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.)

Post #6.10, Tuesday, March, 24, 2020

Historical setting: 562 C.E. Gaul

         This river — the Liger or Loire as it is known — marks the tangible edge of old Roman power. The abundance of massive constructions with its bridges and aqueducts gave Tours a wall and roads but failed to cross this river here with a bridge. So for crossing back from the monastery to the shrine or the city we must sail the river on the currents of springtime.

         Our boat is filled with a crew and all varieties of passengers. Some may have business in the city and others surely are on their way to the shrine in hopes of healing. George and I were nearest a large but frail woman being carried by her two adult sons on a pallet stretched onto frame with handles.

         Now, the winds of the ragged divide between the seasons leave our sails luffing then billowing at every wind-shift; and the rudder seeks a path of swift spring flood water rather than minding the choice of the sailor’s hand on the tiller. An anxious heel toward the starboard sets all our superstitious mouths to prayer.

         George clutches the chains about his neck and he demands that I retrieve my walnut from my bag and make a bold prayer to my patron martyr also. “It is nearing his feast day – March 27 — and surely St. Lazarus will be listening.”

         My prayer is silent though the people on this craft anxiously watch my raised walnut and study my face for moving lips of prayer.

         Dear God, let my prayer be heard, not by selfish fears and sufferings but by the loving hand of your care for all people. But only if it is your will. Thank you. Amen.

         As spring winds will do, after each gasp of winter’s rage comes a new gentler breeze of southern air. And timed to my gesture of drawing forth my walnut, all on board this frail craft believe we just saw the calming of the Sea of Galilee as Jesus himself is awakened from his rest.

         “Your relic has brought us a miracle Brother Lazarus, as though the saint himself had risen up from the grave to guide our ship!”

         Even the pagan sailors and heathen passengers took notice of my wondrous possession. I tucked it back into the pouch and we landed safely on the south bank as I supposed we would have done safely with or without relics. Thank you God.

(Come again tomorrow)

Post #6.9, Thursday, March 19, 2020

Historical setting: 562 C.E. Gaul

         The writings of young George seem to me filled with notions of an awkward triangular god-head working in pagan magic. In his naïve drafts I read an old legend of an ancestor to Merovech born of a tryst between monster and human. Perhaps maturity will bring him edits of believable fact.  While this young author so astutely names ecclesiastical dates for saints, he seems not at all concerned about placing the whole history of the Franks within the time frame of Roman Christianity. Yet the patriarch Clovis, a brutal warrior, was baptized Christian with not the slightest nod to love of neighbor. Apparently, whatever god wins his war is the one who earns his allegiance. [Footnote] Dear God, did you know about his contest? Was it your purpose to win? Probably this is not for me to know. Amen.

         I fear with so much reading of this I’m falling into Barbarian rhythms of story and my assignment to Romanize the spellings and manage the tenses may be letting go of the flavor of story.

         George argues that thought as well.  He has demanded that I not mark the actual parchments anymore but only note his errors separately because there may be some of these strange usages he wishes to keep as they are.

         “Why would you deliberately leave errors in your writing?”

         “I write not for the eyes of scholars but for the reader who be Frankish and cares not for tense. When I write for my own family who are of the most noble of the Franks, we sit very close to one another because we are family and we read best our own comfortable words. But I promise I will always try to speak to you and other heathen with my best pluperfect.”

         His writing clearly goes faster without so much scraping. So believing my work should go no further as also is George’s task to align my prayers with creed, we plan to report our successes to the bishop. We both hope to be released from our obligations to change the other.

         As we are nearing the equinox that marks spring planting I hope to take a leave from inks and ash and return to help Ezra plow and plant his fields.

         So tomorrow George and I sail back across the river to meet with the bishop at the basilica of the Shrine.

 (Continued Tuesday, March 24, 2020)

[Footnote]

Gregory of Tours, Origins of the Merovingian Kingdom (Book II). (ed and Trans. By Alexander Callander Murray) “If  You grant me victory over these enemies, and if I experience the power that people dedicated to Your name claim to have proven in Yours, then I shall believe in You and be baptized in Your name.” excerpt from a prayer of Clovis to “Jesus Christ” (II 30) from Readings in medieval civilizations and cultures: X  series editor: Dutton, Paul E. Broadview Press, Ontario, 2000.