Post #7.6, Tuesday, April 14, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age in Gaul

         At this waking I hear the sounds of the oars and the groaning in effort against wind driven current. I can feel the pulse of the river rills moving under my shoulders, as I lay here on the boards of hull, spine to spine with ship. Fresh bandages cover my eyes so at least there is cause for the incessant darkness.

         A cold dampness is rising inside this ship’s hull as if it were the tide breaching onto dry beach. Two rowers are summoned from the stern-most bench to man the bilges and those left at the oars are heaving and drawing at peak tempo with the plan to reach Nantes before the leaking hull drowns us all.

         I hear the officer and his assistant deciding what to do with me as I am in such a useless state. “Sir, I’ve heard that at the next bend in the river, where the shelf of rock juts out near a vineyard is the place where the gardens of remedies grow. We could just leave him there in the care of the pagan hag.”

         “But he may be a loyal Christian, and besides we need to move quickly to the shipyard or we will all be floundering in the river.”

         “And of course, Sir, he may also be fair at the oars when he has healed a bit.”

         “Good man. You share my thoughts. If we could add a loyal rower to our numbers as we rejoin our fleet the centurion will surely be impressed. In these times, adding one, even a bandaged one, would seem a hopeful sign of renewal. I say we decide what to do with him later. By the time the ship is repaired we will surely know of his possibility.”

         I have no recollection at all of ever having been in a warrior’s galley. My pounding head offers no glimpses of any goodness from this. I know Jesus is my friend and he will never find me here if I’m all armored and aligned in Roman battalions. But I do remember who I am. I know who I am; thank you God, for this clarity.        

         “You are awake now, Friend?”

         One is speaking to me. I answer, “I can hear you.”

         “We believe you were robbed and beaten. Do you remember what happened?”

         “I don’t remember, but I do know who I am.”

         “And who are you?”

         “I am Lazarus, friend of Jesus.”

         “Let’s give him more time. He may have lost his mind but surely he’s a Christian.”

(Continues tomorrow)        

Good Friday, Post #7.5.1, Friday, 4-10-2020

Historical setting: A dark age in Gaul

         The relentless love of God for all Creation riles the prayerless who fear the power of forgiveness.  The Romans feared. The persecutors of the Jews feared. …  Fear guises as power and commits executions.

            Jesus, I’m remembering you in this darkness. I hear the Roman guard coming close. The high Imperial officer asks who you are. How can I tell him? I am silent as they mock your kingship with thorns. I should get on my feet now and speak for you. What can I say? Pilate would be confused if I mention that your kingdom is not of this earth. Could I offer the truth that wealth and power and treasure are pointless? I should tell Pilate that his mighty rule is nothing. The Kingdom Jesus speaks of is not about a prize. Winning the power wars, leading loyal masses in a perfect lockstep parade, wreaking vengeance, paying homage – it doesn’t even matter to Jesus. Lifting up the poor, forgiving the cruelties, caring for sick and the imprisoned and the lonely, welcoming the stranger – Jesus doesn’t even play on a different game board. He has no game just human kindness.

         I remember now. Jesus was at the feast when we passed the cup to each of us and talked of the vineyard, drinking life from the single solid root, blooming, setting fruit. It’s not the season now for fruit. The sounds of heavy feet and Roman armor are all around. The anguish, I hear the gasps and the struggle.

         I remember dear friend! And still I fail you.  The darkness is a blindness and not a truth.  How can I come to you now?

         “This cross of Jesus — these nails, I’m failing him!”

         “Yes, he is a true Christian. He clings to the cross!

         “I told you he is a loyal Roman.”

         They don’t know!

(Come back after Easter – Tuesday, April 14)

Maunday Thursday, Post #7.5, April,9, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age in Gaul

         The wait is long. I remember in glimpses. We are pouring the wine – there is plenty yet we share. We are passing the wine and the bread. We have songs – the old psalms – the running over cup – the table spread before our enemies. Some are missing from the table. We have new songs and a shared grief for the earth things. There is no sign or sense of it at all except that there must be some sort of an earthy truth in it. The game they play by people’s rules of might and power are easily won by emperors and Roman political appointees guised in the robes of Chief Priest. They make the rules. They would write the rules and the story if writing were needed. They play for blood. They win.

         Jesus my dear friend, I can’t even remember that imperial name now — the one who ordered a tree to be cut and pounded full of iron nails. Maybe it is Clovis or Chilperic or Pilate or Sigibert by now. They look to your Kingdom for the omen of winning wars.

         I hear the jingling of the Roman chain-mail and the rustling of leathers at the knees of the soldiers…

         “See, there is a man here, through the wood over there and nearer the road. We suppose he was robbed and beaten. Except for his wound he would seem an able rower.”

