#46.8, Weds., July 19, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. On the road between Metz and Luxeuil

         It was a different kind of authority that Jesus taught in a time when Romans kept the order and Pharisees kept God’s law. Jesus opened that old Jewish vault of always knowing that God is love. He remembered the ancient stories of the father welcoming his lost son, regardless. And Jesus taught us prayer as conversation with a personal parent, sometimes to God as a mother who told us who she was, and when we forgot she let her children suffer consequences but loved us through it all anyway. Jesus reminded us of God arguing with Abraham like a papa to an obstinate son, a father begging for a strand of goodness from his children. Sometimes this parent was perceived as the maker of law and also the authority in keeping the law. [Genesis and on and on]

         I remember that first part in the ancient tale of human –

         “If you eat of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil you will die!”

         Then they ate, but by God’s kind of justice, they didn’t die. They lived to tell the story. They lived to love one another. They lived to bear children. They lived to make bad choices and maybe even good choices. They lived to the continuance of the generations of humankind. They lived on to participate in the fullness of life. They even lived to grieve. They live. They die. They live…

         Maybe it is the design of God’s big everything kind of love that sets us each into earthly life as infants surrounded in parent love, already knowing that despite the howling pains of birth, God is love like a mother. 

         Yet, humankind seems to be on this eternal quest to let go of the grand invisible universal love and keep only earthly control making human divisions of order and chaos, of rule and disobedience, of naming noble or common, of knowing ally from enemy. It is all so Roman of us. So now Gabe follows the rule and Greg follows the orders.

         Dear God, so much bigger than my imagination, how is it you can notice me among all these stars and number every sparrow of every nest of every earth under every sun you watch over? At yet, you are here to assure me that my parent love is useful even to my wandering sons. Thank you. Amen.

         This morning I returned the borrowed horses to Luxeuil.

(Continues tomorrow)

#46.7, Tues., July 18, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Metz

         It seems as though I should be grateful that my son would be indentured to a man who, as bishop, has placed his own commitment to God above his noble need for expanding earthly power. Thank you, God.

         And maybe this chaffing at my conscience is only my own stubborn nature. Help me God. But I fear when next I lay eyes on this child, he will be tall and shining in borrowed armor, head to toe, shield on his arm, sword at his side, fully prepared to obediently slay some unknown nobleman’s guard. Or maybe his orders will be to drive a polearm through a messenger who brings unwanted news.

         My choice isn’t to change anyone else.  All I can choose in this is either to let him know that he has the unconditional love of his parents or I could hide that from him forever.  Actually, I don’t have this choice at all. A punitive withholding of love — a father sending his child off without his blessing – is a spear through the heart of the father regardless of the harm it brings the son. Really, I can only choose to let him know his father’s love is unconditional, as I also know God’s love is for all of us on earth as it is in heaven.

         So, I tell him the same as I told his brother as I am leaving.

         “Always know I love you, and I speak for your mother also, because we love you as you are, regardless of where you go and what you do.”

         But as I ride back to Luxeuil on a borrowed horse, leading the borrowed horse Greg rode, this emptiness is raw.  

         Dear God, of course I’m grateful for these beautiful sons.  Help me to know the difference between owning them and loving them. Amen.

         I consider the differences between these two who are so like one another that others can’t even distinguish between them. Yet we’ve always known their unique personalities. Gabe is at peace in solitude and when he is with others, he simply works along with them, side-by-side. But Greg is a bit more like me. What I call leadership, Ana calls controlling. Greg would soon chaff under monastic rule. He probably wouldn’t argue issues of creed and trinity, but like me, he will, no doubt, always make his own choices. Will he prefer orders to rule? I’m not sure.

(Continues tomorrow)

#46.6, Thurs., July 13, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Metz

         The bishop only scoffs at my suggestion that a Christian birthright assumes pacifism and apparently, he doesn’t see that as courage.

