#77.11 Wednesday, February 25, 2026

Historical Setting: River Tyne, 794 C.E.

In the long view of time, even things most reliably unchanging — like rocks and rituals — change. Over time rocks wear down and mosses own them, and the forever and always of our human habits and rituals edge away or sometimes quake abruptly but these seemingly most stable things always change.

Changed are Jewish cleansing rituals going from pond to mikvah, but always confirmed by Temple priests. It was still Jesus’s and John’s tradition.

There John came with a big splashing change into the deep dip river of cleansing, shouting for repentance, a turning around. It was an abrupt change, a rock splitting change, with the priest, now, in the wilderness, shouting, not chanting. We came in our youth seeking this turning from the old edicts to the new relationship with God. Shouting down the old — finding new was popular and youthful.

But even as the change was personal, the old Jewish traditions were also flexing in new ways. Synagogues were being built in the outlands to extend the access to the Temple and Torah. New ways of knowing God were rising up here and there within Judaism, some mystical, some midrash with new stories and budding traditions often change as reinvigorated adherence to the old. Questioning was as fresh as our own youth. When John was baptizing, the cleansing ritual was not our father’s rule, but a personal choice to enter the waters.

This was all going on in our community, while the Romans doubled down on outward obedience, holding fast to their ancient gods, with their own purification ceremonies, Lustratio, [Footnote] which had dried up into a procession with sacrifices. The pools of water, Lustral basins, were already losing their luster by the time Christian became Roman.

Then, Christian baptism repented and turned again from a personal cleansing into a tool for proselytization.

Christians replaced the briss with the baptism, and it was no longer a rebellious, teenaged personal option, but a holy demand managed by the polity of the Church. In fact, baptism became the head count for measuring Christian popularity.

As weird as it is to have a torture tool (the cross) once used by the Romans against the Jews, become the sacred symbol of a religion based on the Jewish love laws, the irony of change goes on. Always turning, always changing, even ritual and rocks are organic and always changing.

Footnote: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lustratio    retrieved 6-13-25

(Continues tomorrow )

#77.10 Tuesday, February 24, 2026

Historical Setting: River Tyne, 794 C.E.
 

I am chatting with Cloother over the ways of Vikings and Christians in these times. I came to him with a coin and bought back my fine cloak.

         He says, “So, you’ve found riches since you were my assistant, when we sailed down from Lindisfarne.”

         “Riches? I have one coin earned preparing a document for the King’s court.”

Clouds are heavy, threatening a cold rain, so I help Cloothar baton down the cover over the heaps of goods in his boat and we walk back to the main hall of Jarrow.

It is nice to have my fine cloak back again.

         “So, you have been hobnobbing with nobility?” He asks.

         “Not really.  I only did that little task for the Northumbrian king’s man Ousbert, who wants to set a guard around every holy place in Anglia to pretend he is saving us all from Vikings.”

         “It sounds like a good plan, but I’ve not seen any guards here.”

         “Have you not wondered why the Northumbrian royalty is buying up extra wide monk’s robes? The guards have swords under those robes — but that is a secret from the Vikings.”

         “It’s not a very good secret if you tell it to me. I deal with the Norsemen in the markets you know. But they already assume the monks’ robes hide swords. And now that’s true.”

         “I think the swords and soldiers hide in monks’ robes so the monks won’t feel guarded, rather than it being about soldiers finding ways to surprise the Vikings. Ousbert is initiating lots of protections against the Viking incursions, and so far, everyone applauds his success. Jarrow hasn’t been attacked.”

         “It’s winter. Of course, the Vikings haven’t attacked.”

         “We both know that.”

Distant thunder rolls as we reach the shelter of the library outer hall. Cloother is not one to value books, not being fully literate, but he does keep his ear to gossip for rumors. I ask, what of the rising king of the Franks?

         “You ask me that? Even though you are here in a monastery in the midst of a churchmen’s huddle.”

         “Does King Charles always take the pope’s side?”

         “You’ve been gone for a long while. It is well-known he is the pope’s finest sword, demanding baptism of the worst of the worst pagans even among the Lombards and the Saxons. He will soon beat the missionary bishops at the work of baptizing the whole world.”

