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March 6, 2006

The Last of the Old Testament Prophets

For John the Baptist came neither eating bread nor drinking wine. And you say: "He hath a devil". - Jesus, Luke 7:33

The night sky is always a deepening shade of reds, then purples. It comes in, slow and sure, without concern for those who still need the light of day. In times before electricity, the stars were enough; there was nothing else to turn to. Rockers on porches were front row seats.

And in earlier times, you slept under the sky, bringing you just enough light to guide you into bed, and to display a brilliant array of stars for you to wonder at.

A campfire would light your evening meal and keep you warm, or at least mesmerized, until the night closed in and you found that path into the dream realm.

This is where we begin to open and accept our own destiny, in dreams of futures, and dreams of past, in dreams of glory or failure . . .

Now begin in a setting not so much a desert as an ancient city. The city is walled, and the gates lead out in every direction but the one we will take - as the time traveler comes to be the focal point in this part of your story.

Assuming you can know the ways of living in an ancient city, do look around and see the city in its false appearance, for this is but one of many such places in your memory, a fact you already have considered.

To be a traveler through time, you must prepare for time to be an existing place. If this is possible in your thoughts, you can be in many places at one point in time.

Barring any unfound stations we have not yet aligned to visit, we know our destination is this ancient city of a distant land called Samaria.

As we travel in thought to that place of your birth, see yourself again in a moment of crying for the mother you never knew, but understood was gone already.

Today we see an ample supply of water being hauled up from the well. Today, at least, you live with water enough to survive. Think of all life as depending upon the water supply - it was and will always be a fact of existence.

In troubled times of drought you are called an extra mouth; in times of abundant water you are as if invisible. In the days we are speaking of right now, you are all the more willing to leave this place of poverty and death for a chance to live among the ones who wander in the desert in search of water. They always seem to find it when they need it, or so it seems to you, a child with a point of view already stronger than she knows.

A mother with a brood will never leave a child behind, and this is the way you seek to leave the city. If you join, or follow close enough, you will be included in the brood. No other way comes to your mind.

Off then we walk, following behind a family too large to know one child from another. This of course is not the truth, but in your young mind it seems to be so.

Walking out with complete confidence lasts only so long. Your legs are smaller for the lack of food, and your endurance has never been tested in this environment. Soon you lag behind, and soon you vanish from sight.

This is a strange way to start a story, but no truer words can be found than a simple statement of the facts. You were in the desert all alone by nightfall, a very dangerous place for a child to be. Starvation was not your worry; but water was, as always, a necessity. This you knew without having to be told.

Night fell, and loneliness set in. A child who lived among the city throngs had little experience with being so completely alone.

There was a danger present; it took the form of a beast, but of the human kind. This beast was watching for just such an opportunity, a child alone at night.

The experiences of a lifetime are always joined together by a common thread, and your thread was chosen on this night. It was a bitter moment, to know you were about to be unfettered from this earth, to find yourself alive still, moaning in a voice not seemingly your own.

If pillage is a word thought of as from an ancient past time, then rape transcends all time, for rape is still with you today. As the death blow was delivered, it was misdirected, for no purpose but to pain you further. And the murderer became the one to torture a child long into her life, as your broken body, still alive, was left to be eaten by the dogs.

Alive is our key to the story now.

Without a moment to lose, a man with a certain way of finding the lost and the forgotten came upon you, the child in our story, and hauled your broken body to a campfire still smoldering at dawn. Now shall we tell you of this savior, or do you need more time to feel the pain of being alive still?

Only in a life so tattered from the start could a child sit in silence and, understanding nothing, see into the eyes before her, and know she was safe. The diamond-eyed lover of a God, he held the burden of all emotion in his eyes, the coal blackness hardened to the finest quality of light, honed into a gaze that withered the proudest souls of men. His barrenness broke the hearts of most, he stood so spare. His was a finely tuned countenance.

Of course you did just what any child would, you cursed his eyes and tried to spit. Or was spit too dear to you?

There was no hesitation in his movement, as he bound your broken legs and staunched the flow of blood. He spends time in this desert, and knows the landscape well enough to find the remedy needed to ease your pain. You sleep as if your little life depends on this state, and indeed it does. Tides of dreams sweep you in and out of sleep, but mostly you are held in darkness, and for this little while you give in and rest. When the sun shines in your dreams, you smile, and your savior watches, wondering where you travel while asleep.

Once the pain has ebbed, you awaken to another day alive, and know that to live you must drink water and find food somewhere. A day alive is a day of pain, but time will heal your wounds, or so your savior tells you. This gift of food and shelter are the offerings given to ease the pain, and water is a welcomed treat.

But bathing is expected. "How can this be?", you frown. "To waste so much water is a sin of some kind, is it not?"

Water was always available, just not to you, a child too small to haul it from the well alone. In small amounts, water is doled out to children who live in the streets of the city, but you are now a desert dweller, just what you wanted.

