Post #10.1, Wednesday, July 1, 2020

Historical setting: 563 C.E., on the Western Shore of Gaul

Before we are in sight we can smell the fragrant cooking fires, the wafts of plenty along the pathways of these wharves. Everything that was taken from Constantia after the fire is relocated here in this place.  Ships of both navy and merchant are moored in the bay and on the quays merchants have their booths.

         I would’ve looked for someone to ask but Nic knows these landings on this edge of Gaul and he goes immediately to survey the wares and examine the heaps and roped bundles along one of the open wharves. He is looking for shipments that might be bound for Hispania; northern pelts and leathers, amphora and wood barrels of Gaulish wines and mead, things that are common here but valued more in warmer regions. He can guess by observing the cargo going we will find the ship to take us where we want to go. We do find the right cargo but there is no ship at this moment, so we’ll be watching for whatever merchant ship ties here and on-loads these heaps of goods. We will need to keep this place in our sight. Nic has the means now to pay for our stay at an inn with this view of the harbor. They have a sleeping floor in a loft for travelers. The main floor is an alehouse for any thirsty souls both traveled or stayed. Such are the comforts of plenty.

           From this distance at the Inn’s doorway Nic points out the merchant’s booth where trades happen with soldiers. In the display of wares hanging from the canopy over the bric-a-brac there are other worn and cast off military accoutrement. I know he has heard my prodding, and is imagining his own armor hanging there for sale — things his father wore after his tribe sided Roman; then for all the decades of his adult years these were the things that clad him also, with safety and identity. 

         Maybe I’m asking a large sacrifice of one simply willing to be my patron. I wonder if my anathema of every soldier is rooted in virtue? Am I driven by the cause of pacifism that Jesus taught, or am I simply rekindling my own warring prejudices against Rome?

         Dear God, Let me be thoughtful of this hard thing I may be asking of Nic — to give up his armor. Guide me, and lead me toward one day discovering wisdom. Amen.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #9.13, Tuesday, June 30, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

I know people move from one age to the next in slow stages, maybe with the exception of birth and death that always seem to take us by surprise. Yet, I guess I had been expecting Nic to step off the dromon and immediately transform his useful life as a Roman soldier into an imaginary image of an old and wealthy benefactor sponsoring this heretic.

         Dear God, thank you for giving me a gentle thought of forgiveness for Nic’s need to wear armor. Amen.

         “I didn’t mean to sound so much opposed to your armor. I can get used to it.”

         “Not to worry Brother Lazarus. I can see that these scarlet plumes and cape of old Rome make you uncomfortable. And now I hardly require a legionnaire’s shield to hang on the shipside. When we reach the market where I found your sandals I can trade these Roman accoutrements. They trade with the soldiers all the time and they will be glad to take these things that mark me as a soldier. We can get you your own pack then.  The leather worker there does fine work for the soldier’s trade.”

         “That is thoughtful of you, Nic. I have to admit I was bothered by the Roman Soldier style, even though you surely wear it well. So many years ago I was witness to a horrific execution of a dear friend by Roman soldiers, but perhaps now, even if you choose to wear your armor I may be able to forgive in my heart and one day make peace with my hate, simply by having another good friend who wore that same uniform.  It’s a hard lesson to let go of my old bias of hate but I need to do that just to set my heart right with God who loves everyone.”

         “It’s okay.  I will trade off the Roman gear.  But Brother Lazarus, you need to know since I was a young man with nearly ever step I’ve taken on land I’ve been clothed in the colors of Rome and looking out at the world through the window of soldier’s helmet. I don’t even know who I am now as this old and worn man mingling into the civilian milieu as though I were no one special. So you must become my shining reason now.”

         Dear God, help us not to fail at all the forgivenesses needed for friendship. Amen.

(Continues Wednesday, July 1)

Post #9.12, Thursday, June 25, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

         On this new day Nic and I are walking the seaside cliffs back the way he came just two days ago. We are going to a harbor that merchant ships frequent with the hope to find passage to Iberia.

         Nic provided me with leather sandals and a cloak of finely carded wool colored with a rich dyes. For as long as my memory reaches, which is really only back to the rescue in the woods by the River Loir, I have not had shoes or a cloak, so these fine things are a most welcome comfort.

         Nic still dresses in his tunic, heavy leather gambeson, shirt of mail, girdle with sword and dagger, wool bracca (britches) on his legs, laced over with the long tines of his Roman shoes. And he still has the Roman cloak of scarlet, the shield and the helmet. And now he carries a pack. Surely no arrows will pierce him, but it is a considerable weight for a man of age and I would guess a bit too warm even for summer in these northern reaches. What will he do in the sun’s heat in Hispania?

