#48.5, Weds., Sept. 13, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. The Vosges Mountains

         A common cottage tucked away in a wilderness is a good place for two saintly Christian leaders to find a secret peace away from a listening world. Brother Servant and I are witnesses to this, but we have no scribe among us to tell it more broadly.

         Bishop Felix tells of his visit to Rome and his meeting with Pope Gregory. “When I told him of the variety of Christian communities of Gaul it sparked his interest. Some years ago, not long after this pope had been installed in Rome, he opened up channels of communication to distant lands, like Gaul, considering these far stretches of the ancient empire of Rome as his see.[Footnote]  His project is to extend the borders of the Roman church.”

         “Really,” interjects the Father, “I assumed he had so much to deal with in saving Rome from the invading hordes of Arians, the Lombards, and all the other barbarian heretics since there is no longer a Roman army. Then he also had a plague at his doorstep when he came into power.”

         “He was said to have converted the barbarians. At least they accepted the Creed. He has a purpose of the salvation of the whole world, as he has taken to heart the instructions of the Apostles.  The Pope asked me about the churches here, and particularly about the monasteries that are being established with the Celtic Rule. So of course, I told him about your work and King Guntram’s support for our work here in Gaul.”

         Father Columbanus asked, “Do you think our Papa understood that I came to this foreign land, a simple pilgrim, seeking a peaceful refuge in a wilderness? Or is his measure of good work only contingent on great numbers of people flocking to the community?”

         “He was a monk himself. He may even regret being called away from his private contemplations. So, I heard no distinction of successes, only that he is deeply concerned with reports that the bishops of Gaul display what he calls, ‘spiritual immaturity’.”

         “I told him you were doing God’s work here, and it was widely received because the people are longing for the Holy Triune on earth. And I told him that bishops in this land have great temporal power. He wanted to know why one such as I has a following, even though I was not a bishop.”

         “That was a concern of the Pope?” asks the Father.

         “Oh, very much so.” Bishop Felix answers.

         “What did you tell him?”

[Footnote] Demacopoulos, George E. Gregory the Great: ascetic, Pastor, and first man of Rome. Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 2015. p.141

(Continues Tomorrow)

#48.4, Tues., Sept. 12, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. The Cottage in the Vosges Mountains

         As the two notable abbots sit by the hearth at this commoner’s table they are meeting here without record.[footnote] Father Columbanus tells of his retreat and speaks of the details of nature he saw just today.

         “The earth is making its last flaunting of summer days – the flowers – so many raucous, bright flowers hawking their wares of pollen. The wandering butterflies alight like long-travelers finding an inn and they savor the thirst-quenching moment and drink up the last of the summer’s beverage. Then they flutter up in little eddies two or three together over the meadow before they are on their way again.”

         Now I can serve up the abundant gifts of the pollens because we have bees in our shed.  I pour a spot of crusty mead into their cups and Brother Servant, the two abbots and I, toast this gift of night and quietness in private with no scribe making a record of it all.

         In whispers the Irish Father speaks the prayer. “Stay near us Dear God.”

         It is not the unctuous pulpit prayer to bring a stranger to God in from a wandering throng of pilgrims, it is simply the gracious reminder that God is always present.

         So, in the impending dark I bring another gift of the bees, a candle to center the table. Brother Servant and I sit on the bench near the door as the pale pool of light spreads onto the faces of these two saints. Anyway, I expect God knows them as saints, regardless of the opinions of the noble bishops of Gaul.

         Father Columbanus asks his protégé, “How is it you’ve met Pope Gregory?”

         “A benefactor whose name is undoubtedly known to you also…”

         “I think I know who you mean.”

          “You’ve heard her complaints yourself, no doubt. She is concerned about the rising power of the bishops based only on their earthly titles. She comes to us with a singular focus, overcoming the tugs and temptations of earthly prestige. She generously pours out a rich inheritance to buy a place for a remembrance of Jesus teaching even on earth amid the profane.”

