A lot of young church musicians do not survive the transition from school to church. Some of the fault is with the way organists and choral musicians are trained. They are schooled almost exclusively toward the goal of becoming the finest performers possible at the organ, and toward working with highly skilled young adult choristers, all of them with fabulous voices and quick and active minds. They sing and play only the finest literature; the pipe organs at their disposal are of the highest quality. They work at minutiae to bring their work to the highest possible standard. Unless they are very fortunate, they learn very little about working with children, or with teenagers, or with amateur adult singers of all ages, more elderly than otherwise. They learn nothing about "contemporary music" (meaning “anything with guitars”) except that it is to be avoided at all costs. They learn nothing about working with difficult clergy or parishioners, which probably is the downfall of more young church musicians than any other factor.
****
You graduate. You get a part-time position in a typical parish. The organ is a Baldwin electronic, circa 1970, with several of the pedal contacts corroded into dysfunction. The choir is, well, a typical parish choir: let's say eight persons, one of whom is under the age of sixty. There is one baritone who can sing tenor, sort of, in a pinch -- but he works every other Sunday morning. There is one other bass, age seventy-six, who has had three heart attacks and now has a large, wobbly voice because his cardiovascular fitness is barely enough to allow him to walk into the choir room. And he does not see very well. The other six are women. One of them played clarinet in her high school band (that was in the 1950's), so she reads music, sort of. The others all sing "by ear." Sort of.
A variety of vocal and other problems are in evidence; "white" tone, bleaty vibratos, no head voice. One woman has vocal nodules (as it proved) which she got, she tells you, from when she was in a mental hospital after her husband died "and I screamed, night and day." Another woman (the one who is under sixty) is epileptic, and more likely to have a seizure when she is stressed -- like, for example, in the middle of the anthem during the Christmas Eve service the previous year.
Since you have never worked with any singer who has any vocal problems whatsoever, you are at a loss. You want the choir to sound like your college choir, which had sung the B Minor Mass that spring before graduation. You want to do music like that: Bach and Palestrina and Schutz and Byrd and Tallis and all the rest. But the music library consists entirely of illegal Xeroxes, and one of your first moves is a day of carting it all off to the recycling depot.
"We would like a children's choir." That is what they told you in the interview, and is one of the reasons you accepted the position, for you studied the RSCM method at college and observed the excellent choral program at the local Episcopal parish near the campus. They neglected to mention that there are currently no children in the parish. None. There is not one soul in the parish under the age of thirty-five. And the community, a small Pennsylvania town, is dying; unemployment is near twenty percent, and anyone who was able moved away years ago, so there is not a plethora of children anywhere in town.
"Hmmm.... I guess I'll have to put that on the back burner, for now."
And here comes Sunday morning with that Baldwin. You have never played an electronic organ, much less one of that vintage -- early transistor/printed circuit, where every "stop" sounds pretty much the same, and pushing down a whole row of stop tabs does little to change the sound, either in volume or timbre. You pull out the Bach Orgelbuchlein; it sounds horrible. You try a Mendelssohn sonata movement: ditto.
You are, again, at a loss.
I will spare you a discussion of the Vicar, who is entirely innocent of any sound training or experience in liturgy, homiletics, or, most of all, music -- though he considers himself an expert in all of these fields. His idea of good church music is "On Eagles' Wings." His idea of good liturgy is when he "improvises" the Eucharistic prayer, or "paraphrases" the Gospel reading from memory, leaving out some of the important bits. The first words spoken in the liturgy each Sunday are a cheerful "Good morning!!!!"
But I had best not spare you the Contemporary Service on Sunday evenings. "We have a praise band," they said in the interview. It proves to consist of three Boomer-age lady guitarists (now in their seventies) who think they are the second coming of Joni Mitchell. They know the basic three chords and play with what is commonly called the "Catholic strum." That is all they can do; they cannot handle other chords, or other strumming techniques, or (heaven forbid) finger-picking. You did not take Guitar Methods 101 at school -- indeed, it was not offered -- so, again, you are at a loss. But, being a good soldier, you join them on the electric piano (a twenty-year old Clavinova with a few dead notes), and do your best. You learn the eight songs which are the complete repertoire of the Service. About a dozen people show up on Sunday evenings, mostly ex-Cursillistas. The Vicar is in his element, loving the "casual informality" of the atmosphere.
