As megavolt spark etches its questing zigzag on ink-black sky;
As negative reaches for positive in its cloudy embrace,
So, my spirit reaches out to You, the Infinite Positive.
I desire the rest and resolution of that crashing, crackling encounter;
That thunderous moment of earth and heaven;
That infinite explosion of human and divine;
That blessed neutralizing of aching desire within:
That always and never satisfied longing for union with You.
1/2410
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Enemy
Behind me, the snap of a dry twig; He found me, again. Scrambling to my feet, dumping the pot of boiling soup into the flames, a faint, vain hope of concealment, I fled into the dark. No time to collect gear. No need, now. ranches and brambles reached, clawed, snatched. My headlong run ended in cascading dirt and stones as I stepped into nothingness and plunged to the bottom of a shallow ravine, this new pain added to the bone-weary ache of every muscle and joint accumulated over the weeks of flight from his pursuit.
The voice of my enemy, distant, clear in thin mountain air called my name. No escape. Never have I faced such persistence, such patient pursuit, such singleness of purpose. I knew then that I would die. The realization turned molten fear into cold hard resolve. I determined to kill or be killed, a trapped animal, hunted to the extremes of endurance and cornered. Death, now, the only solution, the only outcome, one or the other of us.
I tried to focus, to push through the fear, the panic, to a clear plan. But, fear-hazed, my mind scrabbled for rational thought. Failing, instinct reigned; mindless flight its only response. I picked myself from the rocky rubble and, pushing through the pain of a sprained ankle, ran, heedless of direction or object.
Slowly, rational thought displaced panic. Caution imposed her will, shaping terror into plan and direction. Awareness returned; I listened for the smallest sound.
A dry creek bed snaked around boulders and granite banks, its sandy bottom a convenient path. Then pebbles grated between shoe and stone. I froze. silently removing my boots, I tied the laces together and slung the balanced weight over my shoulder. Let his tracking skills be his death.
With infinite care, I placed each foot exactly where I wanted it. I could not hear my own footfall.
A quarter mile away, I heard the crash of his body, carried to me on the soft midnight breeze. Good, he fell into the ravine too. I treasured the thought of his pain.
Adding speed to my caution, I ran, knowing it would take him precious minutes to regain his breath. The ravine narrowed and ran out. Which way now? Over the bedrock to the right; Harder to track. Maybe it will slow him.
In the clear now, free of tree shadows, I moved more quickly. But, he trailing, would have the same advantage. I limped into the dark of a grove of trees and paused to listen. Faint but unmistakable, almost as if he wanted me to hear his approach, the scratch of boot on stone carried across the distance. Dim in faint moonlight, I saw him. His eyes fixed on me, he trod the uneven ground, unhurried but relentless.
Desperation became the mother of resourcefulness: I levered an overhanging boulder into a finely balanced weight with a weather-hardened branch. I wedged it beneath the boulder as a trigger then tied my shoelaces to it and stretched their combined length to a wind-carved cedar growing out of a crevice. I tugged on the laces and felt the tension, Knowing it would work.
The crash of the boulder and the cry of pain repaid me for the expended time. I hurried on.
I plunged into the darkness heedless of the pain of sticks and needles tearing at the soles of my feet. The terrain sloped downward and I took advantage of the ease of travel to gain distance. Confidence seeped back, a small reservoir of energy. I could outwit him, if I couldn’t outrun him. My body took over. Pushing through the exhaustion, I fled.
I Stopped, listening, thinking the boulder must surely have crushed his leg, but the crunch of leather on dry evergreen needles told me it was a vain wish. I ran. Hope waned.
A fallen tree, suspended over the trail, blocked my flight. Leaning on it as I ducked under, I felt it move. In urgent haste I scrambled toward the base following the barkless trunk. My fingers scrabbled around and found what I desperately wanted. Wind broken, it balanced, precariously, held by a few heart fibers, against a living tree, across the intervening gap.
I waited willing my panting to slow, my frantic heart to gain a normal rhythm. An eternity passed. His steady footfall sounded, unhurried, relentless. “Almost as if night and day are the same to him,” I thought in fresh panic. I calmed myself with effort and waited. I would have no second chance.
His footsteps sounded loud, now, on the still mountain air. Closer and yet closer they came. A darker shadow loomed against the opaque black of the forest.
I heaved with all my remaining strength.
His scream of pain was music to my ears. Then silence.
I ran on, afraid to look. Then footsteps behind me, limping now. I wept in an agony of fear and frustration.
Pushing against the limits of bodily endurance, fleeing blind, I ran into solid rock. Stretching, reaching, searching for a clue to my next move, I crabbed left then right. No escape. Slumping to the ground, I despaired, nothing left to go on and nowhere left to go.
The sound of his limping footsteps roused me. Searching for some weapon, some defense, I found, at the extreme limit of my reach, a heavy branch, weather-hardened and gnarled. Waiting, I hid behind an outcrop of rock.
He called my name, enquiring.
I struck with every muscle, with every ounce of reserve strength, born of fear and fueled by desperation. Wood crunched bone and I heard with infinite satisfaction and overwhelming relief the thud of his body on hard stone.
Kneeling over his body, I tested, probed. He did not stir. It was too dark to see clearly. Sagging to the ground beside him, I fell, instantly, into the near-coma of exhausted sleep.
Full noonday heat wakened me. I turned his cold, stiff body over and looked into the face of my implacable foe, my determined pursuer, my saving impediment.
Looking past his dead body, staring, horrified, into the thousand-foot drop two steps beyond my next fleeing step; my last step in darkness; my last step; the one he kept me from taking; the one he took for me.
7/99
The voice of my enemy, distant, clear in thin mountain air called my name. No escape. Never have I faced such persistence, such patient pursuit, such singleness of purpose. I knew then that I would die. The realization turned molten fear into cold hard resolve. I determined to kill or be killed, a trapped animal, hunted to the extremes of endurance and cornered. Death, now, the only solution, the only outcome, one or the other of us.
I tried to focus, to push through the fear, the panic, to a clear plan. But, fear-hazed, my mind scrabbled for rational thought. Failing, instinct reigned; mindless flight its only response. I picked myself from the rocky rubble and, pushing through the pain of a sprained ankle, ran, heedless of direction or object.
Slowly, rational thought displaced panic. Caution imposed her will, shaping terror into plan and direction. Awareness returned; I listened for the smallest sound.
A dry creek bed snaked around boulders and granite banks, its sandy bottom a convenient path. Then pebbles grated between shoe and stone. I froze. silently removing my boots, I tied the laces together and slung the balanced weight over my shoulder. Let his tracking skills be his death.
With infinite care, I placed each foot exactly where I wanted it. I could not hear my own footfall.
A quarter mile away, I heard the crash of his body, carried to me on the soft midnight breeze. Good, he fell into the ravine too. I treasured the thought of his pain.
Adding speed to my caution, I ran, knowing it would take him precious minutes to regain his breath. The ravine narrowed and ran out. Which way now? Over the bedrock to the right; Harder to track. Maybe it will slow him.
In the clear now, free of tree shadows, I moved more quickly. But, he trailing, would have the same advantage. I limped into the dark of a grove of trees and paused to listen. Faint but unmistakable, almost as if he wanted me to hear his approach, the scratch of boot on stone carried across the distance. Dim in faint moonlight, I saw him. His eyes fixed on me, he trod the uneven ground, unhurried but relentless.
Desperation became the mother of resourcefulness: I levered an overhanging boulder into a finely balanced weight with a weather-hardened branch. I wedged it beneath the boulder as a trigger then tied my shoelaces to it and stretched their combined length to a wind-carved cedar growing out of a crevice. I tugged on the laces and felt the tension, Knowing it would work.
The crash of the boulder and the cry of pain repaid me for the expended time. I hurried on.
I plunged into the darkness heedless of the pain of sticks and needles tearing at the soles of my feet. The terrain sloped downward and I took advantage of the ease of travel to gain distance. Confidence seeped back, a small reservoir of energy. I could outwit him, if I couldn’t outrun him. My body took over. Pushing through the exhaustion, I fled.
I Stopped, listening, thinking the boulder must surely have crushed his leg, but the crunch of leather on dry evergreen needles told me it was a vain wish. I ran. Hope waned.
A fallen tree, suspended over the trail, blocked my flight. Leaning on it as I ducked under, I felt it move. In urgent haste I scrambled toward the base following the barkless trunk. My fingers scrabbled around and found what I desperately wanted. Wind broken, it balanced, precariously, held by a few heart fibers, against a living tree, across the intervening gap.
I waited willing my panting to slow, my frantic heart to gain a normal rhythm. An eternity passed. His steady footfall sounded, unhurried, relentless. “Almost as if night and day are the same to him,” I thought in fresh panic. I calmed myself with effort and waited. I would have no second chance.
His footsteps sounded loud, now, on the still mountain air. Closer and yet closer they came. A darker shadow loomed against the opaque black of the forest.
I heaved with all my remaining strength.
His scream of pain was music to my ears. Then silence.
I ran on, afraid to look. Then footsteps behind me, limping now. I wept in an agony of fear and frustration.
Pushing against the limits of bodily endurance, fleeing blind, I ran into solid rock. Stretching, reaching, searching for a clue to my next move, I crabbed left then right. No escape. Slumping to the ground, I despaired, nothing left to go on and nowhere left to go.
The sound of his limping footsteps roused me. Searching for some weapon, some defense, I found, at the extreme limit of my reach, a heavy branch, weather-hardened and gnarled. Waiting, I hid behind an outcrop of rock.
He called my name, enquiring.
I struck with every muscle, with every ounce of reserve strength, born of fear and fueled by desperation. Wood crunched bone and I heard with infinite satisfaction and overwhelming relief the thud of his body on hard stone.
Kneeling over his body, I tested, probed. He did not stir. It was too dark to see clearly. Sagging to the ground beside him, I fell, instantly, into the near-coma of exhausted sleep.
Full noonday heat wakened me. I turned his cold, stiff body over and looked into the face of my implacable foe, my determined pursuer, my saving impediment.
Looking past his dead body, staring, horrified, into the thousand-foot drop two steps beyond my next fleeing step; my last step in darkness; my last step; the one he kept me from taking; the one he took for me.
