the secret place of thunder

2019-12-11T10:16:00.001-06:00

Once upon a time, when I read the Bible, I saw flannelgraph people. People in static attitudes, dressed in impressive ancient costumes, saying their lines. Holy people. (With a few exceptions of course.)

Now when I read the Bible, I see people.

People with hearts that scream for love, for victory, for vengeance. People who've been longing all their lives for freedom, for a child, for a promise kept. People who have just been asked to tear their own heart out. People facing choices that must destroy them. People standing at the dark heart of their own stories, where you and I have stood; broken. Beyond tears. Going on.

People meeting God in a place they never could have imagined. In the secret place of thunder.

I know the Bible doesn't read like that, sometimes.

Then Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak. When he saw that he had not prevailed against him, he touched the socket of his thigh, so the socket of Jacob's thigh was dislocated while he wrestled with him. Then he said, "Let me go, for the dawn is breaking." But he said, "I will not let you go unless you bless me."

All right. Nice dialogue. But where's the scene? Where's the darkness, the faint moonlight that gleams on the sweat running down the two straining backs—the man and the angel, the Unknown, the strange wrestler by the river in the night. Where is Jacob's ragged breathing, his hoarse shout as he breaks the stranger's grip once again, where is the quiet sound of the water behind him, the thundering of his heart?

It's in there. If you search for it. I've been doing some searching.

The writings on this site are the fruit of it. It's not quite, not exactly, about making the Bible come alive; it's about making its deep, wild life a little more visible. It's about doing what I can against the stiff, lifeless way in which the Bible is treated in so many churches—and viewed by so many non-Christians, ex-Christians, doubting Christians, sure Christians—maybe you.

I want you to hear the thunder.

I want you to pass it on to others, too. These readings are meant to be read aloud. Bring them to your church, have them read aloud during a service, at a small group, at an event or a retreat. Use them to shake people up a little, to make them remember that these people lived and died and suffered and cried glory, that as far as the disciples knew on Holy Saturday Jesus was going to rot, that what happened the next morning was not a joyous celebration but an earthshaking wonder, beyond belief.

Use them. Please.

Advent, Week 1: Good News

2011-08-07T18:05:00.001-05:00

He sees her from far off, from above, at first. It is dawn, just light enough to see. She is kneeling in the dusty courtyard of her little house, working hard on something in front of her, pushing at it and pushing again, a movement that rocks her back and forth. She is wearing a long dirty white robe belted at the waist, and a dirty white cloth covers her hair. She is already at work.

She is kneeling at a kneading trough, a long shallow wooden trough with a slick ball of dough in it. He can see her face now. She is frowning at a crack in the trough, a crack that widens with every push she gives to the dough. She is worried. She is thinking. He doesn't know what she is thinking.

He knows what he has been told. He knows her family is getting ready for the harvest, and that all of them can think of little else but whether the harvest will be enough to make the rent and still have enough food to eat this year. He knows it has been like this since she was ten, when her father lost his land to the tax men. He knows she is thinner than she ought to be, and that the reason is that she sometimes does not have enough to eat. He knows that it would only take one lost harvest for her to be seized as a slave for her father's debts. He knows her family cannot afford to replace the kneading trough that is cracking under her hands, and that it is bound to break if it continues to be used this way. He knows it is not repairable anyway. She keeps kneading. Maybe she knows this too.

He watches her.

He does not know what it is like, not to have enough to eat. He does not know what it is like to be hungry at all. To be afraid. To be helpless. He has tried to imagine; and he can't.

He searches her surroundings for any clue to this, to her; this low mud-and-stone house with its doorway of rough beams, the blackened bread-oven on her right hand, the dooryard of hard-baked dust. Around them the everlasting hills, craggy and black against the pale dawn sky. Within an hour that sky will harden into a deep unbroken blue. The rains are over now. The time is near.

Before he can show himself, or speak, a form steps through the dark doorway of the house. It must be her mother. The father is gone to the fields. The mother carries a large clay water-jar on the her head, and does not see what she is looking at. There are deep lines in her forehead. She walks past her daughter with a glance down at her, a swift smile and tightening of her face. The young woman looks up.

“Shalom, Mother,” she says. “I can fetch the water. I'll be done with the bread soon.”

“I'll fetch it today,” says the mother.

“But—”

“Miriam—did you see him? When you went to the well, yesterday?”

He knows who they mean. He knows she is promised to a young man; a young man with what they call good prospects, which means that they think the work he can do seems likely to get her enough to eat.

“Yes—I mean, he was out there, working on the—”

“You didn't greet him did you?” Her voice is sharp.

“Of course not, Mother!”

“Do you look at him? When he sees you in the street?”

“Oh—Mother—we might have glanced at each other as we passed, nothing anyone would notice—” The rhythm of her kneading grows faster.