After a year or so of this, many a young church musician decides that a career in restaurant table service and dishwashing would be more to his liking. Or maybe truck driving.
****
The secret, if there is one, lies in that woman who wants your help in learning how to somehow sing again after screaming her voice away in the mental hospital. And that bass, who has sung in choirs since childhood and loves music and has watched his voice, his strength, and his health disappear, and is just trying to hang on and finish what he has carried thus far, a life which the Psalmist described thus: "I will sing to the LORD as long as I live; I will praise my God while I have my being." And that woman with the epilepsy, who loves God -- indeed, God is her sole reliance -- and wants to sing, and does not want to make a scene this Christmas. But if making a scene is what is going to happen, she is still going to be there, because it her choir, and her parish, and most of all her Lord who was born that night.
Despite yourself, if you are lucky (or better, "blessed"), you care about these people. It is not because you are supposed to (though you are); you just do. You can't help it. You recognize that you have been given the responsibility of helping these individuals grow into the fullness of the stature of Christ. The tools at your disposal, such as the Baldwin and the choral library, are not the best, but they are what you have.
You pray a lot.
There is nothing else for it; you pray so much that you become known for it. You teach the same things over and over, and it appears that it makes no difference -- but, sometimes, after many repetitions, it does. You send cards to your choristers when they are sick; you visit them in the hospital when you can (an aside: this is much harder to do than it used to be, because they often do not permit people like choral directors, who are neither family nor authorized church professionals, to so much as discern what room the person is in, or even if they are in the hospital at all.) I emphasize that this is not because you are supposed to, or with any end in view (such as building your choir); you can't help it.
You figure out how to get the best possible results out of the Baldwin -- a task for which your academic training has given you no preparation whatsoever -- and you play with care and integrity for every service. You learn how to play your eight Cursillo songs with the "Joni Mitchell girls" -- and you find that, despite yourself, you care even about them. And the people who show up at the Sunday evening service. You find that they, with the handful who attend the traditional morning service, are the lifeblood of that little town, fighting to keep it alive.
And, just maybe, the hardest of all, the Vicar. You come to recognize that he is as clueless as you are, and that is the source of much of his bluster. To him, this is a dead-end parish in a dead-end town, and a dead-end for his career. No bishopric or cushy suburban parish for him, because now that he is middle-aged, all of a sudden the ideal bishop is in his forties. His seminary training prepared him for the work of ministry about as well as your conservatory training did for church music, and he has been trying to figure it out "on the job" ever since.
****
Lest you think that this essay is autobiographical, it is not. For one thing, my first post-graduate instrument was an Allen, not a Baldwin. And I have never lived or worked in Pennsylvania. And I had worked as a part-time church musician for some years before going to graduate school; this was of inestimable value. Nonetheless, I made many, many mistakes. I still do. Two of the persons I described are more-or-less based on choristers with whom I had the privilege of working at previous parishes where I have served, and who taught me much by their glorious witness to the power of God.
And I have entirely given up on hospital visits.
****
Perhaps you stay in the parish, despite everything. One day, a vestry member says "Gee, maybe we should think about a pipe organ!" Over time, you assemble a choral library of sorts. Your choir grows from eight to eleven. A family with children moves to town and joins the church; you incorporate the children into the choir (and figure out how to work with them in this setting), and now the choir is fourteen persons. A new Vicar comes, and she is a little easier to work with, partly because she sang in a church choir when she was a child and it was essential to her vocation.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps you play that Baldwin to your dying day. Perhaps the Vicar retires, and the parish cannot afford to hire a replacement. Perhaps they cannot afford to keep you on staff, either. Perhaps the place closes down altogether. Perhaps the whole community closes down.