7/99
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Bag Lady Bride
Predictable rhythms govern our community service center: In the spring, long lines of street people come in for cooler clothing and in the fall, they returned for warmer. It was a rainy October afternoon here in Portland the first time I saw her. She did not stand out from our other community service center customers: Her shopping cart was well worn; she dressed no better; she was just as thin and dirty. But there were some differences. She did not mumble under her breath to herself as some of the others did. She took what she needed, signed out and left. Her only claim to recognition was a subtle air of gentility: an erect posture; a level appraising eye; a smile;. Her signature, the first time I met her, was elegant-John Hancock would have been proud. But soon she faded into the mist of so many others and I nearly forgot her.
But not quite. Those small differences brought her to memory the next spring when winter clothes were too warm for the increasingly sunny days. I recognized her and smiled a greeting. She returned the smile, bent to sign and left with her new clothes, pushing her cart ahead of her.
Things would probably have continued this way indefinitely, had I not asked her, on her third visit at the beginning of the new rainy season, how she happened to have such beautiful penmanship.
She smiled, revealing stained and broken teeth, and said, “Well, after all, I am engaged to the prince, you know.” Her tone was not haughty, but had a certain ring of someone accustomed to wealth. Her choice of words made me blink in surprise.
“He’s coming to get me someday soon.” she said as she turned to leave.
Many were the delusions of the people of the street. Some thought they were god, some that they cwere president. One man wore aluminum foil on his head continually to ward off the spying beams of the FBI which, he said, was using microwave ovens to read his thoughts. Others were convinced they were Jesus Christ. Still others believed they were Mohamed the prophet. A self-deluded Elijah wore a sackcloth robe with a rope for a belt. He came not for clothing but for the bags in which the clothes were packed. But she was different. It was not the incoherent story of one long lost in their own tortured grandiosity. There was a certain calm assurance in her statements.
I wondered if she would be back in the spring.
She was. Winter had been hard on her. Her hair was streaked with more grey. She was thinner and her skin more wrinkled. She looked like she had aged ten years. The center was nearly empty as she browsed the aisles. When she approached me, she smiled in recognition.
“Has he come for you yet?” I asked, half afraid of the answer.
“No, not yet.” she said, wistfully.
“Why not,” I asked.
“Well, I don’t really know. He has promised to marry me and take me away from all this.” she waved her hand vaguely taking in her whole circumstance. “But he hasn’t yet. He promised to send me money to keep me off the streets, but he hasn’t done that either.” Her voice was not whining, but puzzled.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Oh, he lives just down the block from here.” she answered.
“Do you see him?”
“Oh, yes, quite often, most nearly every week.”
“Does he, er, well, are you sure he’s going to marry you? I mean…” I tried to backpedal a bit. “Why hasn’t he come for you?” brazen in my curiosity.
“I don’t know. He set up a bank account for me, I guess, but I haven’t learned to use it yet. He asked me to set a date for the wedding and promised to buy the dress, but I just feel awful asking him to do that. I’m trying to save enough for it myself.”
“How much do you have?”
“Twenty five dollars,” she said.
“But...”
“I know, at that rate, I’ll never get married, will I?” she sighed in resignation.
“But if he is willing....”
“Ah, now there’s the rub isn’t it? I do have my pride you know. Can’t have the groom buying the bride a dress for the wedding. I’ll make it someday,” she said as she shuffled out the door.
But not quite. Those small differences brought her to memory the next spring when winter clothes were too warm for the increasingly sunny days. I recognized her and smiled a greeting. She returned the smile, bent to sign and left with her new clothes, pushing her cart ahead of her.
Things would probably have continued this way indefinitely, had I not asked her, on her third visit at the beginning of the new rainy season, how she happened to have such beautiful penmanship.
She smiled, revealing stained and broken teeth, and said, “Well, after all, I am engaged to the prince, you know.” Her tone was not haughty, but had a certain ring of someone accustomed to wealth. Her choice of words made me blink in surprise.
“He’s coming to get me someday soon.” she said as she turned to leave.
Many were the delusions of the people of the street. Some thought they were god, some that they cwere president. One man wore aluminum foil on his head continually to ward off the spying beams of the FBI which, he said, was using microwave ovens to read his thoughts. Others were convinced they were Jesus Christ. Still others believed they were Mohamed the prophet. A self-deluded Elijah wore a sackcloth robe with a rope for a belt. He came not for clothing but for the bags in which the clothes were packed. But she was different. It was not the incoherent story of one long lost in their own tortured grandiosity. There was a certain calm assurance in her statements.
I wondered if she would be back in the spring.
She was. Winter had been hard on her. Her hair was streaked with more grey. She was thinner and her skin more wrinkled. She looked like she had aged ten years. The center was nearly empty as she browsed the aisles. When she approached me, she smiled in recognition.
“Has he come for you yet?” I asked, half afraid of the answer.
“No, not yet.” she said, wistfully.
“Why not,” I asked.
“Well, I don’t really know. He has promised to marry me and take me away from all this.” she waved her hand vaguely taking in her whole circumstance. “But he hasn’t yet. He promised to send me money to keep me off the streets, but he hasn’t done that either.” Her voice was not whining, but puzzled.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Oh, he lives just down the block from here.” she answered.
“Do you see him?”
“Oh, yes, quite often, most nearly every week.”
“Does he, er, well, are you sure he’s going to marry you? I mean…” I tried to backpedal a bit. “Why hasn’t he come for you?” brazen in my curiosity.
“I don’t know. He set up a bank account for me, I guess, but I haven’t learned to use it yet. He asked me to set a date for the wedding and promised to buy the dress, but I just feel awful asking him to do that. I’m trying to save enough for it myself.”
“How much do you have?”
“Twenty five dollars,” she said.
“But...”
“I know, at that rate, I’ll never get married, will I?” she sighed in resignation.
“But if he is willing....”
“Ah, now there’s the rub isn’t it? I do have my pride you know. Can’t have the groom buying the bride a dress for the wedding. I’ll make it someday,” she said as she shuffled out the door.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Wake My Bride
Wake Bride of My heart and walk this early path with Me;
Share the glory of dawn and dew with Me.
Wake, you who are the joy of My life, hold My hand and open your heart to Me,:
I love you more than life itself.
Wake, O dearest Bride of My heart, for we have miles to go together this day;
The journey is the sweeter for your presence.
Wake My Beloved, bride of My heart, to My love and share all My eternal tomorrows;
We are One.
--so calls our heavenly husband to His Bride, the Ekklesia, His Body on earth.
8 4 07
Share the glory of dawn and dew with Me.
Wake, you who are the joy of My life, hold My hand and open your heart to Me,:
I love you more than life itself.
Wake, O dearest Bride of My heart, for we have miles to go together this day;
The journey is the sweeter for your presence.
Wake My Beloved, bride of My heart, to My love and share all My eternal tomorrows;
We are One.
--so calls our heavenly husband to His Bride, the Ekklesia, His Body on earth.
8 4 07
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Walls
He built the walls of dressed granite, fitted together so tightly that a knife blade could not penetrate. He built them high enough that no scaling ladder could touch the battlements. He build an inner wall and filled the space between with stone. And, since he believed the weakest pointed of any castle to be its gate, he made no opening in the walls save narrow slits for archers to rain down their deadly hail on the enemy. Entrance and egress was by means of a block and tackle machine capable of lifting any amount from the ground to a platform at the top of the wall. The idea, borrowed from his observations on a ship, did not make his servants happy. They, never having been higher than the surrounding hills, felt unsafe, threatened by the height and motion of the platform. He installed railings, but, to no avail.
By ones, at first, then twos and threes, they slipped away. They murmured amongst themselves of feeling trapped, closed in. They complained of his gloominess, of his mean spiritedness.
But he felt secure, finally, from any depredation. He knew none could penetrate the wall, none could scale it, none could tunnel beneath. He relaxed. But now, only two servants remained to serve him, Morality, a sharp-tongued harridan of a woman whose very presence was difficult to live in, and Sin, who, though strong and loyal, had no grace, no ability to serve, and who filled the air with vile words and curses all the day.
Alone, for that was his name, sighed. Safety without comfort, he thought, was better than no safety, but he had wished for better than this. His long journeys ended, now, his service to king and country faithfully done, he wished to retire to his castle and live in peace. But, now, he realized only the safety part of his wishes would be fulfilled.
In the weeks, months, years that followed, many a rousting army tried to break down the walls, to capture the wealth they believed to be within. But all, without fail were turned away with ease, with even the small band of defenders to protect. At last, none else came, knowing there to be no chance of winning and desiring to avoid the vast outlay of money and manpower that a failed attempt would cost. Alone smiled, knowing his own personal, if lonely triumph.
Morality and Sin quarreled constantly, though, and though he forbade it in his presence, their silent serving was, if anything, worse than their bitter harangues had been. He could hear them muttering in the kitchen as they prepared food, screaming in the dungeon when their tempers could stand it no longer and they withdrew to vent their frustrations. Alone grew more and more unhappy. He could not dismiss either of them, hard as he tried to figure a way, needing this minimum to be safe. He needed Moralitiy’s cooking skills, and Sin’s genius with mechanical things. But, at times, he felt he would go mad with their constant bickering and their attempts to get him to take one side or the other in some dispute.
It seemed as though things would continue this way until his death, but, one day, Sin, from his position in a watchtower, spied a lone horse and rider approaching. His cry of alarm sent Morality to heat the vats of oil and Alone scrambled up the stone stairs to the top of the wall to watch the approaching rider.
It must be a woman, he thought, for she rides sidesaddle. And, indeed, this proved to be the case, for when she drew near, he could see the long hair and pastel hues of her garments.
She directed her mount to the landing place of the platform as if she knew it to be the only entrance into the castle. She looked up, directly at Alone, though he didn’t think she could see him and called for him to lower the platform.
“Go away,” he shouted, “There is naught for you, in this place.”
“Ah, but there is,” she said, smiling, and he was smitten by her smile, a weapon with which he had never fought.
“Allow me entrance, for I would bring you that which you do not now have.”
“I have all that I need, all that necessary for a man to live in security.”
“Ah, but security is not all.” She said.
At that point, Morality approached the wall and, tilting her vast cauldron of boiling oil, spilled it over the ramparts toward her. She danced her horse out of the way as if the deadly oil were but a shower of apple blossoms.
Sin picked up a stone and hurled it at her, mouthing his obscenities as if they would give speed and accuracy to his missiles. These too, she dodged and danced around as if they were but puffs of air.