         I hear the spirit of my sister, Mary, in their shared secret of a benefactor. Thank you, God, for this glimpse of a beloved spirit present with us, Amen.

 (Continues tomorrow)

 [footnote] Even amid all the interesting tales and hagiographies available to historians of this time, this blogger offers a meeting off the record because it is still a fictional story; only the spirit of it and the basic facts are true.

#48.3, Thurs., Sept. 7, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. The cottage in the Vosges Mountains

It’s already dusk and Ana has prepared a straw tick and a linen in the main room of the house.  But now, at our door are two more guests, Brother Servant, and Father Columbanus himself, arriving here without informing any guards or other monks, or even mentioning this visit to those listening walls of Luxeuil. This meeting between the two endangered Celtic abbots of Gaul requires no scribe.

         The two abbots in our midst greet one another with kisses.

         Back when Ana and I first met Bishop Felix he was a young priest and a follower of Father Columbanus.  He was making regular pilgrimages to Annegray, and then was returning to Châlons where he reported back to King Guntram on the success of the Celtic community.

         So, when the Father sent us with a message to the “Bishop of Châlons” we soon learned the title was something of an inside joke. Father Felix wasn’t a bishop then. To be a bishop in Gaul requires the approval of the other bishops. Elevation is a matter of Frankish social class regardless of spiritual calling.  Protecting this power structure of and by the aristocracy requires the constant purging of those who could be bishop but who are not of Frankish nobility. That makes Father Columbanus a pariah to the Frankish bishops. The priest appointed by the King was suspect of being Celtic also. But the true distinction of a holy man’s allegiance seems to be tonsure.  If Irish, the front will be shaved, with full hair in the back while the Frankish tonsure is shaven as a wreath of hair. Father Felix, notably, has no hair, so he has no tonsure.  By quirk of Creation, the noble bishops of Gaul are denied their measuring tool.

         Now Ana and I prepare straw beds for three guests in the main room. The children are amazed to find that all three of these visitors already know the vesper psalms we sing in this household each evening. I suppose my children thought this music was theirs alone. Now they assume these adults are singing children’s chants.

         Haberd and Brandell, our music critics, are very impressed.  When I tucked them in Haberd whisper, “The abbots sing nearly as well as Gabe and Greg. And I think they even, nearly, know the words.”

         I answered, “nearly.”

         Dear God, help us nurture our ways of belonging to one another, full on, without too many nearlys and other incompletes. Amen.

 (Continues Tuesday, Sept. 12, 2023)

#48.2, Weds., Sept. 6, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. The Vosges Mountains

         We met Father Felix in Châlons some years ago, while Ana and I were delivering messages from Father Columbanus.

         “So, you are a true bishop now, and with guards?”

         “Guards are necessary in these times, unfortunately.” He says.

          We are walking up the hill to our cottage — an elegant bishop in fine, flowing robes, a swarthy woodcutter, a mule and a wagon full of hewn logs.       

         I encourage him to stop in. “We can send a bird to Luxeuil with a message for your guards to come and join us.”

         “No, no.”

         “Surely you’ll eat with us! We may be commoners but our farm provides for feasting.”

         “And you have that impenetrable link to the doves of Luxeuil, and your house is undoubtedly a better place to talk about the bishops of Gaul than a monastery with many ears. I’ve come all this way to speak to the Father about my recent visit to Rome. And now, to my surprise I’m face-to-face with the Father’s most trusted messenger.”

         “No, no messenger. Not me! I’m not doing that anymore!”

         “Woe, a bit defensive aren’t you, Brother Lazarus.”

         “I had a bad experience with that recently in Châlons.”

         “It couldn’t have been as bad as the experience the Father’s most recent messenger had. That poor fellow is dead and buried now.”

         I add, “Except for the rescue by his sons, and a long summer for healing.”

         After a pause for unwinding his thoughts he answers, “So you are that Lazarus, after all.”

         “At Luxeuil they call me Ezra.”

         “Send a bird to Luxeuil, but let’s not invite the guards.”