         “But your holiness, wasn’t Christian pacifism taught and exemplified by Jesus? And wouldn’t you say that Jesus showed great courage calling out his forgiveness from the cross?”

         “The crucifixion can hardly be compared to guard duty in the service of a bishop.”

         “Of course, your holiness. I just mean to say, Ana and I have raised these children to be men of conscience, skilled in academics and versed in the gospels. The courage of pacifism is bound in the Jesus message to love even one’s enemies.  That would preclude killing a person even for the sake of duty or personal safety.

         “It happened recently in Châlons. A nobleman fit for war fled. But Greg and his brother procured my rescue.  Which kind of guard are you seeking in the face of danger — the one who runs away, or one who retaliates death for death, or the one who rescues without violence?”

         The bishop takes a pause, as though his own sermon must start with a silent prayer. “You understand, Ezra, Christianity is more than just the gospels. St. Paul fits the Christian guard with the whole armor of God.” [Ephesians 6:13-17]

         “Yes, your holiness, with a breastplate of righteousness, and a belt of truth… is that how your guards are prepared?  Your holiness, I wouldn’t object to his drawing from that truth belt, if it were sword of the Spirit — the Word of God. Maybe you will find his usefulness in the shoes spreading the gospel of peace?”

         “Papa, but I’m already good with inks and words I really need to learn the actual iron sword.”

         Now this bishop smirks at my argument, as he seems to grope for some kind of legendary wisdom.

         “Ezra, good man, I’ve seen so many youthful guards in training, flashing swords crimson in fearsome enemy blood, and when these guardsmen are fully grown the luster of the sword tarnishes. Then what use have I, for them? They are either failed warriors or they are murderers. But when this child matures beyond the sword, he may become the trusted messenger of peace to meet your expectation and he may still be of service. What better guard could a bishop have? Even though Gregory is a commoner, and only indentured to me for a decade, I can promise his many gifts will be valued here.”

(Continues Tuesday, July 18)

#46.5, Weds., July 12, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Metz

         Bishop Agilulf is receiving visitors this morning.  It seems he had heard the news of the violence in Châlons from Baro Dithrum. So, it was not a surprise for him to learn that one of my sons was especially enthusiastic about finding a place with the young boys preparing to become the Bishop’s Guard. But it was a surprise to the Bishop that Greg’s father hadn’t actually perished while acting as messenger to the disgruntled bishops, and that I have come with letter from the overseer of gifts for the monastery.

         The bishop opens the letter, noticing, as I had, that the abbot’s seal was skewed so the letter was closed but not sealed. Of course, he knew I had read it if he any thought that I could read.

         The bishop spoke first to Greg. “So, you were one of the boys who accompanied Baro Dithrum on the journey to Châlons?”

         “Yes, your holiness,” answered Greg.

         “We received news here about the unfortunate happenstance of the abbot’s messenger, Ezra.”

         “Yes, your holiness, that is my father who is here with me today. And as you can see, he has recovered from his injury.”

         I need to speak here, “And I’m only here today because Greg and his brother rescued me, obtaining a wagon, and taking that long trek homeward into the Vosges all on their own.”

         The bishop continued speaking only to Greg, “Very commendable son. And this letter says that your brother is fully literate and he is entering the monastery of Luxeuil as a novice monk.”

         Greg answers, “Very true your holiness, and I also am literate if that should be helpful to you, as I hope to enter training as a guardsman here.”

         “In this letter the holy man of Luxeuil tells us that you are prepared to accept the terms of indenture in order to provide the gift for your brother’s entrance into the monastery.”

         Greg answers, “I just want to work with horses and learn the sword.”

         “Yes, that is what we supposed.”

         “As his father, may I speak to this?”

         “If you must.”

         “It is with a deeply wounded conscience I yield to his wish. But possibly you will understand my plea for Greg’s assignment to reflect the pacifism which is his Christian birthright.”

         The bishop seems intrigued at least.