Then she did a strange thing. Spurring her mount into a furious gallop, she made straight for the wall beneath their feet. At the last moment, she turned the horse and, reaching with her fingertips, touched one of the mighty blocks of stone with her fingertips. The watchers felt something shift, something change, in the wall. Not a tremor, as an earthquake would shake it, not a crumbling, as if the wall had been breached, but, a small movement, nonetheless. Later, discussing it, they would say it felt as if the wall sagged, deprived of some bit of its own support.
She spurred her mount in her escape and she raised her hand in farewell salute without looking over her shoulder at them.
Alone breathed a sigh of relief. This lone warrior, for so he thought of her, made him more fearful than all the combined armies that had attempted to storm his walls in the past. And he didn’t know why. Why should one person, a woman, at that, present such a terrible threat to his safety and security? They discussed it around the dining room table, all three, for the nonce, in accord in their attempt to understand, to devise some strategy for their protection.
Morality declaimed the benefits of her boiling oil. Sin presented the benefits of arrow and stone. Alone sat in deep thought, listening,, pondering.
“She avoided all your heated oil and your stones as if they were naught,” he said, at last, “What makes you think that more of the same will work if she returns?”
The two were struck silent, for once, having no answer.
“We did not shoot any arrow,” Sin finally ventured.
“And you think that would work any better?”
Sin shrugged his shoulders.
“We can but try.”
“I think we should examine the stone she touched.” Said Morality, “Mayhap she has cast some spell on it.”
Both men stared at her with disbelief.
“Nevertheless, believe me or not, you both felt it.” She said.
They nodded.
“The two of you work the windlasses, lower me quickly, I shall run to the stone, examine it, and be ready to raise me on an instant.” Alone decided.
This they did. It felt, to Alone, as if his stomach would rise to his throat and the platform fell and then crashed into the ground, jarring his teeth together and felling him to his knees. He recovered, vaulted over the railing, and ran to the stone. He didn’t know, then, how he would know it amongst all the rest. In confusion, he stopped, examining the stones in the area of her charge. His worry was unfounded. He recognized the stone without difficulty. It was no longer the flecked gray of granite, but the warm skin tones of his own body. It stood out as a beacon on a dark night. He touched it. It was soft, as if it had lost all its strength, not the softness of a down comforter, but the soft suppleness of well-muscled flesh. He knew it could not withstand the weight of the stones above it, if many more stones were thus transmogrified. A terrible fear overpowered him as he ran for the platform.
His fellow defenders pressed him for details as he struggled for breath.
“it is,” he gasped, at last, through his breathlessness and fear, “flesh, living flesh.”
They looked at one another, aghast. The implication for their survival was immediately clear. No wall, no survival, death, at this woman’s hands, or mayhap, only at her fingertips. If she could turn stone into flesh, might she not be able to turn flesh into stone? They shuddered, fearing a death far worse than that of the axe, broadsword or mace of the battle field.
The next day she returned at the same hour.
“Have you decided to allow me entrance?” she called from the back of her mount.
“Nay, we have not. We shall resist with all our resources.” Called Morality and uttered one of Sin’s more vile curses. This so shocked Alone, used as he was to her absolute purity of language, no matter what the provocation and no matter how loudly she was screaming her demands at him or Sin, that he quite forgot the horsewoman below and stared at Morality. Morality blushed, muttering under her breath that the provocation had been too much for her.
Prepared this time, as she came within range, both Sin and Alone shot arrows at her. Even Morality, though never trained as an archer, pulled the bow with amazing strength, for fear of her very life. The arrows, true, fell far wide of their mark, but, they had reasoned the night before, one lucky strike, one attempt was better than nothing.
Again, she danced her horse with the ease and grace of one long used to the saddle, horse and rider seeming to be one in their purpose and knowledge of each other.
And, again, she made the mad dash for the wall, this time in a different location altogether, and, touching it with fingertips brushed against its cold hard surface, they felt the strange sensation, again, beneath their feet.
Alone’s later examination revealed the same change in the stone, the same strange softness in exchange for the cold hard stone. He trembled.
She repeated her performance on each of the succeeding days, with the same results.
“We must repair the damage.” Alone finally said on the seventh day of her visitations. “The wall is beginning to sag. It will fall, ere long, and we will be vulnerable to her attack.”
“But, how?” Morality asked, “she may come while we are repairing.”
“I think not,” Alone said, slowly, “for she seems to have a pattern, coming at the same time each day, without fail, but we see her not between.”
“Mayhap it is a trap?” Sin asked.
Alone thought.
“It is a risk we shall have to take. We have no choice. One or two more days and we will be defenseless.”
From the inner wall, they took stones, stones inferior to the outer walls’ stones, but, still of stone instead of flesh. They hoisted them to the top of the wall, then lowered them on the platform. Alone rigged a screw jack, again borrowed from his ship board observations, to raise and support the stone above the one he needed to replace. With great difficulty, and Sin’s constant profanity, they pried out the soft stone and inserted the true stone. Panting, they stood back to examine their work.
Nearly exhausted, they merely looked at each other and nodded, then went to work on the next stone. With energy born of desperation and fear, they removed and replaced all seven soft stones and replaced them with the hard supporting stone of the inner wall.
Morality took sick, that night, exhausted from her labors of removing stone from the inner wall, carrying them to the top of the wall, and lowering them to the two men, below. Alone feared for her life, so exhausted did her pale face appear in the candle light. She fell, instantly into a deep sleep. Alone pulled the blankets over her, shielding her from the night air.
Sin, however, seemed to have grown stronger, showing no effect from the day’s labor. He seemed stronger, more robust at the work. He broke out more stones from the inner wall and carried them, two at a time, on his shoulders, to the top of the wall, placing them at the loading platform, ready for use. When he had a load, he lowered them and placed them in a neat pile next to the platform’, then ascended, again, for another load. He was tireless, and, Alone noticed, for the first time, silent. He appeared, almost happy, though, on that worn and scarred face, Alone admitted to himself, happiness had no chance of truly revealing itself.
The woman appeared again, the next day, called her usual request, and, as if she knew what they had done, rode her steed, this time at a dignified pace. Along the base of the wall. She seemed to know they would not attempt to shoot, seemed to know they had lost their confidence in their weapons, seemed to know their very thoughts. She touched the very stones they had replaced, each in its respective turn, then, turned to the platform, and bending low from her saddle, touched the pile of stones. Instantly, they, too, turned soft and flesh-colored.
Sin turned pale. His breath rasped in his throat. He took one stone and hurled it at her in his anger.
She turned and smiled at him.
“You have no power or dominion over me,” she called, loud enough for even Morality in her sickbed to hear, because of my name.”
She whirled her horse then, and, touching one final stone in the wall, galloped away on the path that was developing in the grass and weeds from her daily passage.
At her touch the wall shuddered and groaned, the stones grinding together as if tired of holding their own weight.
Racing for their life, Alone and Sin nearly fell down the inner staircase.
“We are lost, master,” Sin cried. “tomorrow we will die.”
“Maybe,” Alone said ,thinking.
The next day, as she approached, he called to her.
“What are your terms?”
“Entrance into your castle.” She called back.
“What will happen to me and my faithful servants?”
“Morality may live if she is willing to become a new person. Sin must die.”
“But,” he protested, “Sin is my faithful servant, these long years he has stayed by me. I cannot submit to such terms.”
“Nay, you know it not, but he is of your enemy. He works to your peril and your downfall.”
Alone turned to Sin and looked him in the eye. Sin cowered and shrank from his look.
“How does he do this?” he demanded, still looking at Sin.
“He undermines Morality, he resists me. Did you se his joyful replacement of the stones I had made flesh?”
“Aye, but that is my will and my doing, also.” Alone said.
“But, if Sin had not been with you, working his will in you, unbeknownst to you, you would not have resisted me as strongly. You would have known my true intentions sooner, known my benefits the quicker.”
“Aye and be turned to stone the quicker,” Alone said under his breath.
“Nay, ‘tis but the opposite, she said,” and wheeled her horse to make her usual dash at the wall.
Sin and Alone scrambled for the stairway to the keep, seeing her intention to touch the cornerstone of the wall. And, just in time, they reached the reed-scattered floor of the keep. They fled from the wall reaching the safety of the opposite wall just as they heard the grating and groaning of the wall as it began to fall.
Turning, Alone watched in horrified fascination, the wall lean outward, hesitate as if uncertain, then with a crash louder than all the thunder of his life, fall to the ground in a mighty jumble of stone.
They watched her, through the newly opened gap in their defenses, circle to her right, disappearing from view along the North wall. Turning to each other they realized what her intent was. In confirmation, they watched this wall, too, fall into a heap of rubble. They sprang away from the west wall, knowing its fate, and, again, just in time, for it followed its supporting neighbors to its demise. The South wall, last of all, met its fate.
Alone gazed in absolute terror and horror at the destruction of all that he had worked so hard to build. His safety, his surety, his protection against all the troubles and turmoils of the world around him, gone, in a moment. Gone at this strange woman’s touch. Gone, not to be rebuilt, he knew. His life, too, now a forfeit for his resistance, he was certain. Tears welled in his eyes, made tracks across his dust-covered face. He wept, perhaps for the first time since childhood, wept for the life, now gone, for the waste of his protection, for what was to come. His fear and exhaustion were too much to bear and he felt something tear within him. Something open, something fall, as if his heart, in sympathy with his walls, was now a jumbled ruin.
He saw her, now, sitting her horse, at the edge of the rubble, on the East of the destroyed castle, where the gate should have been, but was not, because of his desire to keep the world at bay.
“May I come in?” she called.
“Can we prevent you?”
“No, but I will not enter without permission.”
“Enter, then, for we cannot resist.”
She gave her horse its head and it picked its way gingerly, through the piles of stone.
Sin reached into his cloak and sprang toward her, a dagger in his upraised hand, ready to slash and destroy.
She reached her hand and, avoiding his slashing blade, touched his knife hand. Instantly, he turned to stone, reversed from flesh to the hard cold material. He stood in his destroying stance, as if he would, in any moment, resume his attack upon her. Then, to Alone’s horror, the stone statue began to crumble into its component parts, then to smaller fragments, and, at last, to nothing but a pile of dust. Her horse sidled sideways and trampled it into the dust of the paving stones until nothing remained. But a small darker stain on the stone.
“And will you destroy me, too?” Alone asked, bitterly.
“Nay, for you have somewhat within you worth changing. Your tears prove me aright.”
“My tears only show my anger and weakness,” he protested.
