Voices from the Past Part 48

A finch is watching me as I write under the olives.

Rain is threatening.

Conception. Birth. Death. Each is a mystery.

In my father's house I grew up among mysteries. I heard them talked, argued over, curtly dismissed. I have resented the unknowns, yet to plumb them is still beyond me. Each child is a mystery. The temple is a mystery. The sh.e.l.l that I pick up on the beach has its mystery. Some say I am a man of mysteries. Does the turtle have its mysteries?

Kislev 5

For days I have been too busy and preoccupied to write- preaching often, healing often. I am writing in a borrowed tent; James and Mark are asleep inside.

Yesterday, on the lake sh.o.r.e, I was circled by a crowd.

I talked to them till late. I wish to record the promises I made them:

Verily, I say unto you, he that believeth in me hath everlasting life. I am that bread of life. Your fathers ate manna in the wilderness, and are dead. I am living bread.

If any man eat of this bread he shall live forever.

In keeping with my promise I pa.s.sed out bread and fish in baskets. I blessed the food and there was an abundance for everyone, many of them hungry children.

Mark and James and Phillip pa.s.sed the baskets till each was fed, the fish and bread always sufficient. At parting I reminded the people of the deeper meaning but some were overwhelmed by the miracle. A youngster ran about shouting: "He made the bread...he made the fish...with his own hands. Jesus made..."

A strange restlessness troubled almost everyone.

Phillip, Andrew and I strolled along a white path, as white, in the moonlight, as if made of crushed sh.e.l.ls.

Galilee was flat and silvery. Andrew continued to comment about the "bread and fish" at almost every turn of the path. His youthful, enthusiastic face warned me, warned me that youth is irresponsible. What is the proper age for wisdom? As for miracles is there a miracle surpa.s.sing the miracle of faith?

Peter has made me a tent. It is dark green, and big enough for two. The tent pole is an antique shepherd's staff. A charioteer and a number of untranslatable characters have been carved on the wood.

"Papa gave me that staff long ago. He said it is a.s.syrian."

I can carry the tent comfortably and the staff is never out of my hands.

Peter's

Kislev 6

Last night I dreamed I was a tree-a cedar tree.

"Don't cut me down," I begged. "I am shade...I am the home of birds."

I sat underneath the tree and fell asleep. I slept inside a dream.

Peter's Home

Kislev 10

John is dead. Murdered.

He has been beheaded.

The world has lost a voice of reason. I have lost my best friend. He was beheaded at a drunken orgy-his head was displayed like a trophy at the palace. What desecration, abuse, folly, horror. I can barely write...sorrow...resentment... my mind whirls to the days we pa.s.sed together in the desert, our wilderness comrades.h.i.+p. His faith was my faith. Our bonds were those of true brotherhood.

I should have been able to free him. Instead I gave him dried fruit and a comb. The letters I wrote did nothing.

My pet.i.tions were disregarded. I was too patient. I have sat in this room all day...nothing has come of my sorrow but more sorrow. Peter and James and Mark have had their say.

Late in the evening friends arrived, wanting to plan his burial. Permission has been granted: we are to be permitted to claim his body. It is best to have the sacred privilege of farewell. We tell each other that we must succeed for his sake, man of poverty, prison and death.

For his sake we can burn our lamps and candles and share late communion, get up early, walk many leagues and extol his faith. We will tell it on the hills and in the towns and in the villages. I feel his wrestler's hand tighten on my shoulder.

Kislev 12

We brought John to the ancient rocky crypts, a dozen of us. Some of us wound scarves around our faces. Mother suspected that we were followed. She insisted on two to act as guards.

Simon was there... Matthew, Peter, Luke, Mark...they helped us lay John outside his crypt, helped us cut stone. A torch burned Mark's arm; someone smashed our hammer. "Work fast," someone was constantly urging. Peter got defiant: "Let the Romans come," he shouted. "We have a right to bury our dead." Luke had to calm him. It was dawn before we had the crypt sealed; we were cut and bruised. No torches.

As I sat among the cliff rocks I tried to obliterate the tragedy, tried to refute his death. Hard to breathe.

Hard to utter the final prayer. Think of it...we had buried a headless man, friend, friend...

As we stole into town we met the Kittim officer, riding for Capernaum; he did not recognize me of course. What a stark figure! I wanted to talk to him about his son but Mother begged me: we must not trust him.

She railed against wickedness and power.

Luke left us, to care for a sick man.

As we walked, Mother leaned on a stick. Her wrinkled face made me aware that the star of long ago was not around.

At Matthew's home we talked of John's betrayal.

Perhaps we should be somewhat mad to combat man's madness: we must chop up the two thousand crucifixes, chop them into pieces for firewood and with that firewood we shall bake our bread-our pita. Crucified bread is the bread of the poor, the waiting, waiting poor. G.o.d must help them; we must help them; we must help them as we must help G.o.d. Heal. Lift up our eyes.

Nazareth-home

Kislev 20