the pages of history, mocked him. How could God let Jesus die? He wanted to grab a sword, charge into Herod's palace, and see how far he got. It would be better than this. He was reduced to wandering the deserted streets.
The night drug on: the Passover, the night of the Destroyer. This night, Death and Chaos walked the world. "When I see the blood, I will pass over you." That had been the bulwark against the darkness for thousands of years. Now it was gone. All the old forms, the rituals he loved, Passover and all the rest -- with Jesus dead, they were swept away, meaningless. James muttered "It is all coming to an end. Here. Now." He looked at the moon, still hours from its setting. This was the end of the world, and they had brought it on themselves. "We have killed him. It wasn't just the priests, or Herod, or the Romans. We all are part of it." The Messiah, the Lord's Anointed, was dead. Hell would swallow them all.
But what if Jesus was right? "Behold my Servant. . . ." What if he was indeed the Servant, and somehow good would come of this? "Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows. . . he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed." Healing, out of this?
James knew this part of Isaiah well; as teenagers, he and Jesus had recited chapter after chapter to each other until they both had them memorized. As the hours crept toward dawn, he turned it over and over, muttering verses to himself. But he could not make sense of it; something was missing.
---------------
Mary sat on the floor in the furthest corner of the room, her arms wrapped around her knees. She had been there all of Friday night, not moving, not responding to anyone. For some reason, John had tried to take care of her. He had brought a blanket over and awkwardly wrapped it around her. Salome had slept on the floor beside her, or tried to; no one was able to sleep. There were about thirty of them, all crowded into an upstairs room somewhere in the city; Mary did not remember how they had come to be there. The men were nervous, whispering to one another about whether to try and make a run for it before the soldiers came. Every sound in the street, every creak of the walls made them cower in fear.
As the Sabbath wore on through midday and into the afternoon, Mary realized, dimly, that James was there, even though she thought he was back in Nazareth. He, Peter, and the sons of Zebedee huddled by the door for a long time; it looked as if James was trying to convince them to let him stay. Eventually, he came over to her and knelt down beside her. He muttered something about being sorry, and patted her shoulder. She ignored him. But he stayed, settling himself against the wall beside Salome. John brought her a cup of water, and food. She shook her head and buried her face against her knees. The room darkened again into night.
Much later, Mary Magdalene knelt before Mary, and brushed the hair from her face. "Mary," she said. With bleak eyes, she looked up. "It will be light soon. A few of us are going out. . . . out there. To the tomb. We should take some more spices, and check on things." After a moment, "You want to come?"
Mary roused herself enough to answer. "No." Then: "I should. . . . No. I can't do it. Not yet." Mary Magdalene smiled, sadly. She touched Mary's face with her fingertips. "We'll be back in a while." She, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James slipped out, each carrying a bundle of spices.
Outside the window, the sky grew light. A little grey sparrow landed in the windowsill, chirping and singing. Mary looked up at it, smiling in spite of herself. The bird looked at her and sang, as if just for her. It was going to be a glorious morning; the sky was clear, and a soft breeze brought its message of springtime. She shook her head, sadly; a thousand springtimes would not undo what had happened.
Mary Magdalene and the other women were doing what women always did in the face of ruin; they had taken a deep breath, and gotten on with life. Mary had done it herself after Joseph died, but this time was different. There was no life to go on with. Soon enough they would realize it; without Jesus, there was nothing.
Mary Cleopas interrupted her thoughts; "We have to get going today," she said, kneeling beside her. "Now that James is here, he and Salome can bring you back to Nazareth when you are ready. Cleopas thinks that we should get out of town; it is too dangerous here. If we leave soon, we can make it to Emmaus by evening."
There was a commotion at the door; the two Marys looked up. It was Joanna and the mother of James. They were out of breath as if they had been running, talking to the men, gesticulating, insisting on whatever it was that they were saying. The men shook their heads at them, obviously thinking "They're just women. What do they know." Mary could not tell what was going on. She saw John tug Peter's sleeve and gesture toward the door; the two of them slipped out while the others argued.
Some of the others looked at the two Marys, as if wondering what to do. Joanna pushed Thomas and Matthew aside and strode across the room toward them. She was still breathing hard, flushed from running, and from what seemed to be . . . excitement? joy? What was going on?
"He's gone," she said. "Jesus. The stone... it was moved aside, and the tomb was empty. We looked." Mary's heart fluttered for a moment, but sank again. Surely it was grave robbers, or the Romans. They had taken his body. Joanna knelt before Mary and took her hands. "And we saw angels. Real angels, two of them. Their clothing shone like the sun. Mary, they told us that he is alive! 'Why seek ye the living among the dead,' they said. 'He is not here, but is risen.'"