“Nay, the stones of your wall resisted me not, nor will your heart. She dismounted and turned to face him. He saw, at once, that her face was the face of his dreams. The dreams of the night, the dreams of the day, the dreams of the one he had never seen in reality. And, now, knowing, his heart swelled and burst, again in the knowing. He felt the anger, the bitterness, the aloneness of his whole life disappear, vanish, fall as the walls of his castle had fallen. Now he wanted not to be alone, reclusive, withdrawn. He wanted the world to come to him, to go to the world, for now he knew her name, knew who she was, what she was.
“Your name is Love, is it not?”
She nodded.
“And I have come to take away the stones of your wall, to turn them into something that will welcome rather than keep away, and, more important, I have come to change your heart, to take away the hard stone of a heart that you have, that you are, and give you a new heart, a heart of flesh, a heart of compassion, a heart of love, a heart that reaches out to others to give and receive.” She smiled and her smile was that of glorious dawn breaking after a night’s fierce storm.
He felt the change within him, felt the renewal, the wondrous joy, happiness, pleasure. And, for the first time in his long weary life, he felt love.
“Come,” she said, “together we will rebuild this castle. Not with stones to keep others out, but from living things. Its walls will grow to accommodate all who wish to shelter there, Windows will open to the light of heaven, and, most importantly, doors will admit all who seek entrance. And happiness and joy and pleasure will be its whole existence.”
“But, what of safety and security?”
“Ah, and that will be the end product,” she said, “for perfect love casts out fear and hatred and sin and welcomes all into its all-encompassing world. You have no enemies who can truly hurt you, now, if you will but join me.”
He hesitated, looking around him at the destruction and disarray of his fortress.
“Naught can resist you,” He said.
“None and nothing.” She answered.
***
They cut the stones into slabs and laid them as a road to their door. The home she built was, indeed, of living stone, growing, accommodating, expanding as need arose. Eventually it encompassed far more land than the original castle, its walls inviting and warm to the touch, a strange beauty in the grace and structure of the building attracted the eye and welcomed the traveler.
Morality recovered, and, in the gracious presence of Love, found her true happiness in serving with the new loving character she emulated in Love.
Among Sin’s meager possessions Alone found a parchment addressed to Sin, written in the hand of his faraway, long-time enemy. It read:
To the hand of Sin I commit all my lands and properties at my death if he will but perform this one service. This service will be the destruction of my mortal enemy, Alone, who has resisted all my efforts, all my wiles, all my cunning, lo these many years. If he will but keep him from my door, will seal him up and make him a slave to his own fears, then I shall grant him a five-year wage each and every year for the rest of his life.
The signet impression was that of his enemy. And, buried in a trunk’s false bottom, he discovered the promised wages, unspent, unused. He served for the pleasure of destruction, not for the wages, Love told him.
“One more thing,” she said to him, one day as they sat in the warmth of the sunshine from the eastern window. “We must change your name. You are no longer Alone.” She thought for a moment.
“You shall be…” she did not finish, for he interrupted her.
“Peace,” he said, and she nodded.
“Peace.” She murmured, and smiled her smile at him.
1998
By ones, at first, then twos and threes, they slipped away. They murmured amongst themselves of feeling trapped, closed in. They complained of his gloominess, of his mean spiritedness.
But he felt secure, finally, from any depredation. He knew none could penetrate the wall, none could scale it, none could tunnel beneath. He relaxed. But now, only two servants remained to serve him, Morality, a sharp-tongued harridan of a woman whose very presence was difficult to live in, and Sin, who, though strong and loyal, had no grace, no ability to serve, and who filled the air with vile words and curses all the day.
Alone, for that was his name, sighed. Safety without comfort, he thought, was better than no safety, but he had wished for better than this. His long journeys ended, now, his service to king and country faithfully done, he wished to retire to his castle and live in peace. But, now, he realized only the safety part of his wishes would be fulfilled.
In the weeks, months, years that followed, many a rousting army tried to break down the walls, to capture the wealth they believed to be within. But all, without fail were turned away with ease, with even the small band of defenders to protect. At last, none else came, knowing there to be no chance of winning and desiring to avoid the vast outlay of money and manpower that a failed attempt would cost. Alone smiled, knowing his own personal, if lonely triumph.
Morality and Sin quarreled constantly, though, and though he forbade it in his presence, their silent serving was, if anything, worse than their bitter harangues had been. He could hear them muttering in the kitchen as they prepared food, screaming in the dungeon when their tempers could stand it no longer and they withdrew to vent their frustrations. Alone grew more and more unhappy. He could not dismiss either of them, hard as he tried to figure a way, needing this minimum to be safe. He needed Moralitiy’s cooking skills, and Sin’s genius with mechanical things. But, at times, he felt he would go mad with their constant bickering and their attempts to get him to take one side or the other in some dispute.
It seemed as though things would continue this way until his death, but, one day, Sin, from his position in a watchtower, spied a lone horse and rider approaching. His cry of alarm sent Morality to heat the vats of oil and Alone scrambled up the stone stairs to the top of the wall to watch the approaching rider.
It must be a woman, he thought, for she rides sidesaddle. And, indeed, this proved to be the case, for when she drew near, he could see the long hair and pastel hues of her garments.
She directed her mount to the landing place of the platform as if she knew it to be the only entrance into the castle. She looked up, directly at Alone, though he didn’t think she could see him and called for him to lower the platform.
“Go away,” he shouted, “There is naught for you, in this place.”
“Ah, but there is,” she said, smiling, and he was smitten by her smile, a weapon with which he had never fought.
“Allow me entrance, for I would bring you that which you do not now have.”
“I have all that I need, all that necessary for a man to live in security.”
“Ah, but security is not all.” She said.
At that point, Morality approached the wall and, tilting her vast cauldron of boiling oil, spilled it over the ramparts toward her. She danced her horse out of the way as if the deadly oil were but a shower of apple blossoms.
Sin picked up a stone and hurled it at her, mouthing his obscenities as if they would give speed and accuracy to his missiles. These too, she dodged and danced around as if they were but puffs of air.
Then she did a strange thing. Spurring her mount into a furious gallop, she made straight for the wall beneath their feet. At the last moment, she turned the horse and, reaching with her fingertips, touched one of the mighty blocks of stone with her fingertips. The watchers felt something shift, something change, in the wall. Not a tremor, as an earthquake would shake it, not a crumbling, as if the wall had been breached, but, a small movement, nonetheless. Later, discussing it, they would say it felt as if the wall sagged, deprived of some bit of its own support.
She spurred her mount in her escape and she raised her hand in farewell salute without looking over her shoulder at them.
Alone breathed a sigh of relief. This lone warrior, for so he thought of her, made him more fearful than all the combined armies that had attempted to storm his walls in the past. And he didn’t know why. Why should one person, a woman, at that, present such a terrible threat to his safety and security? They discussed it around the dining room table, all three, for the nonce, in accord in their attempt to understand, to devise some strategy for their protection.
Morality declaimed the benefits of her boiling oil. Sin presented the benefits of arrow and stone. Alone sat in deep thought, listening,, pondering.
“She avoided all your heated oil and your stones as if they were naught,” he said, at last, “What makes you think that more of the same will work if she returns?”
The two were struck silent, for once, having no answer.
“We did not shoot any arrow,” Sin finally ventured.
“And you think that would work any better?”
Sin shrugged his shoulders.
“We can but try.”
“I think we should examine the stone she touched.” Said Morality, “Mayhap she has cast some spell on it.”
Both men stared at her with disbelief.
“Nevertheless, believe me or not, you both felt it.” She said.
They nodded.
“The two of you work the windlasses, lower me quickly, I shall run to the stone, examine it, and be ready to raise me on an instant.” Alone decided.
This they did. It felt, to Alone, as if his stomach would rise to his throat and the platform fell and then crashed into the ground, jarring his teeth together and felling him to his knees. He recovered, vaulted over the railing, and ran to the stone. He didn’t know, then, how he would know it amongst all the rest. In confusion, he stopped, examining the stones in the area of her charge. His worry was unfounded. He recognized the stone without difficulty. It was no longer the flecked gray of granite, but the warm skin tones of his own body. It stood out as a beacon on a dark night. He touched it. It was soft, as if it had lost all its strength, not the softness of a down comforter, but the soft suppleness of well-muscled flesh. He knew it could not withstand the weight of the stones above it, if many more stones were thus transmogrified. A terrible fear overpowered him as he ran for the platform.
His fellow defenders pressed him for details as he struggled for breath.
“it is,” he gasped, at last, through his breathlessness and fear, “flesh, living flesh.”
They looked at one another, aghast. The implication for their survival was immediately clear. No wall, no survival, death, at this woman’s hands, or mayhap, only at her fingertips. If she could turn stone into flesh, might she not be able to turn flesh into stone? They shuddered, fearing a death far worse than that of the axe, broadsword or mace of the battle field.
The next day she returned at the same hour.
“Have you decided to allow me entrance?” she called from the back of her mount.
“Nay, we have not. We shall resist with all our resources.” Called Morality and uttered one of Sin’s more vile curses. This so shocked Alone, used as he was to her absolute purity of language, no matter what the provocation and no matter how loudly she was screaming her demands at him or Sin, that he quite forgot the horsewoman below and stared at Morality. Morality blushed, muttering under her breath that the provocation had been too much for her.
Prepared this time, as she came within range, both Sin and Alone shot arrows at her. Even Morality, though never trained as an archer, pulled the bow with amazing strength, for fear of her very life. The arrows, true, fell far wide of their mark, but, they had reasoned the night before, one lucky strike, one attempt was better than nothing.
Again, she danced her horse with the ease and grace of one long used to the saddle, horse and rider seeming to be one in their purpose and knowledge of each other.
And, again, she made the mad dash for the wall, this time in a different location altogether, and, touching it with fingertips brushed against its cold hard surface, they felt the strange sensation, again, beneath their feet.
Alone’s later examination revealed the same change in the stone, the same strange softness in exchange for the cold hard stone. He trembled.
She repeated her performance on each of the succeeding days, with the same results.
“We must repair the damage.” Alone finally said on the seventh day of her visitations. “The wall is beginning to sag. It will fall, ere long, and we will be vulnerable to her attack.”
“But, how?” Morality asked, “she may come while we are repairing.”
“I think not,” Alone said, slowly, “for she seems to have a pattern, coming at the same time each day, without fail, but we see her not between.”
“Mayhap it is a trap?” Sin asked.