The mother kneels swiftly in front of her, the water pot still on her head. “Miriam. You're a good girl. I know you are. But that's not enough. The women at the well have to know it too. Oh Miriam, you have to watch yourself. If they start to talk about you—if they see you throwing glances—”

“I don't 'throw glances,' Mother.” Miriam's voice is low and hard.

“Listen to me.” She says it roughly, her voice cracking, and Miriam stares. “I'm talking about what it looks like. What it might look like to some woman itching for a little gossip. I'm talking about giving them no excuse. Because if they do—if they talk, Miriam, and if he hears them—” her voice is high now, catching in her throat—“we can't, we can't afford it, this is your chance, Miriam, and if we lose it...” He sees the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

Miriam is still looking at her, her eyes wide and open; but dry. She looks down at the kneading trough, and up again, and whispers, “I won't look at him, Mother.”

Her mother swallows, and nods. She looks as though she cannot speak any more. She looks into her daughter's eyes for a long moment, and slowly stands, her water jar still on her head. She turns and walks away, down toward the road to the well. Her footsteps sound unsteady. When she is gone Miriam suddenly doubles over and buries her face in her hands just above the dough she has been kneading.

He stands and watches her.

He watches her. He sees her and she does not see him, though he stands before her, his wings like drifted snow, his eyes like flame.

He sees her, this young woman kneeling in the dust; he who has seen the wild glory of the first creation, he who has heard the deep heavens ring with the endless song. He who has seen God's face. He sees her, and he hesitates. Greetings, he thinks. Oh favored one. Favored one. Chosen.

Two Coins

2011-08-07T17:35:00.003-05:00

Mark 12:41-44

I have walked two miles today, and now I am at the Temple. The house of God, the glorious place, where I will do what I have got to do.

But now I stand looking at it, the white marble pillars, the engraved gold on their tops, and I seem to shrink into myself. I'm sweating. It's so hot. The beautiful lady walking ahead of me, with the gold woven into her veil, she has a servant with her, fanning her with a huge fan. I have my old brown dress, and my sweat, and the two pennies clenched in my hand. I follow her in through the high gates, watch the heads turn toward her. Their eyes slide quickly over me, they don't see me, and why should they? People don't like to look at ugly things. Not here in the Temple, where everything is beautiful, to honor God. Not here where you can hear the choirs singing, even from out in the courtyard, the music rising like incense—incense and marble and gold, gleaming in the sunlight, what am I doing here? What did I ever think God wanted with me and my rough hands and my old clothes and my ugly face? What did I ever think God wanted with my two pennies, him that has marble and gold? I should turn around. I should turn and go home. But I can't face it, the walk. Home under the beating sun, for nothing. I swore I would do this. I made a vow to God. You're not supposed to break that. Even if you offered God something he didn't want. You promised. That's all.

I promised. I go on.

God has everything. He made everything, all of it is his. Things more beautiful than gold or pillars—the thousands of stars in the night sky, the red poppies with their petals softer than the silk that woman ahead of me wears. Water. Is there anything as beautiful as running water, the way it gleams like live silver in the sun? A man gave me a cup of water on the way here—a water-carrier with two heavy buckets he'd probably carried for a mile, I knew he couldn't afford to be giving it away, but he did, and smiled and called me “mother” for respect. I never tasted anything so good. I tried to give him one of my coins—though I could hardly stand to let it go—but he wouldn't let me. Such a kind young man, such openness in his face, it made me wish that my Johanna were still with me. A man like that, that was what she needed. Johanna. I pray for her every day, and every day I wonder. Where she is. If she's all right.

God gave me a good life. Oh, you could say it was a bad one, people do say that; what do they know? I'm alive, not dead. I still have joy, in a cup of cold water, in the face of a young man. I have something to give to God, even if they say it's nothing. My husband is dead, and of my two daughters one died in childbirth and the other ran away. And yes, it hurts. It always has and it always will. God hurts, too. It doesn't help to have gold or stars or incense, I think, when you have children who've run away, who are living their own nightmares and still will not come home.

I wanted to give him something. I wanted to give him something, to tell him thank you, to tell him I know, to say please, please do all you can for my Johanna and I know you love her too. And this is all I have, and he knows that; if he allows it I should be getting a little more next week, but until then I don't know what I'll eat, and he knows that too. It was the only way I could do it. I tried and tried to save a little up, but I couldn't. So I had to, I had to do this for him. He'll take care of me, I thought. He's taken care of widows before.

But now I don't know. Now I feel ashamed. The temple shines with gold in the sun and I have come to give him two pennies. Two pennies, as if they were worth something. As if I was doing something important, as if me and my sweat-stained dress were something God wanted to see. What will they use my two pennies for, in this temple? To buy a rag to wipe the floors with? What will people think of me, seeing me drop them in the offering box?