Philip and Andrew came over. "Joanna, what do you think you are doing? Upsetting his mother over some bit of nonsense. Now stop it." Joanna drew herself up to her full height and put her hands on her hips. "I will not stop it. I will never be silent, not about this." The men threw up their hands as if to say "What's the use," and turned away. Joanna pulled Mary to her feet and hugged her fiercely, laughing and crying. Kissing Mary on the cheek, she twirled away across the room like a child, dancing for joy.
Mary could hardly breathe. He was dead; she had held his cold body in her arms before they buried it. If Joanna was right... it would be a miracle. More than a miracle; it would be all the promises of God, all come true.
Another commotion at the door; it was Peter, breathless from running. "The tomb really is empty." John tumbled in, behind Peter.
The others shouted questions: "Did you see him?" "Did you see angels?" John and Peter told their story, interrupting each other in their excitement. In the midst of the hubbub, Cleopas came over to the two Marys and whispered in his wife's ear. He turned away, gathering their things to go. "We really have to go now," Mary Cleopas said. She hugged Mary and said "I don't know what to think of all this. And I really, really don't want to go now, not knowing for sure. But it can't be helped." The two Marys hugged again. Cleopas and Mary took their satchels and slipped out the door, unnoticed by the others. The men were arguing now; some of them had decided it was all some kind of vision, some of the others (and all of the women who had gone to the tomb) insisting it was true.
Salome had come over to Mary and stood by her at the edge of the room, arm around her waist. "Mary, you know more about these things than any of those," she said, gesturing at the men. "What do you think? Can it be true?" Mary could find no words.
Yet another commotion: Mary Magdalene burst into the room, her face like that of an angel. Everyone looked at her, a sudden silence in the room. Breathless, she said: "I have seen the Lord!"
What was he to do? Knock at random doors, where people were eating the Pesach? Accost a passing squad? "Pardon me; I am looking for the mother of Jesus, and his disciples." He would end up on a cross himself. "That might be the best way out," he thought. "My own brother, and I didn't stand by him alive. I could at least follow him in death." His old dreams of military glory, the two of them striding across the pages of history, mocked him. How could God let Jesus die? He wanted to grab a sword, charge into Herod's palace, and see how far he got. It would be better than this. He was reduced to wandering the deserted streets.
The night drug on: the Passover, the night of the Destroyer. This night, Death and Chaos walked the world. "When I see the blood, I will pass over you." That had been the bulwark against the darkness for thousands of years. Now it was gone. All the old forms, the rituals he loved, Passover and all the rest -- with Jesus dead, they were swept away, meaningless. James muttered "It is all coming to an end. Here. Now." He looked at the moon, still hours from its setting. This was the end of the world, and they had brought it on themselves. "We have killed him. It wasn't just the priests, or Herod, or the Romans. We all are part of it." The Messiah, the Lord's Anointed, was dead. Hell would swallow them all.
But what if Jesus was right? "Behold my Servant. . . ." What if he was indeed the Servant, and somehow good would come of this? "Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows. . . he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed." Healing, out of this?
James knew this part of Isaiah well; as teenagers, he and Jesus had recited chapter after chapter to each other until they both had them memorized. As the hours crept toward dawn, he turned it over and over, muttering verses to himself. But he could not make sense of it; something was missing.
---------------
Mary sat on the floor in the furthest corner of the room, her arms wrapped around her knees. She had been there all of Friday night, not moving, not responding to anyone. For some reason, John had tried to take care of her. He had brought a blanket over and awkwardly wrapped it around her. Salome had slept on the floor beside her, or tried to; no one was able to sleep. There were about thirty of them, all crowded into an upstairs room somewhere in the city; Mary did not remember how they had come to be there. The men were nervous, whispering to one another about whether to try and make a run for it before the soldiers came. Every sound in the street, every creak of the walls made them cower in fear.
As the Sabbath wore on through midday and into the afternoon, Mary realized, dimly, that James was there, even though she thought he was back in Nazareth. He, Peter, and the sons of Zebedee huddled by the door for a long time; it looked as if James was trying to convince them to let him stay. Eventually, he came over to her and knelt down beside her. He muttered something about being sorry, and patted her shoulder. She ignored him. But he stayed, settling himself against the wall beside Salome. John brought her a cup of water, and food. She shook her head and buried her face against her knees. The room darkened again into night.
Much later, Mary Magdalene knelt before Mary, and brushed the hair from her face. "Mary," she said. With bleak eyes, she looked up. "It will be light soon. A few of us are going out. . . . out there. To the tomb. We should take some more spices, and check on things." After a moment, "You want to come?"