Alone thought.
“It is a risk we shall have to take. We have no choice. One or two more days and we will be defenseless.”
From the inner wall, they took stones, stones inferior to the outer walls’ stones, but, still of stone instead of flesh. They hoisted them to the top of the wall, then lowered them on the platform. Alone rigged a screw jack, again borrowed from his ship board observations, to raise and support the stone above the one he needed to replace. With great difficulty, and Sin’s constant profanity, they pried out the soft stone and inserted the true stone. Panting, they stood back to examine their work.
Nearly exhausted, they merely looked at each other and nodded, then went to work on the next stone. With energy born of desperation and fear, they removed and replaced all seven soft stones and replaced them with the hard supporting stone of the inner wall.
Morality took sick, that night, exhausted from her labors of removing stone from the inner wall, carrying them to the top of the wall, and lowering them to the two men, below. Alone feared for her life, so exhausted did her pale face appear in the candle light. She fell, instantly into a deep sleep. Alone pulled the blankets over her, shielding her from the night air.
Sin, however, seemed to have grown stronger, showing no effect from the day’s labor. He seemed stronger, more robust at the work. He broke out more stones from the inner wall and carried them, two at a time, on his shoulders, to the top of the wall, placing them at the loading platform, ready for use. When he had a load, he lowered them and placed them in a neat pile next to the platform’, then ascended, again, for another load. He was tireless, and, Alone noticed, for the first time, silent. He appeared, almost happy, though, on that worn and scarred face, Alone admitted to himself, happiness had no chance of truly revealing itself.
The woman appeared again, the next day, called her usual request, and, as if she knew what they had done, rode her steed, this time at a dignified pace. Along the base of the wall. She seemed to know they would not attempt to shoot, seemed to know they had lost their confidence in their weapons, seemed to know their very thoughts. She touched the very stones they had replaced, each in its respective turn, then, turned to the platform, and bending low from her saddle, touched the pile of stones. Instantly, they, too, turned soft and flesh-colored.
Sin turned pale. His breath rasped in his throat. He took one stone and hurled it at her in his anger.
She turned and smiled at him.
“You have no power or dominion over me,” she called, loud enough for even Morality in her sickbed to hear, because of my name.”
She whirled her horse then, and, touching one final stone in the wall, galloped away on the path that was developing in the grass and weeds from her daily passage.
At her touch the wall shuddered and groaned, the stones grinding together as if tired of holding their own weight.
Racing for their life, Alone and Sin nearly fell down the inner staircase.
“We are lost, master,” Sin cried. “tomorrow we will die.”
“Maybe,” Alone said ,thinking.
The next day, as she approached, he called to her.
“What are your terms?”
“Entrance into your castle.” She called back.
“What will happen to me and my faithful servants?”
“Morality may live if she is willing to become a new person. Sin must die.”
“But,” he protested, “Sin is my faithful servant, these long years he has stayed by me. I cannot submit to such terms.”
“Nay, you know it not, but he is of your enemy. He works to your peril and your downfall.”
Alone turned to Sin and looked him in the eye. Sin cowered and shrank from his look.
“How does he do this?” he demanded, still looking at Sin.
“He undermines Morality, he resists me. Did you se his joyful replacement of the stones I had made flesh?”
“Aye, but that is my will and my doing, also.” Alone said.
“But, if Sin had not been with you, working his will in you, unbeknownst to you, you would not have resisted me as strongly. You would have known my true intentions sooner, known my benefits the quicker.”
“Aye and be turned to stone the quicker,” Alone said under his breath.
“Nay, ‘tis but the opposite, she said,” and wheeled her horse to make her usual dash at the wall.
Sin and Alone scrambled for the stairway to the keep, seeing her intention to touch the cornerstone of the wall. And, just in time, they reached the reed-scattered floor of the keep. They fled from the wall reaching the safety of the opposite wall just as they heard the grating and groaning of the wall as it began to fall.
Turning, Alone watched in horrified fascination, the wall lean outward, hesitate as if uncertain, then with a crash louder than all the thunder of his life, fall to the ground in a mighty jumble of stone.
They watched her, through the newly opened gap in their defenses, circle to her right, disappearing from view along the North wall. Turning to each other they realized what her intent was. In confirmation, they watched this wall, too, fall into a heap of rubble. They sprang away from the west wall, knowing its fate, and, again, just in time, for it followed its supporting neighbors to its demise. The South wall, last of all, met its fate.
Alone gazed in absolute terror and horror at the destruction of all that he had worked so hard to build. His safety, his surety, his protection against all the troubles and turmoils of the world around him, gone, in a moment. Gone at this strange woman’s touch. Gone, not to be rebuilt, he knew. His life, too, now a forfeit for his resistance, he was certain. Tears welled in his eyes, made tracks across his dust-covered face. He wept, perhaps for the first time since childhood, wept for the life, now gone, for the waste of his protection, for what was to come. His fear and exhaustion were too much to bear and he felt something tear within him. Something open, something fall, as if his heart, in sympathy with his walls, was now a jumbled ruin.
He saw her, now, sitting her horse, at the edge of the rubble, on the East of the destroyed castle, where the gate should have been, but was not, because of his desire to keep the world at bay.
“May I come in?” she called.
“Can we prevent you?”
“No, but I will not enter without permission.”
“Enter, then, for we cannot resist.”
She gave her horse its head and it picked its way gingerly, through the piles of stone.
Sin reached into his cloak and sprang toward her, a dagger in his upraised hand, ready to slash and destroy.
She reached her hand and, avoiding his slashing blade, touched his knife hand. Instantly, he turned to stone, reversed from flesh to the hard cold material. He stood in his destroying stance, as if he would, in any moment, resume his attack upon her. Then, to Alone’s horror, the stone statue began to crumble into its component parts, then to smaller fragments, and, at last, to nothing but a pile of dust. Her horse sidled sideways and trampled it into the dust of the paving stones until nothing remained. But a small darker stain on the stone.
“And will you destroy me, too?” Alone asked, bitterly.
“Nay, for you have somewhat within you worth changing. Your tears prove me aright.”
“My tears only show my anger and weakness,” he protested.
“Nay, the stones of your wall resisted me not, nor will your heart. She dismounted and turned to face him. He saw, at once, that her face was the face of his dreams. The dreams of the night, the dreams of the day, the dreams of the one he had never seen in reality. And, now, knowing, his heart swelled and burst, again in the knowing. He felt the anger, the bitterness, the aloneness of his whole life disappear, vanish, fall as the walls of his castle had fallen. Now he wanted not to be alone, reclusive, withdrawn. He wanted the world to come to him, to go to the world, for now he knew her name, knew who she was, what she was.
“Your name is Love, is it not?”
She nodded.
“And I have come to take away the stones of your wall, to turn them into something that will welcome rather than keep away, and, more important, I have come to change your heart, to take away the hard stone of a heart that you have, that you are, and give you a new heart, a heart of flesh, a heart of compassion, a heart of love, a heart that reaches out to others to give and receive.” She smiled and her smile was that of glorious dawn breaking after a night’s fierce storm.
He felt the change within him, felt the renewal, the wondrous joy, happiness, pleasure. And, for the first time in his long weary life, he felt love.
“Come,” she said, “together we will rebuild this castle. Not with stones to keep others out, but from living things. Its walls will grow to accommodate all who wish to shelter there, Windows will open to the light of heaven, and, most importantly, doors will admit all who seek entrance. And happiness and joy and pleasure will be its whole existence.”
“But, what of safety and security?”
“Ah, and that will be the end product,” she said, “for perfect love casts out fear and hatred and sin and welcomes all into its all-encompassing world. You have no enemies who can truly hurt you, now, if you will but join me.”
He hesitated, looking around him at the destruction and disarray of his fortress.
“Naught can resist you,” He said.
“None and nothing.” She answered.
***
They cut the stones into slabs and laid them as a road to their door. The home she built was, indeed, of living stone, growing, accommodating, expanding as need arose. Eventually it encompassed far more land than the original castle, its walls inviting and warm to the touch, a strange beauty in the grace and structure of the building attracted the eye and welcomed the traveler.
Morality recovered, and, in the gracious presence of Love, found her true happiness in serving with the new loving character she emulated in Love.
Among Sin’s meager possessions Alone found a parchment addressed to Sin, written in the hand of his faraway, long-time enemy. It read:
To the hand of Sin I commit all my lands and properties at my death if he will but perform this one service. This service will be the destruction of my mortal enemy, Alone, who has resisted all my efforts, all my wiles, all my cunning, lo these many years. If he will but keep him from my door, will seal him up and make him a slave to his own fears, then I shall grant him a five-year wage each and every year for the rest of his life.
The signet impression was that of his enemy. And, buried in a trunk’s false bottom, he discovered the promised wages, unspent, unused. He served for the pleasure of destruction, not for the wages, Love told him.
“One more thing,” she said to him, one day as they sat in the warmth of the sunshine from the eastern window. “We must change your name. You are no longer Alone.” She thought for a moment.
“You shall be…” she did not finish, for he interrupted her.
“Peace,” he said, and she nodded.
“Peace.” She murmured, and smiled her smile at him.
1998
Vengeance Is Mine
Thirty US Special Forces personnel were killed this week in a helicopter shot down by a rocket-propelled grenade.
Mr. Mohibullah Died Thursday morning, August 11, 2011 in an attack by a US drone rocket. He led the group who were responsible for shooting down the Chinook helicopter.
The helicopter was on its way to rescue special forces personnel under attack from Taliban fighters.
The American special forces were attacking the group who were attempting to revenge the death of Osama bin Laden.
Osama bin laden was killed by US Special Forces in revenge for the September 11 attack on the Twin Towers.
The attackers of the Twin Towers were motivated by revenge for a host of real and perceived recent and remote incidents perpetrated by the US in the Middle east.
Such is the cycle of vengeance.
Should we desire, we could trace this cycle far back in recorded history-a never-ending rhythm of violence which makes the Hatfield/McCoy feud seem like an over-the-back-fence shouting match.
Ironically, this week, I finished reading a book by Bishop Desmond Tutu of South Africa. The rise of indigenous majority rule in South Africa which could have sparked a tidal wave of violence between the majority and the well-armed minority. The nation’s streets and farms might well have run red with rivers of blood. The whole society might well have imploded. South Africa might well have been one vast graveyard.
But it didn’t; it hasn’t and it isn’t.
The primary reason is confession and forgiveness through the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.