         I suggest. He argues. I accept my circumstance. My companion for this journey is an old soldier and so it is.  Or maybe he has someone waiting to receive this inheritance?

         “Have you a family, brothers perhaps, who may receive your father’s armor when you choose to pass it along?”

         “I was my father’s only child. My half brother wouldn’t care for my father’s gift.”

         “This cloak and shoes you have chosen for me are light and comfortable. Maybe when we find the marketplaces where the merchant ships land you will want to trade for new things for yourself as well.”

         “No.”

         “Very well.”

         It is a long and silent walk, and maybe I’m not even considering his comfort and well-being. Maybe I just don’t want to take a long journey by sea shoulder-to-shoulder with a Roman soldier of the exact variety that nailed Jesus to his death tree. But surely thinking of him, he isn’t safer this way. If he is thrown into the sea he will sink straight to the bottom in all this armor.

         Dear God, help me to be considerate of Nic’s need to dress as a soldier – whatever may be that need. Amen.

(Continues Tuesday, June 30 starting the next chapter, “The Soldier and the Jew”)

Post #9.11, Wednesday, June 24, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

         The guard at the garrison gate tells me the older soldier with the shirt of mail is staying here in the servant’s quarters of the officer’s barracks. He is not in his quarters just now. I can wait on this bench at the guard station.

         At this waking Nic has found me asleep on the bench. “Nic! My Brother, Nic, so sorry you caught me napping, I’m still in the habit of fourth watch. I meant to stay awake.”

         Time doesn’t mark our greeting hands, grins, this amazement from both that we could find one another again. Dear God, thank you.

         “I feared I would never see you again, Brother Lazarus! I wasn’t even sure you would get my message and know to come here; and then I learned the centurion was taking us on to a different port for my pay and exit because there was no more harbor here at Constantia. I had no idea how I would ever find you again.”

         “How did you come? I thought I was keeping careful watch at the old harbor.”

         “I came here by land. ‘tis a long walk on the cliffs above the beaches from the next town with a harbor.”

         “I’ll bet so.”

         Nic yammers on. “I got here yesterday and went straight to the church looking for the monk with a scrambled mind. But the priest said they had no monks at all, scrambled or sane, so I came back and slept on my worry. Then I realized God may be calling me to care for others, and I had so selfishly withdrawn the gift that the priest thought I was giving. So immediately, this morning I went to find the priest again, and give my true alms at the church. I waited what may have been an eternity at the church then the priest came up from the beach with a group of parishioners and orphans, singing and celebrating like they’d been to the next coming of Jesus! The priest said he recognized you, and sent you up here to find me.  Thank you Jesus!”

         So, this night our thanksgivings to God are aloud in antiphony. Nic is snoring before I even get to say, “And thank you for saving my feet for the new sandals I’ve been given this day. Amen.”

(So now what? Come again Thursday.)

Post #9.10, Tuesday, June 23, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

The priest might have met Nic last night, and it may be that Nic remembered his promise to be my sponsor, and that we would meet in Constantia. I asked Father Silas if he heard where the man was staying.

         “Funny, you ask how to find the man with the gift and not simply ask for the gift.” The priest is curious. “I realized after he left that you may actually be this Brother Lazarus he is seeking — ‘the monk with the scrambled mind.’ I simply hadn’t noticed you were a monk and that your mind was scrambled.”

         “When he met me I was tonsured as a monk. I was left by the roadside, naked and bleeding.  I still have memory only in glimpses. I don’t know what I had that was stolen and I have only moments of memory of a wife. There might be others who are waiting for me, but I don’t remember who they are or where they are. I think I was once in Iberia, so my hope is, if I return there I may remember more of this. Nic has offered to be my sponsor and take the journey with me. Did he happen to say where he could be found?”

         “He said he is staying at the garrison on the hill. But he was feeling doubtful he would find you because the ships of the fleet are no longer stopping here. He was going to continue his search so I don’t know how long he plans to wait here.”

         “Thank you Father Silas. Thank you so much!”

         Dear God, thank you.

         I guess my urgency to go to the garrison immediately was obvious. Father Silas told me to go on my way. He said there is already a plan to take the orphans to live with a family very soon and I need not worry for them.

         “Will they be able to come here to visit the graves?” I asked.

         “They will be no further than the church. Matthew is surely old enough to bring his brothers here, and of course, I will be glad to come with them if they ask.”

         “Of course.” Why would I worry over them? They have already spent a winter and trained the wild beasts to keep guard over them but we all know the ration of rotten roots is nearly gone and the children themselves will starve here. They have to go now.