         “This child has a ‘Christian birthright, you say? And it is ‘pacifism’ …as in cowardly soldiering?

(Continues tomorrow)

#46.4, Tues., July 11, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Arriving in Metz

         Ana and I were in Metz the year before the twins were born so I know where the stable is and I can find the church where Bishop Agilulf still serves.

         Roman works in stone idle here as a distant civilization is now overlain with the dour shadows of suffering sisters. The nuns have a hospital and healing pools where water nymphs were once danced in godly bliss. The suffering come now, to be sorted into the withering and the healing.

         I know Bishop Agilulf receives visitors at this church named for John the Evangelist. Greg, who has only a hint of the meaning of my strange circumstance of life and life again, asks me if I once knew that writer, John.

         “The author of the gospel of John? So, you’re asking me if I know who wrote a gospel that tells of a family in Bethany?”

         “Yes, Papa. Maybe you knew who wrote about Jesus’ feasting with Simon the leper, and who wrote that Mary poured precious ointment onto his feet. Didn’t you see who was writing down the story when Jesus wept and his friend was healed?”

          “You know, Greg, if I did know this, I could never tell. If it were known it could wash away the mystical presence of the gospel. The Gospel of John would just be one person’s little journal, with lots of Roman edits added later.”

         “But Papa, I was just thinking, what if you really are the bible guy, Lazarus? That would make me true nobility, wouldn’t it?  I would be the son of a saint, and surely that is a higher ranking than son of a baro or a dux or even a king.”

         I ask, “Don’t all these distinctions of privilege make you wonder what any birthright really is? What makes a nobleman noble?”

         Greg thinks he knows. “The kings and nobleman are better warriors than common people.”

         “Well, maybe that’s because the wealth and land they inherit sets them into tension with others who would battle with them over the wealth. Privilege is uniquely driven to warfare for the power lust at the fingertips of the highborn. Kings are even known to fight their own brothers just for power.

         “And if you were the son of a saint, or better yet, as you surely already are, a child of God, how could you defend that birthright?”

         “Papa, I’ve seen how your peace thing works, and I think learning the sword would be more useful in the real world of kings and dukes.”

(Continues tomorrow)

#46.3, Thurs., July 6, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Between Luxeuil and Metz

         So, on this new day Greg and I are starting out toward Metz with that letter from the monastery affirming the quality of this son that he may become something I would never wish for him, an armed guard for nobility. It is a child’s imagined dream that he may outgrow one day; and then where will he be? He will be indentured to these noblemen who only want warriors.

         It seems like a longer journey to Metz to go by way of Luxeuil, but by borrowing horses from the monastery stable it gives us a good excuse to summons Gabe to the visitor’s foyer. I hope to know that he is well.

         He seems to be comfortable with the rigors of this life. The daily simplicity of a monastery is not very different than our home life, except for the structure of the hours and the disgruntlement of his fellow novices.  Most of these boys come here sacrificing their privilege for the simplicity Gabe has always known. His teacher takes me aside to tell me that not only is his academic work exemplary, also commendable is his compassion for the others who are struggling more to adjust.

         By early afternoon we are following the old road from Luxeuil to Metz. We spend the overnight in an inn designed to accommodate travelers such as us. We sleep in a public loft, and the supper of barley stew is not expensive. Then we continue on to Metz.

         Greg isn’t as talkative as he usually is. I ask him if he is worried about fitting in with the other boys.

         He answers, “I’m glad we are coming in on horses, so they won’t know we are paupers.”

         I want to argue with the idea that we are ‘paupers,’ after all, our farm yielded plenty these last couple years. We’ve been gifting our abundance. But I know it is the commonness of us that he feels is how he will be judged; it is the simplicity of our lives, the very thing Gabe finds helpful, that will be painfully humbling for Greg when he is thrust in with the aristocracy.

         I can offer one consolation; “I think this lifestyle offers a bit more leeway than a monastic life, for taking some days away from study and duty to visit family. And Greg, please know, you will always have our love regardless of where you are and what you are doing.”