The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) was a safety valve, releasing the pent-up anger of both sides in a slow and steady stream. Both sides benefited. Both sides suffered in the process. It was a pus-draining scalpel wound to the corporate psyche-painful but healing. It was inspired by a more-than-human wisdom. Desmond Tutu frankly states that it was based on many of the principles of Jesus Christ-Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you; forgive; turn the other cheek. It proved that, without compromising the secular, pluralistic community, principles which all of all cultures can see the wisdom in can be applied constructively. They work. Few would reject the wisdom behind these oft-quoted but rarely-practiced words. But once the incision was made to the corporate body, the world took note. Though noted, none have followed suit; violence and vengeance continue apace in the Middle East and around the world. But there is now a grand example to which to point.
Vengeance versus forgiveness; violence versus reconciliation—is there any possibility at this late date in our declining society’s life to make an attempt?
May it be so, please God-the Father of Peace.
10/12/11
Mr. Mohibullah Died Thursday morning, August 11, 2011 in an attack by a US drone rocket. He led the group who were responsible for shooting down the Chinook helicopter.
The helicopter was on its way to rescue special forces personnel under attack from Taliban fighters.
The American special forces were attacking the group who were attempting to revenge the death of Osama bin Laden.
Osama bin laden was killed by US Special Forces in revenge for the September 11 attack on the Twin Towers.
The attackers of the Twin Towers were motivated by revenge for a host of real and perceived recent and remote incidents perpetrated by the US in the Middle east.
Such is the cycle of vengeance.
Should we desire, we could trace this cycle far back in recorded history-a never-ending rhythm of violence which makes the Hatfield/McCoy feud seem like an over-the-back-fence shouting match.
Ironically, this week, I finished reading a book by Bishop Desmond Tutu of South Africa. The rise of indigenous majority rule in South Africa which could have sparked a tidal wave of violence between the majority and the well-armed minority. The nation’s streets and farms might well have run red with rivers of blood. The whole society might well have imploded. South Africa might well have been one vast graveyard.
But it didn’t; it hasn’t and it isn’t.
The primary reason is confession and forgiveness through the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.
The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) was a safety valve, releasing the pent-up anger of both sides in a slow and steady stream. Both sides benefited. Both sides suffered in the process. It was a pus-draining scalpel wound to the corporate psyche-painful but healing. It was inspired by a more-than-human wisdom. Desmond Tutu frankly states that it was based on many of the principles of Jesus Christ-Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you; forgive; turn the other cheek. It proved that, without compromising the secular, pluralistic community, principles which all of all cultures can see the wisdom in can be applied constructively. They work. Few would reject the wisdom behind these oft-quoted but rarely-practiced words. But once the incision was made to the corporate body, the world took note. Though noted, none have followed suit; violence and vengeance continue apace in the Middle East and around the world. But there is now a grand example to which to point.
Vengeance versus forgiveness; violence versus reconciliation—is there any possibility at this late date in our declining society’s life to make an attempt?
May it be so, please God-the Father of Peace.
10/12/11
Hurricane-Force Forgiveness
We live in a wind-storm, a tornado, a hurricane of forgiveness. We breathe it; drink it, eat it; it is our very sustenance. The very young model this: five minutes after an offense, the combatants are playing together as if nothing happened. It is only in the fully-developed ego, the sense of self, that we lose this natural forgiveness. We wound and are wounded and hold on to the wound as if it had value; a good and productive thing. In a child’s play and in the cross, we take our model. The child and the Christ forgive completely and unconditionally.
May the Child-Christ so live in us that we too forgive as easily as a child; as thoroughly as a hurricane-swept island.
11/26/11
May the Child-Christ so live in us that we too forgive as easily as a child; as thoroughly as a hurricane-swept island.
11/26/11
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
His Will
Open my eyes, O Father, to You as You truly are;
Then will I be to You that which You will;
Then, and only then, will I be to my sisters and brothers what You would have me be.
Then will I be to You that which You will;
Then, and only then, will I be to my sisters and brothers what You would have me be.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Weekend Warriors
They are weekend warriors, feinting, dodging, hiding, attacking. Their targets are friendly foes, bent on play mayhem; A few moments of mock war; shooting at and being shot, not with lead but with paint.
Words are like that. They splash against the hearer; Different colors, textures, weights, volumes.
Some are bright and cheerful; bating the hearer in a glow of well being and thoughtful joy. Others drag down, hang a cloud of gloom, turn on the melancholy switch.
Some lift the eyes toward Him Who is our helium for the spirit; Others drag us backwards, pulling us down toward earth-leaden weights too heavy to lift.
Some cover and clothe mankind with a dignity and respect borne of heaven; Others are slimy snotballs that remind of the old life of vomit and filth.
Some are bright with life; others desperately dark with death.
Then there is The Word; the ultimate paintball. He colors all life with love and joy and peace. When struck by Him, we are not just stained, but saturated with the crimson of His blood, that blood that cleanses and purifies; Red that bleaches white.
Deeper, deeper into that crimson flood, Lord immerse us please.
11/26/07
Words are like that. They splash against the hearer; Different colors, textures, weights, volumes.
Some are bright and cheerful; bating the hearer in a glow of well being and thoughtful joy. Others drag down, hang a cloud of gloom, turn on the melancholy switch.
Some lift the eyes toward Him Who is our helium for the spirit; Others drag us backwards, pulling us down toward earth-leaden weights too heavy to lift.
Some cover and clothe mankind with a dignity and respect borne of heaven; Others are slimy snotballs that remind of the old life of vomit and filth.
Some are bright with life; others desperately dark with death.
Then there is The Word; the ultimate paintball. He colors all life with love and joy and peace. When struck by Him, we are not just stained, but saturated with the crimson of His blood, that blood that cleanses and purifies; Red that bleaches white.
Deeper, deeper into that crimson flood, Lord immerse us please.
11/26/07
Crushed Violet
Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.
~Mark Twain
~Mark Twain
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Slave Auction
She was far younger than the hard story etched into the geography of her face. Thin and tired, she dragged herself to the slave market, her last and only hope. None desired her now; they had abandoned her along with her faded beauty. Discarded, she hoped she could sell herself as a house-slave to someone who would at least feed and clothe her. She grimaced, remembering the beautiful robes, the gold earrings, silver bracelets and beautifully coiffed hair given her by her long-gone lovers.
For a fleeting moment, her thoughts turned to the husband of her youth. Was he still around? Had he remarried? Surely he had divorced her by now. The thought of her abandoned children tugged at her heart. But all that too was past. She steeled herself to the final humiliation. Survival was, to her, a cruel taskmaster.
Standing on the block, the last of the lot, none bid on her. None saw anything of value in this old-before-her-time woman--Too worn out to work; too ugly for the bed.
Her shoulders slumped. She could see the death procession in her mind's eye; no mourners, only the hired pall bearers taking her ragged forgotten body to its pauper's grave outside the city walls. Too tired to weep for herself, death-resignation filled her soul.
A small stir at the far edge of the crowd drew her attention. Someone's face was toward her, jarring against the sea of rejecting backs and shoulders. A flicker of hope flared then died in sudden recognition. He faced her, the one who had the most reason to turn away. Death seemed suddenly bearable compared to this final degradation. Rooted to the place and moment, she could not move.
His eyes caught and held hers; His love transfixed her. He turned from her to the auctioneer. A brief exchange, the clink of silver and the auctioneer released the chain.
They stood staring at one another for a moment, eye to eye, in a wordless exchange only known to those who know and are known. Then he reached for and took her hand, leading her away. In his touch she knew it was not to chains that he was taking her, but to home.
***
Based on the story of Gomer in the Hebrew scriptures, book of Hosea
Friday, November 18, 2011
Unsatisfied Satisfaction
A gasp of air to a drowning man;
A crystalline oasis to a parched traveler;
A banquet spred before a starving man;
Lovers reunited;
So You are to me, Lord Jesus.
Though all temporal longings be satisfied:
air,
water,
food
love
I will need again
to breathe,
to drink,
to eat,
to be with my beloved
so it is infinitely more with You, Lord Jesus.
You satisfy my deepest heart’s desire.
Yet, sufficient though you are for today, tomorrow I will again
gasp you in;
rink great gulps of You;
eat at your table;
fellowship with You-
an eternal cycle of ever increasing joy in the satisfied unsatisfaction that I have in You.
Oh Lord Jesus, I, one of Your gracefully satisfied unsatisfied ones come now and ever to You,
my Satisfaction
and
my Passionate Desire.
6 24 07
A gasp of air to a drowning man;
A crystalline oasis to a parched traveler;
A banquet spred before a starving man;
Lovers reunited;
So You are to me, Lord Jesus.
Though all temporal longings be satisfied:
air,
water,
food
love
I will need again
to breathe,
to drink,
to eat,
to be with my beloved
so it is infinitely more with You, Lord Jesus.
You satisfy my deepest heart’s desire.
Yet, sufficient though you are for today, tomorrow I will again
breathe you in;
drink great gulps of You;
eat at your table;
fellowship with You-
an eternal cycle of ever increasing joy in the satisfied unsatisfaction that I have in You.
Oh Lord Jesus, I, one of Your gracefully satisfied unsatisfied ones come now and ever to You,
my Satisfaction
and
my Passionate Desire.
6 24 07
Saturday, August 27, 2011
A Fish Out of Water
Sometimes I feel like a fish. It is not that I am a great swimmer; my only real aquatic adventures were bobbing around in the San Diego surf. My sense of being a fish comes more from the experience of living within my own familiar environment, as a fish is within its watery world. It is aware of nothing unusual in a briny medium; gathering from the depths all its necessities. It is normal an natural; home.
This world, this culture, this environment of cars and houses and streets and cities and people is where I live. It is my ecosystem.
In Christ Jesus, there is another realm; light and warm and free. But, like a fish out of water, I think I cannot live there yet. Like the fish, I fear that I would die, lacking the necessary breathing apparatus. Leaping above the surface, though, into its glorious freedom, I catch tantalizing snapshot glimpses of this wondrous kingdom. I hold my breath and see that which is unseeable; know that which is unknowable; experience that which is beyond experience-mysteries revealed.
Though it often seems like this someday of wings, feathers and flight may be a long way off, these brief glimpses reveal a more-than-real reality. I discover that, in truth, I already live in the bright, airy world of eternity-in Christ Jesus my Lord. And you all, dear ones in Him with me, are a window into that other realm.