         Dear God, stay close. Amen.

(Continues tomorrow)

Post #9.9, Thursday, June 18, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

         Tentacles of light prod promise unto paths of bright day through treetops trumpeting the grand entrance of the sun.

         The children conclude their grief ritual as Father Silas leads six of his followers onto the beach. They come with baskets of bread and fishes, fruits, dried and fresh, and a block of cheese. They bring a skin of goat’s milk they say is for the “baby” but it is plenty for all. I know the children have had nothing like this for a very long time. One woman has an armload of little blankets and cloaks all knitted warm from wools.

         “She knits,” I’m told by Father Silas, “for her own lost children for whom she grieves. So giving her gift to others who grieve is a worthy bond.”

         I seem to be relegated cook for the group, so I start fanning embers to flame for the pot. The fire crackles to the music of the psalms sung at the shore. This is what the children practiced among themselves all through the night. They know this song. Dear God, let me savor this and truly, I do love you and yes, I will feed your lambs.  Amen.

         So we eat together and the talk is not of grief and poverty, but of the plenty, the love, the hopes and fearless prayer. Father Silas is clasping firmly onto every morsel of joy, smiling and wringing his hands together in unspoken but bold prayer of thanksgiving. He tells me of a man he met last night.

         “When I sent my gossip afloat into my parish to tell of the needs of these children people showed up with alms of plenty for these children. One man came who is a stranger to me, and when I saw his gift I thought surely this is the amazing and holy synchronicity of God at work, supplying even the need for a man’s sandals and cloak. I thought you would have these fine things given you in this celebration, but when I told him I knew of someone who could use his gifts, he withdrew them and told me his gift was only intended for a particular need. He said he was looking to give it to ‘a certain young monk with a scrambled mind.’ I told him we have no monks here at all. We are only a church with one priest assigned. So he took his gift and went away.”

         “Did he tell you where he was going?”

(Come back again, next Tuesday June 23)

Post #9.8, Wednesday, June 17, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

         I am aware of the scramble in the woods as we walk near the graves and the children take their posts at the arsenal of rotting roots.

Soon those ghost-gobbling boars will be upon us.  I call to the children.

         “St. Matthew, St. Mark, St. Luke, St. John, please do not send out your wild boars; I’m only bringing you the priest who is also a friend and just as I had thought, I’ve learned he does speak for God. You will want to hear him.”

         And they do want to hear him, and touch him, and wonder over the cold golden cross hanging from the chain around his neck. His expectation of the children is simply that they are children and he is not put off by their curiosity. I am witness to the baptisms. It is he who stands in the cold water today. He doesn’t require sainthood of these little ones, so their names are simply: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. They have so many questions for this man.

         While they talk the theology of a loving God I choose not to intrude my centuries of thoughts into this matter so I come to the seashore for the ebb tide when I can pick through the pools and puddles for edible shellfish. We are all groaning for a feast. I kindle the cooking pot for a seafood stew, and shell and debone my catch to suit children’s tastes. The good father seems to be enjoying the children as much as they are him. He knows songs with interesting words and makes them into calls and responses that give voice to every person of these.  Tiny John the beloved has fallen asleep in Matthew’s arms. Luke wants me to come and learn the songs too.

         We share the meal, and Father Silas announces he will come tomorrow at dawn with some of the faithful from his church for the prayers and psalms of morning matins.

         He also promises they will bring the food for the picnic on the beach. I already know of early morning beach parties with Jesus. I long for the remembrance.

         Thank you God, for this nighttime to keep the watch fire while the children nestle together with new songs and earthly hopes, chattering and repeating the new songs in calls and responses so late into this night. Amen.

(Come tomorrow)

Post #9.7, Tuesday, June 16,2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

As the priest walks with me he is pouring out a verbose string of happenstance that allowed four orphans to struggle unknown for a whole winter in a Christian claimed wood. He unwinds a twine of guilt and caring, and also a great tangle of hurt and beauty.

         “The merchant ship came up the shore with its winter stores of wines and other libations. The ship was at quay emptied of its wares, rich with the remittance. Everyone was enjoying the bounty. The whole town and the garrison and the ship’s crew were at a great celebration of harvest riches and the abundance money buys. Then, we saw the flames up from the harbor. The soldiers and the ship’s crew returned to their posts but it was too late. Even the quay and the pilings were in ash. The three bodies of the keepers of the light were found near the woods. The pirates slashed their throats as the three tried to run from the fight and the flames. They are buried where they fell. I was summonsed to speak the last words.  I never saw these people in the church, so I assumed they were pagan or godless. I had never reached out to them. I had no thought they had other children there hiding in the woods and watching all of this unfold. I offered a message to benefit of the soldiers at that burial, so that they would hear the importance of the Christian requirements particularly baptism. Yet I also know the loving God doesn’t always fit the requirements of Church, so in my message I tried to make up something of a loophole in the required damnation for the unbaptized. I spoke those words as an excuse for judgment, rather than the proper rule of theology in which I have been trained.”