(Continues Tuesday, July 11)

#46.2, Weds., July 5, 2023

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

         Our family gathers at this table; but Gabe is gone from us. Everyone is celebrating the success that his good education brought. But now, I, myself, am reconsidering this unusual requirement for literacy that Ana and I have laid onto these children. We have no grand lineage — no king or baro or dux to entitle our children—so how does reading and writing serve them? We would need to draw from a family fortune to buy acceptance for our son; and, on the other hand, it’s probably good we have no earthly treasure worthy of warring over. We live by a simple peace. But in the ways of the world today that simplicity isn’t a choice, it’s a birthright, and as birthrights go ours is simplicity itself and not much earthly value. 

         Now I’m to take a letter from the monastery to the nobility of Metz and turn Greg over to learn the manners of warfare — the sword — the horses — the hierarchy. His servitude will fund an obligatory gift for Gabe to remain a novice monk at the monastery. Even my wife doesn’t understand why I don’t simply celebrate this offer. Both of my oldest sons are able to use their own fine learning, each in his own way, to follow childish dreams into worlds beyond their common birthright.  Why should I be reluctant to offer my approval for this?

         I, myself, was born into a household of privilege so many ages ago. Rejected by the Roman appointed power-mongers of the temple, then, with his dreaded skin disease, my father, a pox-scared Pharisee, went out and made a good life for our family anyway. Then he used his wealth to support an itinerate teacher of the old law ever teaching us to love God above all else and neighbor as self. Jesus, often a visitor in our home, was my source of goodness, and I might add, the gifter to me of life and life again.  All that Jesus taught and exemplified, all that he was and is for us is the opposite of slaughter and warfare and destruction for nothing more than earthly power. But here we are now, commoners, and my son wants only to learn to wield a sword.

         Dear God, I am thankful for the timeless clarity to know that love and peace are not just passing whims of these times. Help me bring my beloved family through this temptation to study war just now. Amen.

(Continues tomorrow)

#46.1, Tues., July 4, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Returning to the cottage in the Vosges

         We leave Luxeuil in the donkey cart with a Luxeuil bird in a box, so we can message Gabe and the others back there. Greg is walking a fast pace just ahead of the cart.  I have this letter with me to carry to the Bishop of Metz regarding Greg finding placement in Metz as an écuyer. It was prepared by the overseer of gifts, but this letter was surely read and sealed by the Father. Yet somehow, the seal was set askew so that the letter isn’t closed from my reading because I think the Father wanted me to know what was being said.

         It describes an issue of a “commoner” seeking placement for one of his twin sons at the monastery though bringing no other gift than his regular sack of grain. 

         Reading the letter, I’m reminded that our farm is on the King’s hunting grounds and is not our land but under the authority of the King of Burgundy who sanctioned the monastery. Our family obligation is to the monastery and we already gave our tithe of grain. That is noted in the letter, so at least I’m not portrayed as a hapless beggar. But we do seem to be begging, asking a place for our son. The recommendation is that Gregory, brother to the one seeking placement as a novice monk, be accepted as an apprentice to the bishop’s guard.

“Gregory’s exceptional literacy and his valor, though a commoner himself, would make his service of such value to be worthy of a gift to the community of Luxeuil and thus account for the training of the novice, Gabriel, Gregory’s brother.”

         We arrive home and I think Ana is relieved to see I only left one son behind. Greg is brimming with the wonderful news that all their literacy and learning of psalms and gospels is valued outside of our household. He was so proud in watching Gabe’s testing and he tells every detail of the encounter with the teacher who recognized Gabe’s ability, which he also knows to be his own ability.

         Simon and Hannah, Haberd and Brandell, listening here are rapt in this story of Gabe’s success. I surely don’t have to prod these children to their lessons anymore. They understand now how it serves them. All this, just as I’m wondering how such education could ever be any use at all for a family of commoners. 