07/02/07
Cells in the Body
At the moment of conception, two partial cells join into one complete cell. The first cell immediately divides into two; the two into four; four into eight until the completed adult body contains around three trillion cells. At the final stage in this multiplication-by-division explosion, each cell is in its assigned location; here a spinal neuron; there a muscle fiber; over there a bone cell.
Each cell lives only with extreme difficulty outside of its assigned place. Cells removed from the body tend to die rapidly even when supported with advanced technology. Each cell lives only to contribute to the whole body its special function and contribution. The digestive cells break down and absorb nutrients. Nerve cells convey messages and give the ability to think, remember and reason. Tongue cells "taste" the watermelon. Hearing cells carry the voice of the beloved to our brain.
Each cell is bathed in a sea of fluid which brings what the cell needs and carries away its wastes products.
We, the born-again individuals are like cells in the body of Christ. We have our own assigned places and functions. We cannot truly live outside of the body of Christ. Our contributions support the life of the body and the body supplies the nutrients and other essentials for our growth and livelihood.
And we are all bathed in the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ who is Himself our nourishment and our waste carrier. He mediates our interactions and brings to us individually those things supplied by the other members of the body-the hormones of growth and function, the immunization others have learned from their contact with the world and themselves and the instructions for the second-by-second living that is our place in the body and in the world. Our purpose, our pleasure, our existence is based on being in the body.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Satisfied Unsatisfaction
Like one captive too long, seated at a banquet;
Like one lost in a waterless waste, stumbling upon an oasis;
Like one trapped in water granted a breath of air;
Like a lover long absent from the beloved, reunited;
So You are to me, Lord Jesus.
Though all longings are satisfied:
air,
water,
food
love
I will need again
to breathe,
to drink,
to eat,
to be with my beloved
so it is infinitely more with You, Lord Jesus.
You satisfy my deepest heart’s desire. Yet, sufficient though you are for today, tomorrow I will again
breathe you in;
drink deeply of You;
eat from your table;
fellowship with You-
an eternal cycle of ever increasing joy in the satisfied unsatisfaction that is You.
Oh Lord Jesus, I, one of Your gracefully satisfied unsatisfied ones come now and ever to You, my satisfaction and You my passionate hunger.
6 24 07
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Grammar 2
Like many Christians, I have found prayer to be a puzzle. How much, when, where, what position, what words, what language, what form, what formula,? I’ve read a number of excellent books and attended seminars devoted to prayer. I find myself no wiser and even less a pray-er than before. For a year, a small group met in our home studying With Christ in the School of Prayer by Andrew Murray. The book has much to commend it, coming as it does from one of the great Christian thinkers of the nineteenth century. But after all that thought and effort, I found myself no closer to God in prayer than before.
Quite by accident, I stumbled on a “method” which seems to “work.” I have put those two words in quotation marks because there is no method and no work in prayer. Prayer is, at heart, all in the heart, not in a method or in hard work. Prayer is a relationship, prayer is a two-way conversation with a beloved Other. So, when reading what I say below, please hear and recognize this first: without a relationship, this method, this process is just as dry and tedious, just as empty as any other method if used to talk with a friend. The heart must be engaged before the “method” will “work.”
Much of the New Testament, especially Paul's epistles are written in the third person: "He is” “He did,” “He said,” “He went." They are powerful, complex declarative statements about God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit and Their work for and through us. Statements like:
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. For He chose us, in Him, before the foundation of the world, to be holy and blameless in His sight. In love, He predestined us to be adopted as His sons, through Jesus Christ. To the praise of His glorious grace which He freely gave us, in the One He loves.
(Eph. 1:3-6)
He Himself is our peace.
(Eph. 2:13?)
In Him, through Him, to Him are all things; to Him be the glory, forever, amen.
(Rom 11:36)
These statements, written by Paul to various ecclesia, and to us, are his statements about God. They describe, they declare, they teach; wonderful words, but words about. I am not belittling these clear statements opening our the mind to the reality of our great Father and His Son, our Lord, Jesus Christ. But there is another layer, another “use” of the very same words. With one grammatical sleight of hand, declarative and descriptive statements are transformed into prayers:
Praise be to You, the god and Father of our Lord, Jesus Christ who blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. For You chose us, in Him, before the foundation of the world, to be holy and blameless in Your sight. In love, You predestined us to be adopted as your children through Jesus Christ. To the praise of Your glorious grace which you freely gave us in the One You love.
(Ephesians 1:3-6)
You Yourself are our peace.
(Eph. 2:13)
In You, through You, to You are all things; to You be the glory, forev
(Rom 11:36)
No longer is the author addressing a fellow human. We are instantly addressing God directly with His own inspired words. Now, instead of information we are entering into communication, a relationship. Implicit in the change is the acknowledgement that the statement is true and that we are approaching God with His truth on our lips.
After praying this way for a number of years, I discovered that I was not the first. It has been a "method" of praying from the earliest church Fathers. It is still practiced in some monasteries in both the Roman and Greek Orthodox Catholic communions. In theological terms it is called "Lectio Divina" (Divine Reading). Like all theology, however, definitions of things divine are mere empty shadows of the reality. It is in the living breathing experience of entering into the very thoughts of God, that these words become an intimate merging with the divine purpose and will. Static words, black on white type, live and breathe by His Spirit in us. His words become ours, then again His -we enter into His thoughts, intents and purposes-truly heart meeting heart,
Mind meeting mind, spirit meeting spirit-the essence of relationship-the essence of prayer.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Miss Townsend
It was 1958; the International Geophysical Year (IGY). The cold war was near its height. Khrushchev was the Premier of the Soviet Union. Eisenhower was President of the United States. The following year Khrushchev would visit the US and Iowa field of corn and nearly ruin the Soviet Union by demanding that wheat be plowed under and corn be planted instead. Three years later he would visit the United Nations and, taking off his shoe, would pound the podium shouting "We will bury you." (Since writing this, I have since discovered that this UN episode was not a real event. I don’t know how it got started, but it is a part of the legend of the Cold War.) It was a dramatic time. Over backyard fences we listened to our parents talking of nuclear war and satellites delivering atomic bombs. We watched the tiny dot of sputnik silently streaking across the night sky and listened to its beep-beep message to the radio world.
But for all the drama of the time, life was ordinary. I attended a parochial school located just a few feet from my back yard. My seventh-grade home room teacher was Miss Townsend. Now Miss Townsend probably should not have been a junior high teacher. Middle aged, single and not very worldly-wise, she was the target of much early-adolescent humor. One classmate, a gifted cartoonist, drew an unflattering caricature of her on the chalk board in her absence. Another time, during recess (in those days we had recess up through the eighth grade), we boys snuck back into the classroom and stuck a tack on her chair. We could not figure out her lack of response, until later, when we found the tack bent over under the impenetrable barrier of her girdle. Yet she never complained nor scolded, but she must have gone home at night and wept at our cruelty.
Now, looking back with a bit more insight, I remember her more as the one teacher who paid attention to me as an individual. The reason was grammar. I hated it. She tried every teaching method known to pedagogical science to ingrain into me parts of speech, gerunds and diagramming of sentences. She spent her breaks with me, trying to help me understand the verbs of being. She succeeded to some small degree. I know what a gerund is and I know what the verbs of being are; though I still don't know how to diagram a sentence.
The verbs of being are: I am, you are, she/he/it is.
The three verbs startled me one day when I was reading Exodus 3:14: God said to Moses, ‘I AM WHO I AM.’
I AM-what God says about himself. I exist, always did exist and always will exist. Therefore My Name is, I-AM.
My response to Him is: You are. You did, do and always will, be. I acknowledge Your existence by saying "You are."
Then I turn to the world and confess: "He is." We, together, as a part of the church confess this corporately to those whom He is saving. It is the Great Commission in two words-thesourcewellspring of all that motivates Christians to act in this world.
I AM, You are, He is; three two-word declarations but so pregnant withmeaning that all theology, all belief and all Christian action flows from them.
I AM, You are, He is-six words worthy of an eternity of meditation and action.
6 21 07
Thursday, July 28, 2011
To Know
To Know Him
My God,
I would come to You as a child, with intense curiosity and naïve honesty. I would know you as a child knows-seeing beyond the visible to the invisible. I want to trust as a child trusts her mother. I want to look to You for all my answers big and small, the simple and complex. I want to ask so many why and what and where and how questions I fear to tire You out, yet knowing that I cannot.
I would come to You as a scientist, bringing my reason and intellect to bear on You as a subject for scientific inquiry. I would find the greatest joy in discovering your laws-the laws of the spiritual kingdom and the physical world.
I would come to you as one in great need, finding in You my full sufficiency, knowing you as my all-encompassing Benefactor.
I would come to you as a new lover, with all the passion and unfeigned joy of newfound love.
I would come to you as a long-married spouse, finding the deep, quiet pleasure in your company that comes from years of deep acquaintance and intimate knowledge. Here, more than in all the rest, is the calm confidence, the trust beyond word, the rest in a total surrender, a complete understanding of Your character that I seek.
September 14, 2003
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Shooting the Messenger
“A runner approaches!” The cry echoed from guard tower to guard commander to portly courtiers and finally to the king’s ears.
He fell on his face before the king.
“Do you bring news of the battle?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Speak.”
Trembling with fatigue and fear, the messenger was silent.
“Speak!” the king roared. “what news?”
“Sire, all is lost. I alone escaped to tell you. The enemy approaches and will be here in less than three days.”
The king tore his clothes and cried out in terror.
“Take him away,” he commanded , “and shoot him with arrows.”
Many a cruel despot did such to the messenger of bad tiding. They forgot that the messenger is not the message.
Once, the message and the Messenger were congruent. For the first and only time there was a logic in the death: They brought evil tidings to the king of our hearts. The message declared death to the king; the Messenger carried out the sentence. Knowing this we shot Him full of arrows. And in the death of the Messenger and the death of the king life opened to us.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
In the beginning was the Word…the word was made flesh and dwelt among us and we beheld His glory…
(John 1:1, 14)
who was from the beginning, whom we have heard, whom we have seen with our eyes, whom we have looked at and our hands have touched – Him we proclaim concerning the Word of life.
(1 John 1:1)
Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe."
Thomas said to him, "My Lord and my God!"
Then Jesus told him, " Because you have seen me
, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed."
(John 20:29(
if a woman has long hair, it is her glory; For long hair is given to her as a covering.