         “He was flailing and talking for a moment. I think he was saying he is a loyal Roman.”

         No! How can Jesus think I would be Roman?

         “You don’t remember me now Jesus? Remember me? I’m your friend, brother to Martha, son of Simon?”

         “See what I mean? He speaks only of Jesus but offers us no words of Creed, no prayer of Trinity, no sign of Cross, so I’m not sure of his loyalty. He may be a heretic.”

         “David, you go back to the ship and bring some medical wraps. And Nik, you stay here. Right now it doesn’t matter his loyalties. We will see to his wounds and if he heals to wellness we can consider his purpose for us then.”

         He spreads over me his cloak. He is surely the saint.

         (Continues tomorrow briefly, and oddly for Good Friday.)

Post #7.4, Wednesday, April 8, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age in Gaul

         Jesus is here with so many followers even before our table servants are here. Martha is still in the kitchen instructing the cooks and probably arranging and rearranging the olives and bay leaves onto the platters for the still roasting meats. Martha does obsess over details. While Mary — of course is primping — oiling her beautiful flow of hair and shinning lightness from her checks with powders and fragrance as though she were a corpse and needed the look of a painted awakening.

         We’ve not even filled the ewers. The river runs by – I hear the river and yet I do nothing to fill the ewers. Our guests are too early or our servants are too late for the washing of these traveler’s feet. Jesus himself takes the basin and drapes the towel over his own arm then he kneels on our floor to wash the feet of every guest. I should argue this protocol and do our servant’s task myself but I can’t get up.

         Jesus I hear you so near, yet I don’t seem to rise up and help you. I hear your steps drawing nearer; I feel the ground quaking at your march. But the voices are of strangers.

         “Come look here! Just through the wood, a man is here with a bleeding head.”

         “…So near the road he appears to have been beaten and robbed.”

         “Even with that wound he seems to be flailing to get to his feet!”

         “Go and tell the officer. He might find him useful at the oars when he is able.”

         One of them is gone; the other is still here.

         “So, my man, our ship’s officer will be here soon and he surely will want to know your loyalty. Are you Barbarian or Christian?”

         “Jesus” I find I can speak now. “I’m a friend to Jesus.”

         “You are Christian then?”

         “I serve only the one God of Abraham and Jesus. Jesus is waiting for me to fill the ewers before the feast.”

         “Maybe our ship’s master will know about that. But you sound as though you be a Christian.  We can only use that loyalty. So if you aren’t a Roman Christian, best not to tell our officer or he won’t take you on.”

 (Remembrances continue tomorrow)

Post #7.3, Tuesday, April 7, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age in Gaul

The cold night wind comes down through this dark. I can hear the sounds of night terrors – the scream of a weasel loosing the life battle with a lion. This night is filled with beasts. I hear the ravages, licking and tugging at the meats. The winning beast is feasting. Now he is filled and nearing me on quiet paws…to touch me with a breath through cold nose. He circles near me, and he drops for rest beside me here, nearly touching me, as though human person were a harmless yet meatless find. His well-fed spine presses gently against my own ribs – soft and warm he is. And safe I am now from the cold clam of night.

         Thank you, for weasel’s loss, and this well-fed warmth. Is it a plan or a happenstance, Dear God?

         The lion runs away at a sound of oars and coxswain beat on the river. There must be moonlight enough for a warship sliding through the darkness on the river tonight.

         But we haven’t filled the ewers yet and Jesus and the others are already nearby in Jerusalem for Passover. I should go home now and help get ready for our guests. I can’t make myself get up but I have to go now. My head hurts. I should go now.

         The drums of the imperial parade won’t leave my head. For Jesus it was a strange parade. Hail the king. But Jesus had no pomp of percussion, only songs. Why this? The golden Imperial Roman, Pilate, infuses the Jewish celebration with all Pagan pomp through the wide gate on the regal stallion, descending the golden stairway of city into the Jewish holiday midst. Rome expects the largest crowd ever in Jerusalem. But then, here is Jesus sucking up the Imperial pomp flaunting his own example of a whole different pax. The crowds come for Jesus. They spread their cloaks for the feet of the borrowed donkey just outside the common gate. It’s a Jesus lesson to show his kingdom is not of riches and winning wars and prizes. His is the promise of the kingdom to come –whatever that promise means anymore.

         Why do the powerful fear Jesus? Yet earthly fears are heaped to edifice with tangible treasure – bricks of gold and weapons for wars for winning – and winnings measured only by other’s losses. Why would the powerful fear Jesus? Yet they seem so afraid.