The beautiful lady in her silk dress is still ahead of me, walking slowly between her servants under the colonnade, gracefully. She turns aside a little, to avoid a group of dusty men listening to some kind of teacher. They lean in, all eyes on him; his face is hard and angry as I pass by, and I hear him saying “they eat up widow's houses and then they pray long prayers in front of everyone—”

And I stop for a moment; for a moment I turn back towards them, because I am amazed. Because yes, they do. Because Simon, the man who now owns the house I birthed my babies in, he does, he prays long prayers in the synagogue and everyone thinks he is holy, and when I went to the judge to say that Simon cheated me the judge yawned and looked away. Because why should he listen? Simon is somebody and I am nobody. Nobody at all. And this teacher in the temple, how does he know?

As I pause, as I look back at the teacher, he raises his eyes and meets mine. He sees me. His face isn't hard, for a moment, it's like that young man's, the one who gave me water. But sadder. Tireder. Like he knows the weight of it, like me. And for that moment he sees me.

It's only a moment. One of the other men opens his mouth to say something, and I turn away, hoping they didn't see me, hoping they didn't see their teacher staring at an ugly old woman, and her staring back. I go on. The beautiful lady is there, a few steps ahead, at my destination. The offering box. She is untying a purse from her belt; it's heavy. Other people are watching her too. She tips it into the slot, holding it by the bottom; I hear the heavy ring of the coins falling in, I see the glint of gold. Someone near me gasps. “All of it!” I hear someone murmur a blessing. I stand there, not moving, hoping no one sees me.

I am nobody. Nobody.

I stand there for a minute, trembling a little, as one by one the well-dressed people put their money in. Silver, gold. I am nobody. I am ashamed.

But I promised.

I step forward, still shaking. There is no one by the offering box now, no one to shoulder me aside, this is my chance. Oh God, take what I give, you know it can't be more. You know I would if I could. Oh God, have mercy on me, have mercy on my Johanna. I hear the tiny clink of my little copper coin falling on the silver and gold in the box; one little clink, and then another, and my hands are empty. I have nothing left to give.

I turn away, quickly, hoping no one saw.

2011-04-20T22:27:00.008-05:00

This piece is an Easter drama, slightly lighter in tone than the others. It can do pretty well, though, if you get actors who are willing to get into their roles and be dramatic. It won't play well at all as a "skit", with people reading their lines from a print-out, so please, be kind to me and only put this on if you have people who can act.

But their words seemed to them like nonsense

an Easter drama

Mary Magdalene: Peter, John, let me in, you won't believe what I've seen!

Peter: Come in—quick—shut the door—they could be watching—did you come home by a different way like I said, Mary—

Mary: Peter, it's all right, everything's all right, he's ALIVE!

Peter (in pure astonishment): WHAT??

John: What's this about, Mary? Tell me exactly what you saw.

M (catching her breath): The tomb was open, it was empty, there were men—two men—at the tomb—dressed in white—they knew who we were looking for—they said he was gone—they said we mustn't look for the living among the dead—they said—

J: Mary, calm down. Who were these men? Did they tell you who they were, where they came from...

M: Don't you understand? They were ANGELS!

P (rounds on her, suspicious) : Angels? Angels? Mary! How do you know?

M (upset): He's alive, alive, don't you people understand what I'm telling you?

J (calmly, soothing): It's all right, Mary, it's all right. We just need a minute, all right? Will you excuse us a moment? (in a slightly lower voice, as if to Peter privately) What do you think, Peter? I think it's the stress.

P (with feverish certainty): No. No. It's not. She really saw something.

J: What?

P: Men in white... Like she said... Tell me John—who can open a tomb? The people who closed it, that's who. It's a trap. They're using the women to flush us out of hiding—

J: Like that? Aren't there—easier ways?

P (almost shouting): John, it's not FUNNY!

J: I'm serious, Peter. They've got people everywhere. If all they were waiting for was to know where we are, they'd have arrested us yesterday. This is Rome we're talking about.

P (with a shudder): I know.

M : What are you two talking about in there?

P: We—

M (calm now, and quietly angry): Do you really think I don't know an angel when I see one? After all this time with—him? Do you really think the other women and I—got drunk, or—hysterical? And all saw the same thing? I know what I have seen. Listen to me: the stone is rolled away. The tomb is empty. The soldiers are gone. There were two men in white who shone like the sun. They said he had risen from the dead—like he said he would. They said we should go tell his disciples and Peter that he was alive and going ahead of us all into Galilee, and we should all go join him there...

P (in shock; looked up sharply at the mention of his name): Me? They said to tell me? His disciples—and—me? (He says the last words slowly, puzzled and worried, trying to figure out if this phrasing implies he's not a disciple anymore.)

M: Yes.

P: Are you sure? Are you sure he—I mean, they said—he—wants to see me?

M: They said all of us, Peter, we should all go.

P: Did they say where he is now? Are they still there, Mary?