(1 Corinthians 11:15)
Carefully turning the tractor from the country road into a wheat field, I guided the “honey wagon” across the drainage ditch at Springer’s Corner. Low clouds drizzled mist into my eyes, soaking the grass and surrounding trees. But from the West, a setting sun blazed its rays across the field, projecting onto a windbreak of chartreuse-green trees. Suspended in the air above the field a rainbow’s brilliant colors dazzled. It seemed that I could touch it. If I could have, I sensed it might have more than color and sight; it might have taste, texture and scent as well. A glorious sight, one remembered across a lifetime of other sights.
To our ears, the words of 1 Corinthians sound strange. “If a woman has long hair it is her glory”. Many are the men who seek to impose on their wives this injunction. Many are the women who obey as a sign of their submission to their husband and God. For years, I could not understand how hair length contributed to godliness. Then I read a National Geographic article about the city of Corinth. Corinth abounded in temples. Many of these temples were served by women who dedicated themselves to the service of their goddess by prostituting themselves. Their badge of dedication was short hair.
Much like the long-haired men of the late sixties and early seventies, these women clearly stated their role in society, their purpose, their beliefs by their hair length.
Paul is saying, “women, don’t cut your hair-it is what reveals who you are; it is your protection when you walk in the streets. If you have short hair, you will be seen as a temple prostitute; fair game for any man who accosts you. Your long hair is an indication that you are not available; your protection against these men.” A woman’s hair was her glory-the indication of who she was in society; an indication of her purpose, her dedication, her glory; her character.
The Word was made flesh…and we beheld His glory. We saw and heard and touched Him. John, speaking for himself and his fellow believers, saw the glory of Jesus, the Christ. They not only touched, saw and heard, they saw His glory. Once three of His disciples saw His physical glory-what we usually think of as glory-a bright light. But they also saw him dusty and tired, sweaty from a long hot day’s hike. They saw His face haggard from fatigue. They saw Him naked, features marred with the sin of mankind. They saw Him resurrected. They saw Him and truly knew who He was. They saw His character and the character of Him who sent Him—His glory.
They had all the physical manifestations of a living Person. They believed. We do not have the physical presence. We believe. WE believe not in absence of evidence, but in absence of confirming physical evidence. Like a rainbow, His glory shines through the raindrops of our dreary world; an image projected by the sun of revelation in our hearts to our inner vision through the medium of the eye of faith. We see His glory real enough to touch, taste, smell and hear. It sings to us in birdsong and the voice of our beloved. We taste it in chocolate and spaghetti. We smell it in rose and lilac and perfume. We behold His glory—His character--the glory as of the Only-Begotten of the Father.
June 24, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Woman of Sychar
i“I was once very pretty,” she said. Her eyes, white with cataracts, gazed unseeing at her guest. “It was nearly my undoing. You see, men liked me. I was pretty and learned young that I could get what I wanted by acting pretty.”
She sipped water from a bowl on the table beside her. Dipping her finger into the bowl and touching it to her lips, she smiled.
“Water; it was water that saved me.” She smiled, and shook her head. “No, not water, it was Him.” She paused, sipped again. “Have I told you the story?” she asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, said, “Yes, it was him, a man; A man like no other.” Her face softened as she remembered. She roused herself, then, forming into words, the images of memory.
“It was hot at noon. I hated being out in the heat of the day. By the time I walked down the hill, fetched the water, and climbed back to the top again I was exhausted. The sun seemed to suck the energy from me. My neck and shoulders shook like a leaf in a winter wind from the weight of the water jar on my head.” She sat straighter, seeming to gather strength in the memory, holding her head high as if balancing the heavy weight once again.
“It was a hot noon sun, so much like so many before and like so many I knew would be my future. It was hot, but I preferred the heat to the other women’s stares and smirks. They gathered in the cool of the day chatting as they walked down the hill. They gossiped at the well as each filled her jar in turn from the deep well. I envied them their camaraderie. I longed for the voice of a woman, someone to talk to, someone who understood. But I needed a man more. So I bore the heat of the day, avoiding their stares, knowing I was the subject of much of their contempt and ugly words. Their disdain was heavier than the weight of the water jar. Women need other women, you know.” She paused, waiting her visitor’s response.
“that day was like any other day. Heat and the knife-edged stares in my back as I left the city gate. A woman gathered her skirts around her and pulled her children against her I walked and straight and proud. ‘At least,’ I thought, ‘I can make them cringe to avoid me.’ Sun burned from above and reflected from the hard packed dirt of the path.”
“Grass, withered and dried a month ago, crumbled to dust as I stepped from the path to avoid a single file of twelve men. Jews. They pushed past me, unseeing, or pretending not to see. Their glances, though, told me they had seen. I stood, waiting for them to pass, playing the coquette, knowing I could make them look at me. It was an automatic game, something I’d done since childhood, catching the eye of a man, making him pay attention to me. These men were no different though they were Jews. Their clothing betrayed them, their attitude betrayed them. They were passing through Samaria, no doubt, on their way north or south, taking the shortest route from Jerusalem to Galilee. They risked pollution at our hands, but sometimes did it for expediency’s sake. I spat on the shadow of the last in the row. This one lagged behind and I heard the clink of a money bag beneath his robe. He turned and glared at me. I smiled and watched the hatred melt into something else.”
She coughed, a hollow sound, from deep in her chest. It wracked her body, seeming to absorb every energy of her being. It took minutes for her to regain her breath. When she resumed, there was a raspy edge in her voice.
“The heat and silence pressed in on me as I walked the last few yards to the well. Jacob’s well; deep and cold and ancient. The only joy of the daily trip was the cold of the water on my face and neck and arms. I always dipped a little of the water and spread it to cool me on my return trip. He startled me. I had not noticed him as I approached the well.”
“’May I have a drink of water when you’ve drawn it?’ He asked.”
“Turning to him, I saw he too was a Jew. Strange. A Jew does not ask anything of a Samaritan. They will buy, but not ask. It seems the ultimate insult. But he asked.”
“In my surprise, I asked him why he asked of me, a Samaritan. He replied in a riddle. I thought he was playing a game with me. He said if I knew who he was and what the gift of God was, that I would have asked him for water. I was confused. He had no jug or jar and the well is deep. I told him so. Just in case he thought I was an ignorant Samaritan woman, I tossed in the history of the well. ‘Are you greater than our father, Jacob?’ I asked him, putting just a bit of an edge in my voice to keep it interesting.”
“Again, he answered in a riddle. ‘Whoever drinks this water,’ he said, pointing to my jar, ‘will thirst again, but whoever drinks the water I will give him will never thirst again.’”
“I will say this was a temptation to me. Not ever having to climb down and back up that hill made me dream. Sort of one of those dreams you dream about discovering a treasure buried in a cave or field, you know?”
Her voice became stronger, seeming to gain energy from the very telling of the tale. She held the bowl in her hands, almost an offering. Concentric circles formed on its surface from the tremors of her aged hands.
“I said, ‘Give me this water so I don’t have to come here to draw water every day.’ I tell you, he was drawing me in. I thought maybe he was one of those traveling magicians you hear about sometimes. I wondered what the price of his magic would be. I knew I couldn’t afford it.”
“He changed subjects, just as I thought I might capture this eternal water. ‘Go call your husband,’ he said.”
“This put me back on familiar ground. I parried his question. ‘I have no husband.’ I smiled that smile and looked him right in the eye. I waited for the subtle flicker of eyelid, the widening of the pupil of his eyes that signaled that he understood. Then, for the first time, I felt his eyes. I realized he had not looked at me as other men did, he did not appraise me, did not look me up and down. His eyes had always been on my face, seeming to search my face, seeking my soul. When I said that, playing the game, his eyes seemed to break through into my soul. It felt as if a wave of pure water was sweeping through my heart.”
“Then he told me my history. ‘It is true you have no husband, you have had five and the one you now have is not your husband.’ I was astonished. But, I knew how to deal with this, too. I tried to engage him in theological discussion and flattery.”
“‘You must be a prophet,’ I said. And said something about where we were to worship this would distract any Jew, I thought. They’re always so certain in their arrogance. He’ll spend the next hour defending the correctness of the Jews. It would be an entertaining hour, a distraction from the heat and from household duties.”
She sipped from the bowl,
“But he didn’t take the bait. His words fell into my heart like pebbles cast in Jacob’s well. ‘Worship in spirit and truth’ he said. Somehow, though the words were a puzzle, my heart understood. Some long-ago memory stirred in me. ‘The Messiah is to come and tell us all things, someday,’ I said.”
“’I who speak to you, am He.’ He said.”
“I knew. An irresistible excitement welled up in me. I knew the water of life he was talking about. I felt it rise, bubbling and living within me. It filled my heart and I knew it overflowed into everlasting life. Without a word I turned and ran up the hill. Heat no longer bothered me. I felt light as a feather, felt as if I was flying. I cried to the men who lolled at the city gate in the noon time heat. I shouted through the street of the village. None would come but the men, but when they did come, they too heard and believed. We are, I am, the first of the Gentiles to believe Him to be the Son of God. He stayed with us for two days and we drank in His words. Most of the village believed. My life has been different since that day. He who did not love me left me and I have lived here alone ever since. Yet, I have not been alone. He who truly loves me lives within me and I in Him. His water of life still rises in me a living, flowing stream. I am truly happy, truly free, truly loved.”
She tilted the bowl to her lips and swallowed the last of the water.
“I still thirst, still must drink water from Jacob’s well. But within I have never thirsted again. I no longer see, but the next face I see will be that of He who is my Water and my Bread, my true Husband and Lover.”
*********
This unnamed woman is one of the women in Jesus’ life. Taken together, they are Woman, the composite who open just a bit to our wonder the Bride of Christ. Others include Mary, the mother of Jesus; Mary Magdalene; Mary of Bethel; Mary of Emmaus-Cleophas’s wife; two unnamed women who washed and anointed His body for burial. The woman of Sychar is unique in that she is a Gentile-the very first Gentile to believe. Jesus singles her out and gently leads her to the revelation: “I who speak to you am He.”
Once, reading those words, my hair stood on end (all three of them). Suddenly the impact on one living in the first century struck me. The culmination of centuries was standing in front of her and she knew it, she knew Him. No wonder she ran away; no wonder she came back dragging the men of the town with her; no wonder they listened and believed Him. My heart still skips a beat when my imagination conjures the scene and most of all, the words “I Who speak to you am He.”
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