Mary roused herself enough to answer. "No." Then: "I should. . . . No. I can't do it. Not yet." Mary Magdalene smiled, sadly. She touched Mary's face with her fingertips. "We'll be back in a while." She, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James slipped out, each carrying a bundle of spices.
Outside the window, the sky grew light. A little grey sparrow landed in the windowsill, chirping and singing. Mary looked up at it, smiling in spite of herself. The bird looked at her and sang, as if just for her. It was going to be a glorious morning; the sky was clear, and a soft breeze brought its message of springtime. She shook her head, sadly; a thousand springtimes would not undo what had happened.
Mary Magdalene and the other women were doing what women always did in the face of ruin; they had taken a deep breath, and gotten on with life. Mary had done it herself after Joseph died, but this time was different. There was no life to go on with. Soon enough they would realize it; without Jesus, there was nothing.
Mary Cleopas interrupted her thoughts; "We have to get going today," she said, kneeling beside her. "Now that James is here, he and Salome can bring you back to Nazareth when you are ready. Cleopas thinks that we should get out of town; it is too dangerous here. If we leave soon, we can make it to Emmaus by evening."
There was a commotion at the door; the two Marys looked up. It was Joanna and the mother of James. They were out of breath as if they had been running, talking to the men, gesticulating, insisting on whatever it was that they were saying. The men shook their heads at them, obviously thinking "They're just women. What do they know." Mary could not tell what was going on. She saw John tug Peter's sleeve and gesture toward the door; the two of them slipped out while the others argued.
Some of the others looked at the two Marys, as if wondering what to do. Joanna pushed Thomas and Matthew aside and strode across the room toward them. She was still breathing hard, flushed from running, and from what seemed to be . . . excitement? joy? What was going on?
"He's gone," she said. "Jesus. The stone... it was moved aside, and the tomb was empty. We looked." Mary's heart fluttered for a moment, but sank again. Surely it was grave robbers, or the Romans. They had taken his body. Joanna knelt before Mary and took her hands. "And we saw angels. Real angels, two of them. Their clothing shone like the sun. Mary, they told us that he is alive! 'Why seek ye the living among the dead,' they said. 'He is not here, but is risen.'"
Philip and Andrew came over. "Joanna, what do you think you are doing? Upsetting his mother over some bit of nonsense. Now stop it." Joanna drew herself up to her full height and put her hands on her hips. "I will not stop it. I will never be silent, not about this." The men threw up their hands as if to say "What's the use," and turned away. Joanna pulled Mary to her feet and hugged her fiercely, laughing and crying. Kissing Mary on the cheek, she twirled away across the room like a child, dancing for joy.
Mary could hardly breathe. He was dead; she had held his cold body in her arms before they buried it. If Joanna was right... it would be a miracle. More than a miracle; it would be all the promises of God, all come true.
Another commotion at the door; it was Peter, breathless from running. "The tomb really is empty." John tumbled in, behind Peter.
The others shouted questions: "Did you see him?" "Did you see angels?" John and Peter told their story, interrupting each other in their excitement. In the midst of the hubbub, Cleopas came over to the two Marys and whispered in his wife's ear. He turned away, gathering their things to go. "We really have to go now," Mary Cleopas said. She hugged Mary and said "I don't know what to think of all this. And I really, really don't want to go now, not knowing for sure. But it can't be helped." The two Marys hugged again. Cleopas and Mary took their satchels and slipped out the door, unnoticed by the others. The men were arguing now; some of them had decided it was all some kind of vision, some of the others (and all of the women who had gone to the tomb) insisting it was true.
Salome had come over to Mary and stood by her at the edge of the room, arm around her waist. "Mary, you know more about these things than any of those," she said, gesturing at the men. "What do you think? Can it be true?" Mary could find no words.
Yet another commotion: Mary Magdalene burst into the room, her face like that of an angel. Everyone looked at her, a sudden silence in the room. Breathless, she said: "I have seen the Lord!"
Thursday, April 1, 2010
part three: Friday
They hurried through the street, not far from the Temple. "Have you seen Jesus?" they asked. Most shrank from at the name, as if they wanted no part of it; a few cursed. No one helped them.
"He's been sold as a slave," she said to Joseph. "I just know it." Joseph squeezed her hand. They hurried through the narrow street. How had they lost him? Mary and Joseph were sure he had been in the company when they left Jerusalem. But when they stopped for the night's camp.... Mary's heart ached from their frantic journey back to the city. What had become of him?
It was nearly noon by the time they reached the edge of the city and saw the three crosses on the hill.