J: Peter—

P: If there's even a chance—even a chance—

M (joy beginning to rise in her voice again): They said Galilee, Peter—but they were still there when we left—they might be—

Peter rises and runs out of the room, slamming the door behind him. There is a moment (about 3 sec.) of silence.

J: Mary—

M (with dignity and pain): John, I saw them. I am telling the truth.

J: Mary, he's dead. You were there—I was there—they put a spear through him at the end...

M: Don't you remember what he said? That the Son of Man would suffer—and be put to death—and rise again... We had no idea what he was talking about. We thought it was a—metaphor...

J: That? You think that—meant—but Mary, how can it...

M: He did it for Lazarus, didn't he?

J: But—when he did that—he was—alive...

M (quietly): And God, John? Is God alive?

John rises slowly, and stands silent for a long moment, his face motionless. He turns slowly toward the door and begins to walk toward it as though in his sleep. He opens it, and breaks into a run.

Mary takes a long, deep breath and lets out a shuddering sigh (in a deeply moved, joyful way) and finally smiles. (Or use whatever way of expressing joy you like best.) She says, or shouts, or whispers: He's alive. He's alive. He's alive. Then she follows John out the door.

Life Again: an Easter reading

2011-04-20T22:09:00.008-05:00

The garden was wet that morning, the rich man's garden around his tomb cut into the rock. I remember that. You could still hear the earth drinking the rain.

It had been a dry spring that year. Very dry. Everyone was afraid. The young crops in the fields were beginning to shrink and wither, to hang their heads like weary slaves. Everyone spoke of it, guessing at how soon a rainfall would need to come, to save enough of the crop. Everyone spoke of it, when they weren't speaking of the things that were happening in Jerusalem.

You know, I am sure, what happened in Jerusalem that year. Maybe you have heard that a great prophet came to Jerusalem, and was acclaimed with hosannas and palm branches, and that the Sanhedrin and the Romans conspired against him and killed him. Maybe you have heard that a rabble-rouser came, and all the poor and landless flocked to him and hailed him as king, and something had to be done. Though maybe it should have been done more quietly. I have heard heard that some of them thought that, afterwards.

We had followed him there, from Galilee. We were the poor and landless. I had farmed another man's land ever since I was old enough to put my hand to my plow; it was my father who got into debt and had to sell our farm. No fault of his. Three bad harvests, in a row. Three years just like this one was promising to be: thirsty, dusty, empty of the new life we were hoping for so hard.

And so we lost our land, although we lived on it and farmed it still. I married; my father died; I farmed. Every year struggling hard to meet the rent; every year hoping, trying, working from dawn to sundown with hardly a pause, hoping to keep enough back so that in three years, five years, ten years we could buy it back. Every year the hopes withering a little more, even as our hopes for a child withered also. After the last harvest was all gathered in and the storms began, I would calculate how much we could keep back. And then I would calculate whether we could make the rent at all. And then I would walk out into the field, in the rain, so that my wife would not have to see me crying. I didn't go there to cry; I went to pray; but I couldn't. I could only hear in my mind a line from the prophet Jeremiah, over and over again till I wept: “The harvest is over, the summer is gone, and we are not saved.”

So when I heard of this man Jesus, I had very little to lose. Very little. That year my wife fell ill, terribly ill, till it seemed certain she would die. When Jesus came to our town I came out to him and pushed through the crowds that were around him, the people begging him to heal their sick, and when I finally reached him I begged too. He came into my house. I couldn't carry her―she was hot with fever and gasping for breath―and so he walked with me and actually came into my little house, and he put his hand on her head, and for a moment he closed his eyes, and in his face I saw such weariness. It was as if all our hopeless, grinding struggle, all the years we had worked and worked and not been saved, were on his shoulders and in his face, and I felt a stab of fear, and thought: he cannot save her.

He seemed so much like us. Who could save nothing.

And then his eyes opened and his face lit up, like the sun for joy and power. And I heard my wife's breathing slow down, and deepen.

I was so grateful to him I could not speak.

And so we followed him. She stood up from her bed and offered him bread and milk, and he ate with us, till a man came to the door begging him to come heal his son, and he went. And I spoke with my wife, and we were of one mind. So that when he came back to our door, staff in hand, on his way down the road again, and looked at us and said Follow me, we were packed and ready. He walked away from the fields I had worked all my life and we walked away with him. We were done with the struggle. With working till we were stumbling with weariness, and not being saved. God knew what would happen to us, how we would live. But God had sent this man. This Messiah. And he had come into our house, and he had said follow. So let the land go, let the withered hopes go, let God decide what would come. We were done.

We followed him, from town to town, walking in the train of disciples. We lacked nothing. Among the disciples, everyone shared what they had. We listened to his words, wherever he stopped to teach. We loved him. We followed him to Jerusalem, and cried hosanna with all the people, and I threw my threadbare cloak in the road for his donkey to walk on. And yes, I hoped he would be king. I could imagine nothing better.