         Jesus will be at our door soon, and I haven’t even filled the ewers.

(Come again tomorrow)

Post #7.2, Thursday, April 2, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age in Gaul

         More voices stir around in the darkness.

         “Look, it seems to be a man here who was stripped and beaten and yet this horror is all so close to this busy road.”

         “Has no one passed this way yet and taken notice?”

         “Why doesn’t someone do something?”

         “Did you ever hear the story of the Saint?”

         “Of course I hear stories of saints every day, and in fact twice a day at Matens and at Vespers. Every message is of saints.”

         “I mean the story of St. Martin himself offering charity to a poor man who had no cloak. Even though he was well off and a soldier he used his sword to sever his own cloak into two parts then he leaned down from his horse and gave the poor man half his cloak.”

         “I could never damage my cloak. Such faith he had!”

         “Such charity! No wonder he was a saint.”

         “And then, of course, his torn cloak was miraculously restored with no damage done. God must have known he was a saint all along.”

         “If only I were a saint I could show charity for this man …”

         They seem to have walked on.

         Thank you dear God for staying near. Thank you for this infernal darkness where I can hide. But it is very cold so if you have any extra saints about with abundant cloaks might you send one on this road today? Amen.

         I have somewhere in my pounding head some small glimpses of remembering.  I hear the river running near here. Maybe my little sister is close-by. I know she comes here sometimes to wait by the river. She has her little infatuations and she is so taken with Jesus. Sometimes he is all she talks about. Yes, I think I hear her chatter… or maybe it’s just the little settling sounds of birds nesting and feeding. It is incessant.

         Mary only chatters on about Jesus. “Jesus noticed the trees coming into season with buds.” “Jesus mentioned the beautiful morning.” “Jesus noticed that Martha and I brought fresh flowers for the table board.”

         Whenever Jesus is near Bethany, or even if Jesus is just expected to come near the river with his friends for lessons or baptisms, Mary wanders over to wait by the river to be sure not to miss him. Sometimes my little sister’s sillies get annoying. But right now, I would be so happy to know that is her voice I’m hearing.

         But really it seems to be only evening songs of birds smothered so deep in this darkness? Is it really evening now? Was there a daytime and I missed it?

(Come back Tuesday, April 7, for Holy Week)

Post #7.1, Wednesday, April 1, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age in Gaul

It seems it isn’t death because death doesn’t have touch or taste or an ache in the head. Perhaps this dark is night or maybe I seem to have forgotten how to open my eyes… or move… or make a sound to call for … I’ve forgotten who can come. Perhaps I’ve fallen into a deep abyss of nothing. Maybe this dark isn’t even mine alone. Maybe it is the whole of earth that has turned dark.

         Dear God, are you near?

         I hear voices of people. Or is it nothing I hear?

         There are sounds but my own sounds seem not to be heard.

         “A monk, he is. ‘Neith the wound I can see he were shorn a monk!”

         “He must have had rich robes that thieves would strip him of everything.”

         “I don’t pity him. The rich should know better than travel this road alone. Surely he deserves what he got.”

         “Maybe if we report this at the basilica we will be rewarded.”

         “You fool! If we tell of this they will think it was us who robbed him. I say we just go before we are seen here.”

         Remembering… maybe I’m remembering that I am a wealthy monk … in expensive robes… walking alone on a dangerous road. Maybe it’s the road to Jericho. We walk this way often. Yes. I know this road. I’m sure I know this road… Was I walking here with Jesus? What happened to Jesus?

         Dear God, I fear something has happened to my friend Jesus. Please keep watch, dear God. Please watch …

         Jesus. Jesus you wanted me to lighten my load of wealth. Why, on this day was I wearing robes of wealth? I thought my sisters gave our father’s riches away to the poor. I can’t remember. Why was I  walking this road dressed as a wealthy monk?

(continues tomorrow)

Post #6.13, Tuesday, March 31, 2020

Historical setting: 562 C.E. Gaul

         Now I set out on my walk as George returns to his cell in the monastery to await his horsemen with their weapons. He tells me when I see him next he will be Gregory, Bishop of Tours. Gregory will be his new priestly name and his aspiration is to be bishop here one day. Bishop Eufronius is already aged.

         I answer.  “And you, my friend, may find me at the vineyard of Ezra on the Loire if I am not in the scriptorium of the monastery.”

         The shrine and the basilica are nearly the western edge of the civitas, so my journey west from Tours is less than when I came.

         I pass the old untended farms and vineyards abundant on the north side of the road toward the river and they are overgrown with vines and small dells of saplings now tinged in greens and yellows of the new season blossoming out. Perhaps we will never see again the great forests of Gaul but the springtime enlivens even the scrub.