         “I don’t want to be inhospitable, afterall, our house was made to be a guest house for such visitors.”

         “Really, I can’t trust these guards. My entourage to Luxeuil is loyal to another bishop, so I have to assume they can’t be trusted keeping private a meeting with the Father. I’ve come to Luxeuil unannounced hoping to meet with him in private.”

         “So, we will definitely offer no feasting for your guards then.”

         Ana welcomes our guest. And Hannah is in her bliss, serving a visitor. Brandell is bedazzled by the fine fabric of the bishop’s robes, and Haberd tries not to stare at this man’s completely bald head. Layla assumes he is just another monk taking a reprieve from all the rules.

         The bird we loosed to Luxeuil receives an immediate response from Brother Servant. 

(Continues tomorrow)

#48.1, Tues., Sept. 5, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. The Vosges Mountains

         I was cutting wood here on the solitary path to Annegray, and here is a man in the robes of a bishop walking this path alone.

         “Hello Father, are you looking for the monks of Annegray?”

         “I know no one is here anymore. I just came from Luxeuil.”

         The man’s hood falls back, and I see he has no tonsure, no hair at all. And I recognize a familiar face.

         “Father Felix? I visited your church in Châlons.”  [#35.3 and #37.11]

         “I thought you look familiar. You are Brother Lazarus! You were traveling with two women and a donkey cart, last we met.”

         “You remember us? My wife and our midwife that would have been.”

         “Well, I was just thinking of you. I’m staying at Luxeuil, and there was a young monk minding the dovecote there that could be your twin brother.”

         Can I laugh aloud in a quiet wood? “My twin brother? No, he is my son; his twin brother is elsewhere.”

         “A son?”

         “And now I see you’re draped as a bishop as you should be.”[Footnote]

         “It was Pope Gregory himself who elevated me to bishop. The bishops of Gaul are still of a different mind.”

         “I know that, only too well. I was in Châlons last spring in an unfortunate circumstance and I was thinking then how glad I was not to see you with that council there.”

         “Oh, yes, the council.  A squirrelly lot they are.  A decade now, they’ve been after Father Columbanus for his tonsure, and with Guntram gone the Father may simply be at their mercy.”

         “I’m not sure it’s just an issue of tonsure and the date for Easter. I suspect the popularity of the Father is what sets them on edge. So is your journey here just to see old Annegray?”

         “No. Some of us came all this way so that I could have an audience with Father Columbanus, but at Luxeuil they said he’s taking his wilderness retreat, so we just have to wait for him to return.  I thought, possibly, his retreat might have brought him back here. So, I decided to wander up here alone. I see now he isn’t here.”

         “Ana and I and our children just live up on the hill, would you like to stop in while you’re here?”

         “My guards will come searching for me if I’m gone too long.”

 [Footnote] Ref. Blog Posts.  Fact or Fiction? Someone named Felix of Burgundy is known to have been the first bishop to East Angles, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Felix_of_Burgundy  retrieved 2-22-23.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.15, Thurs., Aug. 31, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         Ana returned from the Village of the hunters with the news of the old grandmother’s death. This evening we, ourselves, are binding the edges of family together. Lately we’ve noticed the tapestry of sacred life is unraveling at the edge. The empty bench on one side of the table has a better place by the door now where the cloaks and boots will be heaped in the colder season to come.  And where six of us around the table were once nine may our six begin to seem complete.

         I say the prayer aloud, “Dear God, thank you for this abundance with plenty to share right here in the midst of our grieving. Bless our food with your power for goodness.  Guide our grief. Just as we learn to let go, let us also learn to hold on to one another, trusting you to show us the paths of love as family, always. Amen.”

         On this new morning I put the mule to the wagon and take my ax in hand to renew our stack of winter wood. The need to gather up a wagonload of fallen limbs also gives purpose to my own need for solitude. The old path between the creek road and Annegray has been abandoned since the monks moved to Luxeuil, so that is where I am.