None of this matters. What matters is each one of those singers, and the people out in the pews, and even that Vicar. Their spiritual growth and welfare matters. On the Day of Doom, the Baldwin, the illegal Xeroxes, the guitars, the vestments, the church building, even the town in which you lived -- all of it will have been calcined to dust. What will remain is the people, your brothers and sisters, standing with you and singing the glories of the Lamb. You are given a small part in preparing them for that Day.
No one said it would be easy.
****
(Adapted slightly from my old LiveJournal, Nov. 25, 2009)
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
Friday, April 22, 2011
Holy Saturday: a story
Will your loving-kindness be declared in the grave,
your faithfulness in the land of destruction? (Psalm 88:12)
Morning Star waited.
She had waited a long time, here in this grey place. It was, clearly, the spirit world that the old Songs had described. But it was nothing but shadows.
A long time ago, not long after she had come here, she decided to walk and see if she could find another person. Time was slippery here. There were no days and nights, no way of telling how long she walked; years, it seemed. Perhaps many years. But nothing changed; always, the shadows, and the bare featureless grey ground. No animals, no birds. No trees, no plants of any kind, not even a blade of grass. No people, either her own or the others, the Big People.
Finally, she gave up. Sometimes she would walk for a few hours, just to feel like she was doing something, but she knew it was without meaning. Always the same.
Morning Star had borne four children, and this one had felt wrong as soon as the pains came. It would not come out, and she knew that it would be her death. She was small even by the standards of her People, less than three feet tall. The women who were small often had troubles in childbirth, and Morning Star had known that one day, it would likely claim her as it had so many others. Watches-with Patience, the clan's Healer, stayed with her, trying all that she knew to ease the child into the world. It would not come.
It was not just that she was dying; her people were dying too, and they could not afford to lose her. It would leave only three that could bear children, plus the handful of girls, if they lived long enough. Worse, she was the Singer. Light-on-Water had learned some of the Songs, but she was only eleven summers old, and had much to learn. It would have to do, except it wouldn't; there was too much of the clan's store of knowledge in Songs that no one but Morning Star knew, too many things that the clan needed to survive as the seasons changed.
But it mattered little, perhaps; the old knowledge was no longer working. Nothing had been right since the Big People came. They took the best hunting grounds, the best places where food grew, and Morning Star's people were forced to go back into the high mountains. Even there, the hunters of the Big People came, taking most of the game animals. The Songs told of uncounted generations before, when life had been easier. The People had prospered, because they were small and quick and, most of all, intelligent. But the Big People were intelligent, too. They sang and spoke, in their strange ugly way; they used tools, just like Morning Star's people. And they were too strong. Some of the old Songs told of battles, far back in time, when her people's warriors fell by the score trying to fight the Big People. There were no longer battles, and the Big People did not seem to bear them any ill will when their paths crossed. But they ate all of the food. Morning Star had hardly known anything except hunger. If it had not been for the Songs that told of times when there was plenty for all, she would have thought there was nothing else but the gnawing ache of an empty belly, never enough to fill it.
With such thoughts, the hours passed. All day, all that night, Morning Star labored, consumed with pain. By the end, all of the women of the clan were with her, the little girls too, watching solemnly as she screamed, as she grew weaker. Even Runs Swiftly was there, against the taboos, his tears falling on her face as he leaned over her and kissed her brow, with halting voice singing the Death Song that he had heard her sing too many times for others.
She remembered no more, until she found herself in this place, this spirit world, naked and alone.
And then. . . He came. He was dead, as dead as she was; his body was covered with bleeding sores, and he had been stabbed in the side. His hands and feet were mangled. At first, she was afraid, because he was twice her height, with the short arms, ugly chin, and odd forehead of the Big People. But he said “Fear not,” and somehow, that was enough.
He sat down crosslegged on the featureless ground, perhaps so he wouldn't tower over her. She sat down, facing him. Those eyes . . . she had never seen eyes like that. It was as if all the wisdom of her people, of all people, were in them, along with all the sufferings and joys – and something more, like when Runs Swiftly used to look at her, or a mother would look at her child. He seemed content to be there with her.