(Continues tomorrow)

#45.13, Thurs., June 29, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Luxeuil

         I’m telling the Father of the brutality in Châlons and my rescue by Gabe and Greg. Ana is well-known for her gift of healing so they shouldn’t be surprised that I’m not dead, but healing. Brother Servant brings me a chair.

         The Father apologizes for sending us on this mission. He said he hadn’t realized the danger.  He offers a prayer for my healing.

         Then he asks, “So, Brother Ezra, what is it you want for your sons?  I know they are with the teacher today, and I’ve been told they are capable scholars even at their young age.”

         “They are both seeking adventures as youths will do, Holy Father. But my hope for them is they will fill their usefulness following the Jesus love even for enemies — serving God in everything they do-–finding their peace through forgiveness, not vengeance.

         “I approve of Gabe in his hope to be trained for a life as a monk, which is why we’ve come here today. But I am firmly opposed to Greg’s whims. Greg pleads for my permission that he may be trained as a soldier. In witnessing the violence he is only more resolute.”

         “Of Course.” the Father agrees.

         I continue, “I pray for them in their childhood and into maturity that they may grow ever closer to love for God, for others and for themselves. If Greg is a soldier trained with the sword how could the fullness of love ever become his driving power?”

         The Father just clears his throat, maybe stifling a grin, he looks away, then back at me. 

         “You realize Ezra, my son, you are this boy’s father; you are not God. And even God isn’t always known to sway childish ambitions.”

         He offers a long and prayerful pause then continues.

         “I recommend that you accompany your son on that short journey to Metz.  I believe some years ago you delivered a message to the bishop there.”

         “Yes, Bishop Agilulf was serving that see at that time.”

         “He is still there. He is a supporter of Luxeuil and he is a devout and thoughtful man caught up in the very conundrum you are laying before me here today. He will understand your son’s gifts and longings, and I think he will acknowledge your concern also.”

         I am dismissed to carry a letter from the overseer of gifts, when I go with Greg to Metz.

(Continues Tuesday, July 4)

#45.12, Weds., June 28, 2023

Historical setting: 602 C.E. Luxeuil

         Brother Servant calls me from something of an embarrassing conversation with the overseer of gifts while I was negotiating a place for Gabe at this monastery. I find that those monks who knew me from my association with Annegray had been grieving my death. Now they assume they’d received misinformation from Metz.

         I’m glad to see Brother Servant’s familiar face here, as he leads me to a small library room where I’m to report on the reception of the Father’s message to that Council of bishops. A scribe is present, along with Brother Servant and Father Columbanus, himself.

         Of course, the first question, before there is concern over naming the bishops who had been in attendance, is what led to the rumor of my death? I told Brother Servant and the Father the story.

         “I went before the council to deliver the message. They were seated as a circle, so I couldn’t discern which had the most status. And I think the circle was invented to serve themselves in that way as they are always fearing one another’s authority.”

         Father Columbanus smiled at that obvious explanation.

         I went on, “Baro Dithrum waited outside with the guards, and my sons were expected to remain at the stable, but they were also watching from outside. I delivered your message and it was read aloud by a scribe. Then, instead of an answer for me to bring back here, the guards were called. When Baro Dithrum saw that the orders were ‘death for this messenger,’ as though it were simply a traditional response to an unacceptable message, the baro abandoned my sons and me and apparently scurried back to Metz.

         “I was bound and blindfolded and led into a wood. I was aware my sons were following and when the guards noticed them I called out for them not of follow. They stayed out of sight of the guards but were surely watching. They saw it when I was pushed to the ground and driven through with a polearm. I would certainly be buried in the woods of Châlons to this day had my boys not found a way to return my bones to Ana.

         “As you might suppose my sons were terrified in witnessing this violence. Yet they did all they could to rescue me. I don’t want them to be burdened with my slow healing, so it is important to me that I show them my full strength now.”

 (Continues tomorrow)