(Continues tomorrow)

#77.9 Thursday, February 19, 2026

Historical Setting: River Tyne, 794 C.E.
 

Cloother doesn’t say it, but I am sure he’s been to the markets where the Norsemen trade and he has seen the displays of stolen wares.

        “Do you think the Vikings are enticed by Lindisfarne to strike again on this coast?” I ask him.

         “Of course! Even the booty from the raid that was obviously stolen from God was an easy sale for them. The space your parting left in their ship was much more valuable to them than keeping a cantankerous Christian slave. Now, they’ve had a fine, fat winter.”

         “I know they had a good supply of ale and a whole winter’s larder taken from the monastery.”

         “Even the conspicuously Christian gilded wood carvings reaped a healthy gain. Christian merchants, of course, could guess the source and they bought up the art works anyway, because the French king, Charles, sets this whole world in a new time of learning and prosperity.  There are castles going up — great manor houses for the lords and masters — and wilderness lands are soon to be tamed into fields to benefit the lowliest serfs.”

         “So, you don’t see anyone holding back on buying the stolen loot? You think the vicious Vikings are getting rich selling Christian chalices and bishop’s thrones on the Christian market?”

         “You make the good rewards of smart deals sound obscene.”

         “It is obscene.”

         “Judge as you are judged, man. The rich Christians rising want Christian art because they want it to be known that they deny the pagan gods and trust only in the Triune, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

         “That sounds like a benediction on the Jesus love.”

          “It is the Christian prosperity– God’s reward for loyalty.”

There is no goodness in this. What can I say? Is it the holy nature of unearned grace that is the silenced lesson?  The devil still argues that Job’s loyalty to God is only because Job is blessed with riches and health. But the meaning of the allegory dissolves away in this world where Job isn’t like everyman any longer, when trust in God is grounded only in abundant earthly prosperity and where gracious gifts are perceived as just rewards regardless of the means of acquisition. The wealthy receive God’s gifts, as God’s judgement naming themselves righteous. Then the heirs of wealth turn that notion of judgment onto the poor and label them of lesser value. Thus, greed becomes the moral judge. Job’s example of loyalty to God looks ridiculous when judged by greed.

And now the world grows rich.

(Continues Tuesday, February 24, 2026)


#77.8 Wednesday, February 18, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.
 

Ousbert and I are working on a proclamation to be read in the king’s court. This begins, “Proclamation of Commendation for the Military Guard Posted at Jarrow” the “P” in proclamation is my best work in creating a decorative illumination, but it’s nothing to match the standard of the Lindisfarne gospel. The illumination of those pages is truly magnificent; but then, that is a gospel. This is just a note to a king to provide a list, generously spaced, naming the guardsmen.”

In the end, he rolls the document, and closes it with his seal. And for my work with the inks, he gives me a coin.

February is the tween time of the year when one day is cold bright winter — white earth — blue sky. And the next, is today, drear grey, but softening earth anticipates springtime. Who would think it is the gloppy mud that promises all things new?

The guards, walking their post from Jarrow to the sea have worn the path I follow hoping to find that Cloother has his boatload of merchandise still moored at the mouth of the Tyne. So, with the coin I buy again, my cloak once traded for the clothing for the young woman who gave of herself to help a needy family nurture a new infant.

Ousbert still wants to find her, to have her appear before the king at the reading of this document.  I tried to tell him she is needed by the family who provides her food and shelter and she can’t just leave their newborn baby to starve.  And, probably, he also needs to know she doesn’t always present herself as the demure, helpless victim he imagines will invoke the empathy of the king. She has a deep core of, should I call it, strength? On one hand, she might seem to have any mother’s single-minded inner drive to care for an infant. But on the other hand, she can be foul-mouthed with face-scratching talons that lash out with demonic intensity that no king would welcome to his court.  I warned Ousbert, but he is still planning to ask the nuns to guide him to the household where she can be found.

Cloother is moored here, and he does have my cloak amid his wares, so I buy it back from him, and he shares a loaf and a flask over a bit of conversation as we catch up on things he knows from his travels.

