Historical Setting: 793 C.E. Lindisfarne
The bishop continues reading. In chapter ten of Matthew, the followers of Jesus are commissioned to go out like “sheep among wolves.” At this reading, these men listening are in the clothing that speak this metaphor accidentally too well. The monks wear the wools and these king’s men, pretending solemnity, keep their royal weasel hidden as the linings of their cloaks. The patrons and the pilgrims to the shrine smother golden chains in collars of wolf. Jesus was, of course using animals as metaphor, but here they are material. This message is current all these nearly a thousand years hence, and standing for the gospels continues to be tedious.
The wealthy and the powerful here are standing in the front rows of the benches because they came for the customary acknowledgements of their gifting. But then they are all beset with this reading from the Gospel. They didn’t come prepared for this.
The monks in the back of the room read from Luke more often than from Matthew. They expected instruction to love, even one’s enemies, and to live every day in the upside-down world, where the blessings are bestowed on the poor and suffering, but not as the world deposits blessings, mostly for the rich and powerful.
Usually, if the holy words drone on it is possible to find some beautiful distraction to gaze upon like fine brocades and golden boxes. Before the raid, the hum of somber reading could allow one to dismiss the words with wandering eyes, dancing among the golden reliquaries – slithering the dazzling pinnacles and jewels – castles for the eyes. But the relic boxes are gone now; in their places are simply barren boards. Even the sconces, once dripping tears of beeswax into puddles that counted the hours of the drone, are gone from the walls. The only treasure left is this one book not smelted by famous goldsmiths, but inked by a solemn monk.
The boards are stripped clean of the beautiful silks and satins with the intricate patterns and layers of colors. Once it was, that a wandering eye could follow a labyrinth of birds and snakes woven in amazing patterns of beaks grabbing tails and tails twisted in perfectly symmetrical knots. But the fabrics were raided. Now, the big-eyed monsters that play on the edges of things are only to be found in the pages of the book from which the bishop reads. And the bishop has the artwork pages turned down, so even he sees only words. Nothing is to do now but to stand and listen.
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 