------------------------
Mary and her companions stood, dazed, on the edge of the crowd. A young woman came toward them through the crowd. "Martha," Mary Cleopas said to her; they hugged. "What happened?"
"They took him last night, after supper. It was Judas; he led them to him." Martha led them back the way she had come; Salome had to lead Mary by the arm, for her eyes were fixed on her son; she seemed oblivious to all else. Martha continued talking as they worked their way through the edges of the crowd. "He was in the garden; he had gone there to pray."
They reached the little knot of disciples, standing a little distance back from the edge of the crowd. There they were: James and John, Andrew, Peter, the others of the apostles, Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Martha's brother and sister, and a few others. The men hung their heads in shame; the women were weeping, disheveled. Mary Magdalene had torn her robe and ripped out clumps of her hair in anguish.
"How could they do this?" Cleopas asked, still not believing what was before him. "He didn't do anything wrong."
"They don't need a reason," Andrew said bitterly. "The whole crowd. . . 'Crucify him.' Pilate was going to let him go, and they wouldn't have it. They shouted him down."
Mary continued to stare fixedly at her son. As if in a daze, she began walking up the hill. Salome grabbed her arm: "Mary, you can't. They won't let you."
Mary brushed her hand away, kept going. "They'll kill you," Salome said, following right behind her.
"And you think I care about that?"
Mary Cleopas and Mary Magdalene trailed behind, hurrying to catch up. Last of all was John.
By now, Mary had reached the thickest part of the crowd. She pushed people aside to get through. Some of them cursed her, shoved her. She kept on. A man spat in her face as she elbowed past him, several others kicked her. She ignored them all and pressed on, the others following her.
They reached the front. One of the soldiers lowered his spear, blocking Mary's way. She stopped, knowing she could go no further. He was blonde, probably Germanic, and looked to be only about John's age, fourteen or fifteen, and more than a little scared. Incongruously, a detached part of her mind wondered how far he was from home, and whether he had a mother who worried about him.
Now that she was here, Mary wished she hadn't come. She and the others were hardly ten feet away from Jesus' cross. His body was a blackened ruin of caked-on blood and filth, shreds of skin hanging from the wounds, many of them oozing blood. They had jammed a mock crown on his head, a crown of thorns. The long thorns must have scraped along the bone under the skin; they were sticking out horribly. Jesus looked at her solemnly; the world spun around her.
The torture drug on and on. It might last for days. Mary felt Salome's arm around her, and Mary Cleopas beside her, and Mary Magdalene. At least she would not have to endure it alone. But Jesus was alone; he had no one to help him.
With knotted, trembling muscles, Jesus pulled himself up, his only support the nails through his wrists and feet, finally gasping another breath. Each time he collapsed, it seemed like it was the end. He couldn't possibly do it again. But that was part of the vileness of the cross; no one could will themselves to stop breathing. Death came slowly, breath after agonizing breath, until the cramped muscles of arms and legs failed. Each time he began the cycle again, a sword twisted in Mary's gut. The old man, Simeon, handed the child back to her. His wrinkled face glowed; the words he had just spoken rang in Mary's heart, as if they were echoing through endless ages. He continued: "A sword shall pierce your heart, also."
It was endless, this watching. It seemed like time had stopped, and like the whole universe had disappeared, all except Jesus up there and the little group watching him from below. Dimly, Mary realized that it was getting dark. It must finally be evening.
The wind howled. It got darker and darker, now as dark as a moonless night. As if from a distance, she heard Mary Magdalene say "This is more than just a storm. And it can't be much past midday. God help us." Mary saw the dragon, its body filling the sky. It was swallowing the sun, swallowing all of the light in the universe. People were panicky now; even the soldiers were looking around, terrified. Only the three on the crosses were unmoved, the darkness swirling around them, thickest around the one in the center. The blackness was complete, infinite... no. Not quite; a tiny spark remained, fragile, quivering at the edge of extinction: her son. Jesus. The dragon wanted him more than anything else; Mary could feel its desire like a wave of cold despair washing over her. Somewhere in the darkness, his voice: "Eloi, eloi, lama sabbachthani?" Mary understood. She screamed with all her might "He will NOT abandon you!" Her words were like dust specks in a hurricane, swept into the darkness. He murmured something more; she could not hear it for the wind, the dragon sucking the life out of him, out of everything in the world. To her horror, the light flickered and disappeared, swirling into the abyss.
"He's been sold as a slave," she said to Joseph. "I just know it." Joseph squeezed her hand. They hurried through the narrow street. How had they lost him? Mary and Joseph were sure he had been in the company when they left Jerusalem. But when they stopped for the night's camp.... Mary's heart ached from their frantic journey back to the city. What had become of him?