         The summer storms brought down several trees that were growing tall, though not old and solid yet. These straight trunks that struggled for the glimpses of light over this valley now make good firewood only because the straightest logs stack together best—neatly aligned and laid one on another like perfect soldiers waiting at attention until they are needed.

         I lay my ax down heavily on a broad branch. The thwack echoes through the trees, and it forces a silence. The birds are silent. The creek waits permission from the cawing of the crow before it seems to resume its flow. The world is rudely, roughly, raw and soundless. The second thwack breaks the limb free, and I chop it to fit the wagon one after the next a battalion of tidy, straight logs.

         Now the crows that guard the treetops and warn of hawks and intruders are hopping among to lower limbs overhead to get a better look, maybe at me, the stranger who takes away dead trees, or at the mule who pays no attention. But what is this? Someone else is here in this wood.

(Continues Tuesday, September 5)

#47.14, Weds., Aug. 30, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         In an earlier time, when Greg and Gabe were still toddlers and Simon and Hannah were babies, I was often as much a close parent to these children as was Ana.  But we let this pass from us as the farm chores were doled out to the children. Older now, they’ve been more able to take on chores.  But here we are a family of little ones again, and maybe I’ve let my place as a parent to babies slip away. Maybe my children think of me as their momma’s hired man. They are only imagining themselves sitting on my knee now for quiet moments reading or talking.

         On this new morning I realize this when I’m feeding Layla and Brandell comes over and climbs onto my other knee. Haberd thinks that is all very funny, but for our lesson time he also decides his Papa’s knee is the best vantage point for learning to read. By the time we are well into the lessons I have become a whole climbing tree for this squirrels’ nest of little children.

         Dear God, thank you for reminding me that your first gift of creating an earth as it is in heaven is that a father and a mother are the safe arms for trusting children. Thank you for all these tiny reaching hands and giggles. Amen.

         It is late afternoon when Ana returns from the hunter’s village. I was already worrying. She took no bird with her to message me so only my worst imaginings would explain her long absence.

         She told us, “The old, cantankerous grandmother passed before I even arrived there yesterday, and all of the hunters of the village were already gathered around wailing and telling their stories of remembrance.

         “I stayed with them for a night and a day because they trusted me with their grief. Even when they came for me they knew I would be useless for the healing. But now they know I have empathy for grief. They invited me to share this thing of death that stirs a child’s spirit into the kettle of mystical love.  Grief is one big stew pot of everyone’s loves and losses – the living and dead alike. It is not just one of us alone weeping for a child gone. It is everyone, some with losses, others simply with fears of one’s own mortality. We share the eternal stories, and life goes on. Thank you, God.”

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.13, Tues., Aug. 29, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         I just returned from Luxeuil with the good news that I had spoken with our son. He is now Brother Gabriel, keeper of the birds. His duty there not only fits his gift of caring for the creatures of earth, it also sets him in a place where information comes and goes.  I brought one of the Luxeuil birds today so Ana can send him her own little words of encouragement and he will surely see the message first.

         Today a child came running up from the hunter’s village to get Ana to help an ailing grandmother. And now she goes off with the donkey Jack to the village, before we have a chance to send the bird back to Gabe.

         She hurried off without taking Hannah either, who is a bit miffed that her mother doesn’t need her to assist with a medical case. She assumes she was left here for the night because Ana doesn’t trust me doing all the chores and caring for the younger children as well. So, this eight-year-old orders me to fetch the water and bring in more wood while she milks the goats and readies the evening supper for Layla and the boys.  I do understand little Hannah feels burdened with the responsibility, particularly when she has no imagination for my place as the parent while Ana is away.  It’s been a while since I’ve been very useful around here.

         I set some of the gruel Hannah has prepared in a clay bowl by the fire for it to warm.

         “Hannah, I will feed Layla this evening. I so rarely have the chance to do that.”

         “But Papa, you don’t know how.”

         “Don’t you remember when you were a little baby and you sat on my knee for your own bowl of gruel?”

         “No, Papa.  When you feed a baby she sits on the chair with the pillows.  You have to be so careful that she doesn’t fall.”