Sometimes, we listen to your own voice speaking as if you are alone, and we laugh to hear you prattle on about the sins of those you have not even met yet! A good child would bear no false witness to the ones she now must serve to stay alive!

Onward now you both travel, your walking stick a crutch. Enough time has passed, and you have mended well. Still, to walk is hard. And so he carries you, thinking you are hardly more than a baby after all. When night falls, he wraps you in his own robes, and safety never known folds you into a silence that will last until the day breaks. This continues for some time, the longest walk you will ever know. In the years that will follow, this always remains a time of being with the one you come to think of as your savior - nothing else will do.

He listens to your words; strange words though, for you speak in many different languages, or so it seems. Sometimes he knows the truth is held within a tirade, as you scream out phrases only you can understand. The sounds you make are vaguely familiar in his mind. So on and on, he allows you a freedom which children are not afforded in this time of a world coming apart at its very core. But differences gain interest, and interest stirs the pot.

Who is this strong-willed girl, always at the heels of our master now?

He took her to his bed again.

Only for a night of story telling. But who is the teller? And who listens, ever so alert?

Without fear of reprisal, you stand your ground for all to notice. And notice they do. They notice your favored position within the camp, they notice your favored sleeping robes, and they notice your words of criticism aimed at those who are allowed no such favoritism.

She is but a child he found half dead, and being without one of his own, he dotes upon her, that’s all. Leave him to his own choices. His tantrums are as hard to handle as hers.

But into your life now, there appears the tendril of a whispered word, never heard before: betrayal.

Yes, all who are in constant focus are deemed fair game, for to bring down one so favored would surely lead to a better place for the others always awaiting the attention of the master himself. This is now where we begin to speak with certainty of the details of these lives, now quite intertwined. One is seldom thought of without the other coming into sight. And this is never good news, as we see it.

The man is bronzed, and fevered in his approach. He carries an appeal that must be sent from God. His words are clipped with anger, for the smallest sin is tantamount to displeasure in the eyes of God. To save one’s self is possible, and to repentant souls he grants an absolution.

Is he the Teacher, come again to help all seekers? Or is he a Prophet, standing in his own right, lending words that tell of better things to come? Listen!

Both are true, for all good teachers know their students well, and work according to the needs of the students at the time. They speak of a better way to know the truth as it unfolds. And in this, they prophesize the coming of events that all the world awaits.

Our man did include your words in his. He thought you were connected to the afterlife. He knew that heaven was already within your grasp, but you did not gain entry: he somehow kept you waiting at the gate.

Now, his teachings spread; they grew, as did his information. Many came to assist him in the gift he bestowed upon his followers, the ritual bathing now called baptism. Each day was a constant faithfully-consistent call to repent all sins of any color, any form, and any gravity. For all could be forgiven. In the eyes of God, all were of equal value.

The days were long, and hardships were looked upon as gratefully accepted. But the grace of God was not always good to be around!

You watched many come and leave again, always wondering at the crowds. Where did they come from, and where on earth did they go when the sun went down?

These were days of uninterrupted silence. No one spoke to you, until your savior took you into his robes at night and spoke of uncertainties in his own mind. He did not think you all-knowing, or even clever. But in your sleepy speeches, he could always find a thread that had escaped him, for but a moment, and in the morning he knew with his own certainty that which had eluded him. This was a custom well-established by the time his name was recognized in the ancient land with the ancient name, by the banks of the river Jordan.

This was a time of plenty, if you think of plenty as just enough to survive. Our own man John was one who needed little to survive upon. And in his thoughts, you were as he was, so tuned into thoughts of God that there was nothing else you desired (harder than you can imagine if you are hungry, or if you need a sandal repaired).

Take our words as truth: you knew the difference between your world and the world that spun around you. During the long days at the river, you watched others eat at noon, or drink when they were thirsty. You saw the robes; some dirty, but robes nonetheless. Your dress was cloth fashioned to form a covering to hide you from prying eyes. It could have been a robe, if only you had asked for something more.

The man himself was as lean as a string of leather, tanned and softened into use, but only for one purpose - the spreading of the laws of baptism. He ate no food but that which he could find himself, for it was his custom to take only from his God. His robe was skin and the hide of a camel, or so the legend says.

But it was a hide, and this was tied round by his girdle of leather, meant to evoke thoughts of prophets that went before. The sight of him made men wonder at their own softness, as if this could be a source of displeasing the Lord as well.

Wine was served in camp, but never to you, for he did not hold wine as pleasant to indulge his body with. Indeed his was a nature that indulgences had no hold upon.

So here we have a start to your story of a child who lived a life as one inside the robes of a man hidden by his name. The Baptist began his life with heralds announcing his birth, and with signs and wonders that all pointed the way. Did he listen to the calling? Did he play his role well? Did he answer the question laid before him, as he stood erect and self-assured?

- Adam, through Lynda Friedman

- John the Baptist Preaching, Auguste Rodin, 1878

Posted by Neal at March 6, 2006 10:44 PM | Category: Father Time

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