         I see ahead of me, on the side of the road near one of these small woods that same woman again, still having found no help or healing, still lying on her pallet. Here she is alone yet never smiling. I expect her sons have gone back through the wood to find the river crossing that was once near this place now hidden in the thickets.

         Now I see they are here, and they have with them heavy limbs of fallen trees held firmly as though they were axes for warriors…

         “Stop! My friends! Why do you hit me? I’m no danger! Why are you afraid of me? I mean you no harm. Have you a need…”

         My arms ache from sheltering my head from the blows, and my head…

(Continued Wednesday, April Fools, April 1, 2020)

Post #6.12, Thursday, March 26, 2020

Historical setting: 562 C.E. Gaul

As when I arrived here, I’m granted audience with the bishop. He greets George with a familial hug and to me, he nods politely. This time the abundance of robes filling the throne seems buoyed by our presence. And I see it is because of George.

         “So my dear cousin George, have you made proud the scholars of Latin with your fine use of words?”

         “I hope I have, Your Excellency. But also, I would like to gain your respect not only as a writer and a scholar but as a candidate for ordination as a priest. I think you will find I have been able to completely cleanse Lazarus here of heresy. Would that not qualify me?”

         I feel I must answer for myself as I will surely fail any heresy test. “Your Excellency the technique young George used for my instruction was devised to set my prayers toward a saint with the use of a relic.”

         The bishop seems impressed and does not quiz me further on my thoughts of a three-headed god. He doesn’t even ask that my relic produce a miracle so Georgius Florentius Gregorius will indeed be assigned to the seminary to be educated as a priest. A messenger is sent on a fast horse to George’s family requesting they dispatch four horsemen to accompany him on this journey to assure his safety. 

         The bishop now turns to me to explain that the departing Roman army has left the wealthy aristocracy vulnerable to attacks by highwaymen so horsemen and weapons are needed for those certain few. Had I a longer tunic or a golden chain for my relic surely I would already know well of this terrible fate of privilage.

         He now addresses my request and assures me I have a place at a scribes bench with the inks going forward.

         “That is a kind and generous offer Your Excellency, and I do wish to make good use of the scriptorium in the summer season. But now it is time for plowing and planting and I have to go to help my family at the farm and vineyard.”

         “That seems a menial pastime when your abilities are with the inks.”

         “It is my humble choice, Your Excellency.”

         “Of course.”

         So George and I have both succeeded yet neither seems to have changed the other and the ancient church is still in ashes.

(Continued Tuesday, March 31, 2020)

Post #6.11, Wednesday, March, 25, 2020

Historical setting: 562 C.E. Gaul

The Shrine of St. Martin is a hub of activity. The basilica also here is the see of the Bishop of Tours, Eufronius. The longest line is of pilgrims awaiting the blessings and their touch of the Saint’s relics. Certainly each is seeking a personal miracle. From my ancient view barely bent by pagan tradition it is hard for me to see a use in the rotting physical remnant of saint as a source of great wonders of fearlessness when all around us are the wonders of Creation itself. Yet, here they pray loud and long and in proper form and gesture that they no longer fear pain and sickness. And so may spiritual woes once bestowed upon them by devils and demons be turned toward hope –empty hopes or fulfilled — all hopes are of the same substance.

         This is the trading floor where humankind come as wads of damp clay to bargain for a tad-bit more of life. The woman with her sons whom I had noticed on the river crossing is waiting here to touch something of a dead saint. The expectation is from ancient religion that winning favor with deity yields an outcome of personal benefit: fertile fields, many children, strength and health, healing… whatever.

         I personally don’t think that God makes choices of who would be healed and who would be passed over to come again. In my opinion God just journeys with each of us through our happenstance. But who am I to know?  All any of us knows is our own experiences and whatever we learn from empathy.

         I do wonder will either the hurts or the healings ever turn anyone from old patterns of fear? Are we required to suffer for goodness sake? And who here will take notice of their own healings? Aren’t we all in a continuance of healing? How will we find the complete grace in the everyday beauty that surrounds us all in the breath of God like the very air we all breath together? Are the only true miracles those that are specified in human prayers, or does God’s grace get noticed too?

         The large but frail matriarch with the sons notices my stare. I smile toward her. She recoils our gaze, not returning at all a smile for mine, but alerting her sons that we have seen one another before. Who am I to be feared by them? Surely they recall I was the one with the so-called “miraculous walnut” on the crossing, was I not? I avert my gaze to ease the moment.

         George and I are in a lesser line here – we are simply waiting for a moment with the bishop.

         (Continues tomorrow.)