(Continues tomorrow)


#77.7 Tuesday, February 17, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.
 

Ousbert made arrangements to use a monk’s cell as a scriptorium, with me the only scribe. He supplied a very fine swath of vellum. It will unfurl to an impressive length when it is read in the king’s court. He’s chosen to have me use the Merovingian hand which allows a bit more flourish than the script used copying the books produced here. And I find that style most familiar. He provides the ink and quills though I prefer to trim the quills myself for the nicer line, and I have asked for some scraped remnants of parchment, so we can prepare the content of the document before it is copied onto the finer medium.

He shows up this morning to begin work on this document. Today this king’s captain chose not to wear his armor under his tunic softening the military edge, though he still has the poise and posture of a officer.  I can understand why the guards he sends to this monastery speak kindly of him.  And this letter to the king reporting on their perseverance and adherence to duty speaks especially well of his method of leadership. At least it is fine with me, as I am now, also working for him and I am one who appreciates a leader who uses more carrots and fewer sticks.

Ousbert’s original plan was to commend his guards on guarding, but now he is aware of the story of the young woman grieving the life of the child she was forced to bear by the abusive ealdorman for this village. It was the guards at their post, early on Christmas morning, who saw her in the sea and risked their own lives to rescue her from the cold waters.

         “And in the end, let it be known, these heroes are also protecting the whole land from the attack of Vikings.”

So, the first hours of the first day, we have this full content of the proclamation.  It does what is needed — makes heroes of the guard, updates the king on the good work of Ousbert, and notes the moral flaw of the king’s appointed ealdorman. So Ousbert and I spend these next days arranging this simple message to fill this large scroll of vellum.

This begins, “Proclamation of commendation for the military guard posted at Jarrow” the “P” in proclamation took a whole day of handwork creating a decorative illumination.

(Continues tomorrow)


#77.6 Thursday, February 12, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.
 

Ousbert, the king’s man who oversees the guarding of Jarrow against the Vikings is asking me to do the abbot’s or an ealdorman’s job of writing a report to the king. He wants a letter that will make a fine display before the court and that has good words commending the guards he has placed on duty here. He tells me something I already knew of the ealdorman, though I have only heard stories. The ealdorman here is known to be a cruel and self-centered fellow, who would prepare the letter putting himself in the role of the one who assigned the guards in making all these preparations for a Viking raid.

         “So, it isn’t the abbot’s letter you would have me write. It is the letter from the ealdorman.”

         “It will have my name and my seal.” says Ousbert.

He mentions payment, and I could buy my cloak back from Cloother with that coin. And also, I would like an opportunity to inform the king about the unfair treatment of a pauper by this very same ealdorman excluded from this assignment.

         So, “Might this commendation of the guards also include a denunciation of the ealdorman?”

         “What are you thinking?”

         “Maybe just an explanation after the signature like, ‘Ousbert, in leu of the local ealdorman.’ Then a note could be added in smaller letters, of course, than the commendations, that would give examples of the ealdorman flaunting of his power over his district.”

         “You have examples?”

         “I’ve heard a story of it.”

So, I tell Ousbert all that I know of a woman rescued from the sea by these royal guardsmen who are being commended.

         “Yes!” He says, “This is very useful! Might we find this woman again, and dress her up in courtly gowns to go before the king to tell her own story explaining why justice isn’t available from the cruel ealdorman.”

I fear I’ve said too much. He was just looking for an excuse to replace the ealdorman, perhaps with himself, and now I’ve put the troubled young girl in the midst of their own power play. And not only that, I can imagine her audience with the king, outfitted as a perfect stereotype of a helpless waif, that will end with her being dragged from court, howling curses at the king. She does have that strong core of self-reliance and she has very little regard for glitzy powerful rule makers.

(Continues Tuesday, February 17, 2026)


#77.5 Wednesday, February 11, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.
 

Ousbert, the envoy for King Ethelred of Northubria, called me to meet with him here in the entrance hall for the library. He was here before the Christ Mass asking me details of the Lindisfarne raid and has since learned that my information was accurate. But I’m sure the reason he’s called me here isn’t just to commend my accuracy.