“I am Morning Star,” she said.
He smiled; “Some call me by that name, too.”
“Why are you here?”
“I have come for you.”
Morning Star puzzled over that. What did he mean? Why would he come for her? And what good would that do? Would the two of them simply stay there in the shadows?
Finally, she said “I have been here a long time.”
“I know.”
That was not helpful. An odd thought came to her mind; she said “May I sing for you?”
“Yes.” He smiled again. “I would like that very much.”
“It is a long Song, about my People. I think that I was one of the last of them.”
He nodded.
“I do not want them to be forgotten.”
She centered herself, as one had to do for the great Songs. Quietly, she began to sing, her soprano high and clear . . . . He listened intently, his eyes full of understanding, as if the Song were the most important thing in the world to him. She sang of children running through spring meadows, of bright days and laughter, of women tending babies working together around the cookfire, of men and their patient search for quarry, of desperate battles against the Dragons and Elephants that sometimes attacked the villages. She sang of love between men and women, of sacrifice and courage, and much more. Morning Star had sung all of her life, but she had never had a listener like this.
She finished, the last note trailing into silence. He bowed his head. After a long time, he looked at her.
“Come with me,” he said.
“Where?”
“My Father's house. I will take you there.”
That was impossible. She knew, as firmly as she knew anything, that there was no place to go.
“How?”
“Come with me. That is all you have to do.”
A part of her knew it was foolish. What could this stranger do? But part of her felt a sudden sharp longing for sunlight and friends and children. Part of her believed that this man of the Big People, this “Morning Star,” could indeed take her to his father's house, wherever that might be. It would be a strange adventure, stranger than any recorded in the Songs.
“I will come,” she said. “I do not know where you are going, but I will come.”
And then . . .
Our Lord looked into His Side and rejoiced.
By this sweet look He had me gaze within this Wound.
He showed me a fair and delectable place,
large enough for all mankind that shall be saved
to rest in peace and in love.
AFTERWORD
The last bit is from Dame Julian of Norwich, and includes the text of an anthem I had the privilege of singing at an RSCM Course in 2007, and directing/playing in our own parish choir. In combination with the solemnity of Holy Saturday, it led to this story. I posted it in LiveJournal on Holy Saturday, 2008, and have here modified it slightly.
“He descended into hell,” states the Creed. “Christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh, but quickened by the Spirit: By which also he went and preached unto the spirits in prison,” states St. Peter in his First Epistle (3:18-19).
It seems to me that the manner in which he “preached unto the spirits in prison” might not be that different from the manner in which the Good News comes to us, and the saving power of it must be by the same Way that is open to us: the path of Faith. Doubtless, it was/is (for “time is slippery there”) as foolhardy to them as it seems to the wise of this age.
I believe that, in whatever way that it took, the Good Shepherd went to the furthest corner of hell in search of His sheep, and gave every last one of them the invitation that he has given to us: “Follow me.” Many would surely find reasons, even in hell, to refuse. But not all.
----
“And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring, and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd.” (St. John 10:16)
Morning Star is of the race whose fossils were discovered a few years ago on an island of the Indonesian archipelago: Homo floresiensis.
Morning Star's song told of their battles with Dragons and Elephants; they did indeed have to deal with Komodo Dragons and Stegodons (related to Elephants and Mammoths), and both would have been formidable to people hardly a meter tall and 25 kg in weight, armed with stone-tipped spears. There are Stegodon bones showing cut marks found among the H. floresiensis fossils. There is evidence that they used fire for cooking, and their tools are comparable with the Upper Paleolithic artifacts of H. Sapiens. It appears that H. floresiensis lived from about 94,000 years ago until about 13,000 years ago, and shared their island with H. sapiens toward the end of that time. If they had tools and fire, they surely had Music.
I believe that our Lord died for them, and other prehistoric members of the genus Homo, just as he did for us. And he did not abandon them to the land of the dead. I look forward to meeting these little People someday, and joining them in adventures "stranger than any recorded in our Songs."
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.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
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."
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."
Friday, March 26, 2010
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.
". . . 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.
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