And less than a week later, he was killed.

I remember that night, the night after he died, as if it were yesterday. We were staying at Lazarus of Bethany's house, a finer house than I had ever slept in, a dozen of us on the floor in each big room. My wife was in the next room with the women; I couldn't bear to be with her. She had seen him die. She tried to tell me what it was like, and I walked away. I couldn't. I was already broken, just from hearing he was dead. I was barely breathing now.

I sat on the floor in silence, with the other men, and the thoughts in my head were like jackals, tearing. He was dead. Hope was dead. My wife had trusted me and I had led her into a trap. Followed after a false messiah. Or a doomed prophet. What difference, in the end? We had nothing, no money; no home. We could not ask Lazarus and his sisters to continue helping us forever, for the sake of a dead man we all had loved. We would have to set out on the road, and somehow make our way back to our village, not knowing if we would be allowed to begin our hopeless farm again. I thought, we will starve, and it's my fault. I thought, this is how people become slaves. And their children after them. I thought of the wheat in the fields, the dusty shoots hanging limp, and I thought of the weary eyes of slaves, which held the truth: work without hope is, in the end, all we have.

And then I heard a sound, from outside; a sweet, soft sound spread wide across the sky and the land, that began very quietly, and grew. It was raining.

I sat on the floor in the dark―we had lit no lamps―and I listened. Put my head back, and listened to the rain. Falling soft on the thirsty earth, laying to rest the dust; I pictured the crops, in the fields, the dust washed off them now, small and green against the dark earth. And I could not help it. Hope came up. Small and green against the darkness in my heart.

A farmer cannot listen without hope to the rain.

Because a farmer knows, though he forget it again and again. He knows where hope comes from, and salvation. He can plant. He can even water, to the best of his strength, and for a time. But it will all come to nothing, unless God sends the rain.

I lay down on my mat, and remembered that day he had healed my wife. I remembered the freedom, the surrender, of walking away behind him. I lay there, and I listened to the rain.

It rained for two days.

On the third day, the women woke early. They had bought spices, they wanted to embalm him. No one thought the rich man would lend his tomb forever; and so he must be fit to be moved. My wife went with them. She was not with them, when they came back.

They came back wild-eyed, shouting that the tomb was empty, that he was alive. We stared at them. Peter and John began to try to talk them out of their fit. I said nothing, and counted them. All of them were there except her. I slipped out the door.

She was in the street outside, waiting. Too shy to come in with the others. She was waiting for us all to come out, to go back to the tomb. Her eyes were shining like a sunrise in spring. The joy in her face almost made me look away, it was so bright.

“It's true?” I whispered.

She nodded. “I saw angels.” She was whispering too. “Two of them. So bright.” There were tears in her eyes. “They say he's alive. That God―God gave him life again.”

“Where is he, Salome?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I don't know.”

I do not remember all that happened. I remember Peter and John rushing past us, and me without the strength to run; still barely breathing, still weak with joy. Alive. I had not led her into a trap. The true Messiah―only the true Messiah could do such a thing. And he had stepped inside my door; he had looked into my eyes, and said Follow. He had not abandoned me. The freedom, the day I walked away from all I had known—that was his gift to me, and his gifts he does not take back. He gives them again and again. This I thought, as I walked. This I knew. God does not take back the rain.

It was true. Since the day we walked away and followed him we have lacked nothing. We are not slaves; nor are our children.

We walked to the tomb. The sun was still rising; the doves were calling, they were flying down and drinking from the puddles in the road. When we got there the place was empty; no one walked in the wet garden, and the cave of the tomb was dark and silent. We stepped into it, my wife and I, and our steps echoed; in the darkness my eyes began to see the head-cloth, neatly folded, and laid aside; the graveclothes, empty, still holding the shape of a man who had no need of them now. It was so quiet. Even from inside the tomb, you could hear the earth drinking the rain.

That is what I remember.

The Heart of Light

2011-03-29T16:31:00.002-05:00

He didn't tell us why we were climbing the mountain. We were used to that. We trusted him.

We walked and walked; we took goat-paths at first, between the rocks, kicking up clouds of dust in the sun. I couldn't stop thinking about the things he'd said that week—that we would take up crosses, that he'd be killed. Who do you say that I am? He asked, and I answered, The Messiah—and he said I was right, he said I was blessed, and then he started talking about crosses, and being killed. Killed. No, I told him, not you, not you—and he turned and called me Satan. I could still hear the ring of his voice as I climbed that mountain behind him—my Master, whom I loved, calling me Satan. And it stung.

We climbed for hours, till the sun was high. We were sweating, but the air was getting cool. The land was laid out before us, underneath—field and pasture and the paths between them, and rocks everywhere like scattered seed. We had no idea what he meant to do. Show us the land, maybe, tell us what God meant to do for Israel, tell us where we were going next. We didn't know what he was going to do, we never knew what he was going to do, we knew to follow him. That was all. We knew he was the Messiah. And then we reached the crown of that mountain, and suddenly—before we could fling ourselves down on the grass to rest, before I could raise a hand to wipe the sweat off my brow—suddenly we knew something we had never known.