         “So Eleazor, the librarian tells me you are a scholar as literate as any monk, and you have a rapport with the guardsmen I’ve assigned to this place.”

         “We shared a Christmas song and a pint of ale.”

         “The abbot here does nothing but complain about these heroic guardsmen. He has no regard for their living conditions and their needs, even though they are here to protect this community. I don’t trust the abbot to provide accurate reports to the Kings man.”

I can guess where this is going. Ousbert is looking for someone to spy on the spies. I ask him if that is what he wants of me.

         “More than that.  It would be very useful if I could carry a document to the royal court of Northumbria commending the fine work of these guards in protecting this outpost against the Vikings.”

         “You want to report commendation for these men? That really should come from the abbot?”

         “The abbot won’t do it. It could be on a long strip of vellum, with flourishes and proper lettering so that when it is unfurled and read in a royal court it will be well known that it is a worthy commendation.”

         “Can’t you just go and tell whatever royal court the guards are keeping their watch as ordered?”

         “It needs embellishment fit for a king. At the top it would announce, ‘The good works of the loyal subjects of the ruler of Northumbria. Then you would write something to say we have had no Vikings raid Jarrow since the guards have been posted!”

         “I can’t pretend to be the abbot’s scribe. This is his task.”

         “Indeed, or this could be the task for the local ealdorman, but..”

Oh, yes, now I know why he chooses to by-pass the ealdorman here.  This ealdorman is the ‘Mister’ in the ‘castle’ who abused the young pauper, and then he sent her away and let her baby die. Apparently, even a king’s military general doesn’t trust this ealdorman. And I actually do have some information someone needs to know; and it isn’t about the guards.

(Continues tomorrow)


#77.4 Tuesday, February 10, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.

On the horizon towers are rising — bell towers rise up from churches, but also, watch towers rise up here and there, as rocks are stacked higher and higher into babel towers to reach the heavens.

Watching the sea once gave monks a spiritual tranquility. Once gazing at the horizon at sunrise set a new day right. The dawning edge where sea meets sky brightens tenderly, softly, silently waking until the saffron sun rises, and immediately day is all.

But in these times, the watchers aren’t monks in private prayer; they are military guards, eyeing the breakers moving toward the shoreline searching for the shadows between the foaming edges in search of the stealth longships of the Norsemen lying low among the shore waves hiding in plain sight on the sea.

Returning to the monastery, I find Ousbert waiting to meet with me.  I’ve already told him all I know of the Viking raid at Lindisfarne. And now the people of this land live by warfare — moving rocks, setting guards, gathering swords and spears enough for every hand to hold a weapon. Ousbert has been to Lindisfarne since we last talked, and now he commends me on my accuracy.

          “Eleazor, your observations are well collaborated. I was fortunate to find you, a clear-headed witness, here.”

I have to wonder what Ousbert’s purpose is in seeking me out now. A military advisory to King Ethelred isn’t likely to be sent on a mission to compliment a witness.

         “So, Captain, now everyone thinks of nothing but the possibilities for devastation. In that way a violent raid has already taken a toll here even without actual Vikings.”

         “How so?”

         “All this preparation is driven by imagining an enemy. And it is fear that sets our hearts on battle, the exact opposite of God’s love that is the holiness of a monastery.”

         “Fear? No, the people should find comfort in the safety measures we take.”

         “Safety measures are wearing leather shoes in a berry patch. Setting guards, supplying weapons, setting traps, that is warfare, not safety.”

         “These are uneasy times. Every day I wake and wonder if we still have a king. Ethelred has his own brutality.” [Footnote]

         “I guess that is the risk of following temporal masters.”

         “You sound more like a monk than a layman. Maybe you’re already under the influence of them. But I’m here to appeal to your secular interests.”

         “Have I secular interests?”

         “Everyone does, of course. We live in the real world.”

[Footnote] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%86thelred_I_of_Northumbria  (retrieved 2-9-26)

  (Continues tomorrow)

#77.3 Thursday, February 5, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.