         “So apparently, our Creator God, who is the completeness of love used your words to bring hope and purpose to the small, grieving children.”

         “And you don’t know what your are talking about either, do you young man. I violated conscience on one hand and Church on the other. I have confessed it and begged forgiveness even before I knew of the children.”

         I answer, “Had you properly pronounced their parents’ souls bound for Hell, the children would have followed them to Hell.”

         We pick our way through the sticks and branches across the old road, and come upon the still abandoned beach.

(Continued tomorrow)

Post #9.6, Thursday, June 11, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Saxony Shore of Gaul

         The priest continues, “I see your rags and bare feet but I see no children. If you want a crust of bread from me you will have to beg more truthfully.”

         “Truthfully then, I am not a beggar, I believe I have a patron who will supply my shoes and cloak when we find one another. And I am sure he is willing to share a crust of bread with me also. But what I am asking now, is of you. There are four small boys who were left orphaned by pirates when the harbor was burned.” He pales and turns his gaze to the floor.

         I hammer relentlessly.  “They saw and heard and memorized your words of burial for their parents and brother, and now they need to be baptized with the names they believe you have assigned to them. Those names would be St. Matthew, St. Mark, St. Luke and St. John. And you have assigned them the task of educating their innocent and ignorant and unbaptized family in the teachings of Gospel. They need to hear from you the words that God loves them, and they need you to tell them that God is not a man with a gold cross on a chain, but is the Holy Deity omnipresent but invisible. I told them you speak for God but you are not God, and now they are waiting to hear you speak. They need to know that the true and invisible God who is love hears their prayers.”

         The priest speaks to me. “That was last fall when the harbor was burned.” And he speaks aloud to God. “Dear God, forgive me this terrible oversight.”

         He has no thought to argue the truthfulness of his own funeral words said back to him as blame. His concern seems to be for the children. I also speak my prayer aloud. “Dear God, thank you for sending these children a kind and caring priest. Amen.”

         “What else do the children need?” He asks.

         “Your Holiness, come with me to see them and you can decide. There is a creek for baptism, and they already know what it is to be dragged into the cold water for a simple cleaning. I think they will really appreciate a proper baptism.”

         “Are they cold and hungry?” he asks as he puts on his cassock and prepares to go with me.

         “They are needy in everything. But they are beautiful in their love and care for one another and we dare not loose sight of that goodness in our own human hollow and hurting empathy for them.”

(Come again Tuesday, June 16)

Post #9.5, Wednesday, June 10, 2020

Historical setting: A dark age on the Shore of Gaul

My habit of keeping night watch is still useful, as I’ve already slept this day and I’m easily prepared to keep this watch fire. These children can get the kind of night’s rest gifted to little ones in every other nest and den of every forest and house this night. Dear God, thank you for the peaceful night. And thank you for staying near. Amen.

         At dawn’s first light the children do, indeed, gather at the family graves for their ritual of priestly words recalling their names and their assignment to watch over the so-called, “lost” souls of their loved ones. Probably if it is a secret kept from the priest, I should also not intrude, so I go to the freshwater creek and return with two small fishes for a hot cooked breakfast. These children are accustomed to sharing small morsels so everyone has something. In fact it is St. Luke himself who notices that I am of a larger size, and may require a larger portion, but I do not. There seems to be a sigh of relief in discovering I am also aware of the need to share.

         After a snooze on the beach I follow that little used road inland, hoping to find the church where God wears the robes and the cross of a priest. The slope of the road rises nearly to the level of the high cliff where I suppose the fire would be lit to mark the harbor if there were any more keepers of the light.  And from this high place I look inland and see the town spread in the valley, with the walled garrison nearest the shore on this same hill. The road forks into choice of town or fort. Since the church tower is in the town I turn eastward into the valley of Constantia though I do wonder if Nic is waiting for me at the garrison which would be familiar to him already.

         Yes, the priest here does wear long robes, and his chain has a gold cross just the size and type as the one I saw inscribed in the sand only last night.

         “Father, I need to speak with you. There are some children in great need here in your parish.”

         “It is the season for great need. So are you able to make an offering?”

         “My own offering is meager.”

         “So, it is just as I supposed.  You are a beggar suggesting alms to you would really be for some invisible children in need.”

(Come again tomorrow)