         “Well, Hannah, I think I have a good plan here.  Come over here, and you check to see if it is safe.  Sit here on my knee and you can see for yourself if it is good enough for little Layla.”

         Hannah giggles. “That would be silly Papa.  I’m already an eight-year-old.” But she tries it anyway, and she finds that mine would be safe arms for the baby, so with Hannah’s permission, Layla sits on my knee and I spoon the gruel for her.

(Continues tomorrow)

#47.12, Thurs., Aug. 24, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Luxeuil

         Jack, the donkey, seems to know the way to Luxeuil because we go this way so often. And maybe he remembers he belongs to Sister Colleen.

         This time I’m going alone to deliver the portion due the monastery this month as the tithe we give for the use of our farm.  Sister Colleen comes to greet Jack in the stable, and I have a hope that Gabe will know I am here so that I can mention his momma is keeping his letter of sympathy in her place for precious things. He must know the words of it were empty, so answering it with a written note would not be as helpful as just telling him his mother is keeping it precious.

         Sister Colleen sees I have bird to deliver to the dovecote and she tells me not to let the monk who is helping me unload the cart take the bird, I should take it there myself. She insists. And so I do.

         Oh, this is why she told me to come to the dovecote!  Here is Gabe.

         “Brother Gabe, I see you’ve been assigned a task.”

         “Oh, Papa, I’m so glad you came. I wanted to go home and be with you and Momma and everyone when Greg told me about Simon. I tried not to let them see my tears. I’m supposed to be a brother in God’s family here, and …”

         No one is watching us just now, which is a little grant of grace by his teacher. These tears and hugs we share would not keep the rule.

         “Papa, you see, I was assigned a regular task here, already. Tell Momma I am in charge of the dovecote.  It is because we have these birds at home, and I already know their needs and I can distinguish one from another so I know right away when one of ours has returned with a message. And here I am, while the other young brothers are practicing the scribing of letters.

         “The old fellow who was here before me never noticed when a message had been received. He seemed to pay no attention to the birds coming and going.  That was how they missed knowing what happened to you in Chalóns. They knew nothing of that until Baro Dithrum was visiting down here on another mission.”

(Continues Tuesday, August 29)

#47.11, Weds., Aug. 23, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. A cottage in the Vosges

         So here are Greg and his student, friend and lover, Gaillard, spinning wild imaginings into dreams of faraway lands.  They imagine riding camels across a vast emptiness — empty, not because it is a desert, but because it is unknown to them. They ride on fantastical beasts into a tabula rasa. Isn’t that what we all do until the mystery is revealed to be, simply, other things of earth?

         This morning they are preparing to ride back to Metz following the rivers north then west, rather than go back the way they came, passed Luxeuil, so there is no reason to send a message with them for Gabe.  But Greg does take one of our birds in a traveling box. He says they have a dovecote at his home in Metz and it will be safe. So he can keep us informed if there is a need. And they also take Greg’s old wax board for lessons in letters.      

         “Shall I mark on it the Greek alphabet?” I offer.

         “No, Papa, I think someone will have that for us when we need it.”

         Ana touches my arm. I know she reminds me to let them go on their own way and so we do.

         Now they are riding over the hills, on, to follow the farthest border of the lands that once had kings but now are ruled by the aristocracy with many names.  New times start new chapters in our histories and we tend to think it is only our own times that know change as the weave of the old with the new. Yet we are always, never really in a place with a time of its own. We are forever in webs of change.

         I’m pretty sure the Lords of Metz who are taking down the forests for castles and fields would like to put our farm under their liege. But we still owe the portion of our harvest to the monasteries of Father Columbanus.  Our land is still part of the grant from the Burgundian king to the church.  We’ve had a good harvest this year, so we – Ana and Hannah and I are packing the portions of the winter stocks to carry to the monks. To me, this seems a very good arrangement even though they already receive much more than a landowner’s share from the peasants. Others bring offerings. They use the abundance to feed the poor as well as supply their own needs.

(Continues tomorrow)