It is an easy verse to remember, “There is no fear in love,” [I John 4:18]. But it’s nearly incomprehensible in real life. Surely, the quill slipped and it was intended to say, “There is no hate in love.” Hate has teeth and tools, strength and power. Fear is a human frailty that leaves its victims helpless and shuttering.

Hate is transformative. Those war-kindling rumors offer up strangers as hated enemies. Hate can take any fear, big or little, real or imagined, debilitating or simply a nuisance and rename it, “The Enemy.” So, when rumors circulate and Jarrow hears of the raid on Lindisfarne, a truly hated enemy is created out of rumors by fear.  Really it  isn’t a Swede, or a Dane, or a Norseman, as though the enemy is a person made in God’s image; it is a fearsome rumored “other” — a Viking. 

Fear hides as cowardly hatred, and hate devolves into a lie to dehumanize, and transform other people into horrific superhuman monsters.

Jarrow has turned a feared rumor into a Viking enemy and even good Christians are encouraged to hate despite Jesus’s teachings to do otherwise. But I buried the dead, and I know this enemy is no human. It is actually, greed — the root of sin — though no one really wants to forfeit the power of that sin even though less greed makes them less vulnerable. Because, when the sin is greed it serves a feast, not a simple bowl of gruel. Greed warms a house, and furnishes it better than mere shelter. Greed appears to be a very likeable sin, says the woman who clothes all her family in velvet. The plentiful life of the greedy is a prize worthy of the cost even if it calls for wars and murders to keep it.

Greed drives the marauders to this shore because those Vikings share this sin.  The Viking raids are not hate-crimes. The raids are crimes of excess. The brutality and deaths are perceived as the collateral damage of wealth. If the raiders come to this shore they won’t visit the pauper’s woods, they will seek out the tallest towers and the fattest storehouses — likely the monastery. Yet, here, these preparations are to build higher watch towers and fortify the storehouses with weapons — always to save the gold at the risk of human lives. 

(Continues Tuesday, February 10, 2026)


#77.2 Wednesday, February 4, 2026

Historical Setting: Jarrow, 794 C.E.

I return to St. Paul in near morning light.

It is the changing of the guard when these king’s soldiers who are assigned to guard the seashore are taking their posts dressed as monks prepared for any real or imagined Viking attack. On the Jarrow side of the Tyne some men arrive with a mule and are moving rocks onto the sandbar.

         “Why?” I ask them.

         “It’s a new plan to stifle the longships of the Vikings so they can’t come up the river.”

         “Isn’t that likely to stop all ships from entering the river from the sea?”

         “Any acceptable ships can moor in the basin as they do anyway, waiting for the righteous tide, and a smaller currach can ferry the people and the goods up the river if needed before the tide rises.”

Having seen the longships of the Norsemen I happen to know they don’t have the deep draft of merchant ships and galleys that would be hindered by a rock laden sandbar. They are nearly already riverboats.

         I ask, “But what if they would attack near high tide? They would just slip right into the river, and never even notice all this fortification.”

         “Aye, but the rocks would catch them on the return and they wouldn’t get away with the plunder. All these rocks will surely stop them from escaping.”

A Viking raid isn’t like an army attacking an enemy at war; it is much quicker than the turning of the tide — silent and brutal.

         The overseer of the work says, “Everyone knows now the saints won’t save them from the attack. This isn’t Lindisfarne. Here every hearth will have a spear, every mantle a sword and every belt a dagger.”

So, fear calls for killing power. Fear transforms the hearthside, where a child would normally learn familial love, into an armed fortress with lessons in hatred for strangers. Fear hides weapons in monk’s robes. It heaps a low-tide causeway with jagged rocks as snares for ships.

These people have never even seen a Norseman marauder. Yet they call them the war word, “Viking.” It is simply the tales of Lindisfarne that made the rumor that set the rest of the world against welcoming strangers. Fear has the power to suck the heart out of anyone’s self, and teach away all tenderness for the sake of transforming protective fear into blanket hatred. We have an enemy now: the unknown neighbor.

(Continues tomorrow)