It happened so fast.

At first I thought the sun had come out from behind a cloud, suddenly; there was so much more light than there had been a moment before—but the sun rode high in the cloudless sky, and looked pale as a candle-flame in the sun compared to Him. Him. His face and clothes shining—like the clouds on Lake Galilee after a storm, when the sun catches them from behind and fills them with light—only brighter. If something could catch the sun like a cloud, and fill it with light—that something was him. There was so much light. Oh, I cannot tell you, I cannot tell you what I saw. I can only swear to it, and I will swear to it every day of my life: I saw the glory of the One and Only. If a man stares at the sun, is he not blinded? We stared and stared into the heart of light, and were not blinded. We saw and saw.

When I came to myself there were two men with him, who stood in his light. They were talking; they had been talking, I thought, for a long time. They were—I don't know how I knew—they were Moses and Elijah. My hands were shaking. You are the Messiah, I'd said, but I hadn't known. I hadn't known this. I wanted to throw myself face down on the ground but there they were, standing there in all the glory of the light, quietly talking. And I was afraid it would stop, the light would go, the sun would be all we had left. I started babbling—Master let's stay here, let's build three shelters, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah, as if that light needed a roof over its head against the rain. I was shaking all over. And then I couldn't see—we were inside a cloud that was filled with light, we were inside the light itself—I heard a voice say This is my son, whom I love, listen to him. I heard the voice of God, and I saw the light.

I have been in darkness many days since that day; I have been in the dark heart of life. I have known why he called me Satan. He can call me anything he likes. I have seen the darkness of the grave; but that light has never left me. It is inside me. I am inside it. Until the day dawns and the morning star rises in our hearts, in the darkest hour, still he is in me and I in him. I am still in the heart of light.

The Day I Got Invited

2011-03-29T16:26:00.001-05:00

This was written for a retreat to which we invited developmentally delayed folks, so we wanted something straightforward but meaningful. Our implicit theme for every retreat--being God's honored guests--was our explicit and only theme for that weekend, with the parable of the feast.

My name is Rebekah. They call me Rebekah the cripple--everybody knows me--I sit by the gate right here and beg every day. I watch everybody go past--the rich people in the fancy clothes and all the farmers all sweaty and dirty and even the poor beggars like me, like blind Eli and little Sara who can’t talk. I feel sorry for little Sara. Nobody will ever marry her, just like nobody ever married me. There’s Marcus too--he’s got a twisted arm, and he sits right across from me to beg. I don’t get mad if someone gives him a coin and doesn’t give me any. He needs it real bad. His arm got twisted up when his house burned down--something fell on it, I think it was a piece of wood that was on fire, the skin looks all weird--and his father died in the fire and his mother goes out in the fields and gets what’s left over after they harvested the wheat, but it’s not enough, and he’s hungry all the time, poor kid. Sometimes if I have a little extra I give it to him.

But I was going to tell you a story, and it’s not a story about Marcus. Well, partly it isn’t. I was going to tell you about Old Man Jacob’s party.

Wow, what a party.

I’d been hearing about it for a month--that Old Man Jacob, the richest man in town, was getting ready to throw a big party, just for no reason, just because he wanted to. Eli told me all about it; Eli likes to tell me what’s going on. Then pretty soon everyone was talking about it while they walked past. It got to where if someone said “Old Man Jacob” my mouth would start watering.

They said he was going to roast a whole cow and two sheep. Steak! All the steak you can eat! Oh, man. Do you know how long it’d been since I’d tasted steak? Twenty years. Susanna’s wedding. Susanna was always so nice to me--she got someone to carry me to where I could watch the dancing, and bring me steak. Oh, man, feeling meat between my teeth. Sometimes I lie awake and think of it.

But I wasn’t invited to Old Man Jacob’s party. Of course not! Why would he invite me? He was the richest man in town. So of course he invited the second richest man in town... and the third richest man in town... he invited the important people, the men who own big farms and don’t have to do any of the work themselves, the educated scribes, the merchants who buy fancy cloth from faraway countries and sell it for more money than I’ve ever had put together in my life. Of course he invited them and not us! But we liked to talk about the party anyhow. We liked to imagine if it was us, what we’d do, and what we’d eat first, and what we’d eat second, and how we’d never quit eating, ever. I’d start with steak, and then I’d have a little more, and then I’d have a few cheese rolls and some nice, white bread--the kind without any gravel or crunchy bits like I usually get!--and then I’d go to the fruit table and have figs and dates and pomegranates, and then some cake. They said there was going to be a whole table with nothing but every kind of sweet bread and cake there ever was. Oh man, I could just sit there by the gate and I didn’t even see the people go by because all I saw in my head was cake. Oh man. Do you know how long it’d been since I’d tasted cake?