It was nearly noon by the time they reached the edge of the city and saw the three crosses on the hill.
------------------------
Mary and her companions stood, dazed, on the edge of the crowd. A young woman came toward them through the crowd. "Martha," Mary Cleopas said to her; they hugged. "What happened?"
"They took him last night, after supper. It was Judas; he led them to him." Martha led them back the way she had come; Salome had to lead Mary by the arm, for her eyes were fixed on her son; she seemed oblivious to all else. Martha continued talking as they worked their way through the edges of the crowd. "He was in the garden; he had gone there to pray."
They reached the little knot of disciples, standing a little distance back from the edge of the crowd. There they were: James and John, Andrew, Peter, the others of the apostles, Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Martha's brother and sister, and a few others. The men hung their heads in shame; the women were weeping, disheveled. Mary Magdalene had torn her robe and ripped out clumps of her hair in anguish.
"How could they do this?" Cleopas asked, still not believing what was before him. "He didn't do anything wrong."
"They don't need a reason," Andrew said bitterly. "The whole crowd. . . 'Crucify him.' Pilate was going to let him go, and they wouldn't have it. They shouted him down."
Mary continued to stare fixedly at her son. As if in a daze, she began walking up the hill. Salome grabbed her arm: "Mary, you can't. They won't let you."
Mary brushed her hand away, kept going. "They'll kill you," Salome said, following right behind her.
"And you think I care about that?"
Mary Cleopas and Mary Magdalene trailed behind, hurrying to catch up. Last of all was John.
By now, Mary had reached the thickest part of the crowd. She pushed people aside to get through. Some of them cursed her, shoved her. She kept on. A man spat in her face as she elbowed past him, several others kicked her. She ignored them all and pressed on, the others following her.
They reached the front. One of the soldiers lowered his spear, blocking Mary's way. She stopped, knowing she could go no further. He was blonde, probably Germanic, and looked to be only about John's age, fourteen or fifteen, and more than a little scared. Incongruously, a detached part of her mind wondered how far he was from home, and whether he had a mother who worried about him.
Now that she was here, Mary wished she hadn't come. She and the others were hardly ten feet away from Jesus' cross. His body was a blackened ruin of caked-on blood and filth, shreds of skin hanging from the wounds, many of them oozing blood. They had jammed a mock crown on his head, a crown of thorns. The long thorns must have scraped along the bone under the skin; they were sticking out horribly. Jesus looked at her solemnly; the world spun around her.
The torture drug on and on. It might last for days. Mary felt Salome's arm around her, and Mary Cleopas beside her, and Mary Magdalene. At least she would not have to endure it alone. But Jesus was alone; he had no one to help him.
With knotted, trembling muscles, Jesus pulled himself up, his only support the nails through his wrists and feet, finally gasping another breath. Each time he collapsed, it seemed like it was the end. He couldn't possibly do it again. But that was part of the vileness of the cross; no one could will themselves to stop breathing. Death came slowly, breath after agonizing breath, until the cramped muscles of arms and legs failed. Each time he began the cycle again, a sword twisted in Mary's gut. The old man, Simeon, handed the child back to her. His wrinkled face glowed; the words he had just spoken rang in Mary's heart, as if they were echoing through endless ages. He continued: "A sword shall pierce your heart, also."
It was endless, this watching. It seemed like time had stopped, and like the whole universe had disappeared, all except Jesus up there and the little group watching him from below. Dimly, Mary realized that it was getting dark. It must finally be evening.
The wind howled. It got darker and darker, now as dark as a moonless night. As if from a distance, she heard Mary Magdalene say "This is more than just a storm. And it can't be much past midday. God help us." Mary saw the dragon, its body filling the sky. It was swallowing the sun, swallowing all of the light in the universe. People were panicky now; even the soldiers were looking around, terrified. Only the three on the crosses were unmoved, the darkness swirling around them, thickest around the one in the center. The blackness was complete, infinite... no. Not quite; a tiny spark remained, fragile, quivering at the edge of extinction: her son. Jesus. The dragon wanted him more than anything else; Mary could feel its desire like a wave of cold despair washing over her. Somewhere in the darkness, his voice: "Eloi, eloi, lama sabbachthani?" Mary understood. She screamed with all her might "He will NOT abandon you!" Her words were like dust specks in a hurricane, swept into the darkness. He murmured something more; she could not hear it for the wind, the dragon sucking the life out of him, out of everything in the world. To her horror, the light flickered and disappeared, swirling into the abyss.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