Oh, and then I would go back for a second helping of steak.

But I wasn’t invited. Of course. I was just sitting there like usual, looking up at people and saying, “A coin please! A coin for the poor!” and watching their faces and wondering which ones would care enough, and which ones didn’t have anything anyway, and which ones had plenty but wouldn’t give it to such as me. Half the time I guess wrong but I can’t quit guessing. It’s the only thing I can do. Besides hold my hand out, and tell them I’m the poor. Tell them I need anything they can give me. And pray.

And this guy comes up to me, this guy in a uniform likes he’s a servant in some important house, and he says, “Are you crippled?”

I did something dumb. I laughed out loud. Because it sounded stupid! Anybody could see I was crippled. He looked annoyed, and he said, “Look, I’m just doing my job here. My boss told me to go out and get anybody who’s poor or crippled or blind or lame. He is in the weirdest mood. But he’s the boss.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m poor and I’m crippled, but who’s your boss and where are we going?”

“Master Jacob is my boss,” he said, “and we’re going to his party.”

Oh man. Oh man. I almost jumped up right there and started dancing. I almost forgot for just one moment I was crippled in both legs and jumped up and started dancing! But I didn’t. I just yelled “Woo hoo!” as loud as I could yell, and little Marcus looked over at me from across the road, and I turned to the servant guy and said, “Hey! See him! He’s poor and crippled too. Can he go?”

“‘Course he can go. I’m supposed to get as many as I can. Master Jacob wants his banquet hall full!”

I kinda just looked at him then, because I couldn’t figure it out. Why would Old Man Jacob try to fill up his party with us? It’s not like there wasn’t enough rich and fancy and educated people around. There were lots! And he’d invited them, too--Eli told me the names of every single person Old Man Jacob had invited--Eli always knows all the gossip. I’ve never been any good at shutting up, even when I ought to , so I said, “Hey Mister, how come we’re invited?”

Well, the guy started to smile, like he was remembering something funny. He said, “You know all those fancy people he invited? They didn’t want to come.”

“They didn’t WANT to?”

“No! None of them! They wrote back and said they were busy! Master Simon said he’d just bought a field and he had to go look at it, and Master Nathan said he’d just bought a whole lot of ploughing oxen and he wanted to watch his servants trying them out.”

I couldn‘t believe it. Rich people! They’d rather stare at what they’d got than go to a PARTY? “Can’t they do that later?”

“I guess not.” The guy was grinning now. “Master Jacob was so mad! You should’ve seen him, he was red in the face--I tell you what, he’s never inviting them again!”

By this time, little Marcus had stood up and gotten over to our side of the road wanting to know what it was all about. I turned to him and said, “Marcus, we’re going to Old Man Jacob’s party. We’re invited!”

His eyes got big. “We are?” He turned to the servant guy and tugged on his cloak, his eyes as big as saucers. “Mister?” he said. “Is it true about the roasted cow?”

“It’s true, son,” the servant guy said. “Except Master Jacob changed his mind at the last minute and made it two cows.”

Marcus’ eyes bugged out even further. My mouth was watering.

“And, young man,” the servant guy said, “Master Jacob has told me to invite everyone in town who’s poor or crippled or blind or lame. Do you know anybody else I should invite, and where I could find them?”

“Oh--” said Marcus--“Sara’ll wanna go--she’s just over on the next street usually--and old Joseph--and Jason--”

“And Eli,” I said, “don’t forget Eli--and Johanna and Mary--and--”

“You two had better come with me,” said the servant guy. And he whistled, and this other guy came up, big and burly, and he picked me up in his arms like I was a child. I didn’t weigh that much. No steak, no cake. Till now.

Oh man oh man. We went through town like a carnival--we got little Sarah, and we got Joseph and blind Eli and Saul and Johanna, and we got Jason and his two little brothers that can’t say a word between them but Oh man, you should’ve heard them laugh. We were like a parade, everyone running and dancing and jumping, all except us cripples--we were carried along like queens and kings. And Mary and Johanna started up a song, and everybody sang as loud as they could, and people looked out of their windows and saw all the beggars going down the street to Old Man Jacob’s party!

And we got there in the end, and oh man. What a party. I did exactly like I had planned. The steak and the white bread and the figs and dates and the cake and the steak again. It was unbelievable. And I sat there and watched little Marcus stuffing his face, and Mary and Johanna dancing, and old Joseph eating his fill for once in his life and just grinning away, and it was all more beautiful than anything I’d ever seen. And Eli sat by me and we listened to the music and I told him exactly what everyone was doing and what everything looked like, and then I told him the smile on his face was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And then I said something I never said to him before. I said, “If I wasn’t crippled and you weren’t blind, would you dance with me?”

His smile got even prettier. He said yes, kind of quietly. And then he said. “Maybe someday, Rebekah. Maybe we will dance together, in the kingdom of God. When he sends his servants out to invite us all to his party, will you dance with me then?”

And I said yes.

Invited to the Feast

2011-02-14T15:03:00.008-06:00

This is a reading I wrote for a spiritual retreat we hosted for a group of people with developmental disabilities. It was a beautiful retreat, though exhausting, and really brought out to us the deep need every person feels to be listened to, to be sometimes given someone's whole attention.

The theme for the weekend was being God's honored guests. The reading is based on Jesus' parable of the feast. This one is definitely meant to be read aloud, hopefully by someone who can enjoy getting into the character and voice of Rebekah.

My name is Rebekah. They call me Rebekah the cripple—everybody knows me—I sit by the gate right here and beg every day. I watch everybody go past—the rich people in the fancy clothes and all the farmers all sweaty and dirty and even the poor beggars like me, like blind Eli and little Sara who can’t talk. I feel sorry for little Sara. Nobody will ever marry her, just like nobody ever married me. There’s Marcus too—he’s got a twisted arm, and he sits right across from me to beg. I don’t get mad if someone gives him a coin and doesn’t give me any. He needs it real bad. His arm got twisted up when his house burned down—something fell on it, I think it was a piece of wood that was on fire, the skin looks all weird—and his father died in the fire and his mother goes out in the fields and gets what’s left over after they harvested the wheat, but it’s not enough, and he’s hungry all the time, poor kid. Sometimes if I have a little extra I give it to him.

But I was going to tell you a story, and it’s not a story about Marcus. Well, partly it isn’t. I was going to tell you about Old Man Jacob’s party.

Wow, what a party.

I’d been hearing about it for a month—that Old Man Jacob, the richest man in town, was getting ready to throw a big party, just for no reason, just because he wanted to. Eli told me all about it; Eli likes to tell me what’s going on. Then pretty soon everyone was talking about it while they walked past. It got to where if someone said “Old Man Jacob” my mouth would start watering.

They said he was going to roast a whole cow and two sheep. Steak! All the steak you can eat! Oh, man. Do you know how long it’d been since I’d tasted steak? Twenty years. Susanna’s wedding. Susanna was always so nice to me—she got someone to carry me to where I could watch the dancing, and bring me steak. Oh, man, feeling meat between my teeth. Sometimes I lie awake and think of it.

But I wasn’t invited to Old Man Jacob’s party. Of course not! Why would he invite me? He was the richest man in town. So of course he invited the second richest man in town... and the third richest man in town... he invited the important people, the men who own big farms and don’t have to do any of the work themselves, the educated scribes, the merchants who buy fancy cloth from faraway countries and sell it for more money than I’ve ever had put together in my life. Of course he invited them and not us! But we liked to talk about the party anyhow. We liked to imagine if it was us, what we’d do, and what we’d eat first, and what we’d eat second, and how we’d never quit eating, ever. I’d start with steak, and then I’d have a little more, and then I’d have a few cheese rolls and some nice, white bread—the kind without any gravel or crunchy bits like I usually get!—and then I’d go to the fruit table and have figs and dates and pomegranates, and then some cake. They said there was going to be a whole table with nothing but every kind of sweet bread and cake there ever was. Oh man, I could just sit there by the gate and I didn’t even see the people go by because all I saw in my head was cake. Oh man. Do you know how long it’d been since I’d tasted cake?

Oh, and then I would go back for a second helping of steak.

But I wasn’t invited. Of course. I was just sitting there like usual, looking up at people and saying, “A coin please! A coin for the poor!” and watching their faces and wondering which ones would care enough, and which ones didn’t have anything anyway, and which ones had plenty but wouldn’t give it to such as me. Half the time I guess wrong but I can’t quit guessing. It’s the only thing I can do. Besides hold my hand out, and tell them I’m the poor. Tell them I need anything they can give me. And pray.

And this guy comes up to me, this guy in a uniform likes he’s a servant in some important house, and he says, “Are you crippled?”

I did something dumb. I laughed out loud. Because it sounded stupid! Anybody could see I was crippled. He looked annoyed, and he said, “Look, I’m just doing my job here. My boss told me to go out and get anybody who’s poor or crippled or blind or lame. He is in the weirdest mood. But he’s the boss.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m poor and I’m crippled, but who’s your boss and where are we going?”

“Master Jacob is my boss,” he said, “and we’re going to his party.”

Oh man. Oh man. I almost jumped up right there and started dancing. I almost forgot for just one moment I was crippled in both legs and jumped up and started dancing! But I didn’t. I just yelled “Woo hoo!” as loud as I could yell, and little Marcus looked over at me from across the road, and I turned to the servant guy and said, “Hey! See him! He’s poor and crippled too. Can he go?”

“‘Course he can go. I’m supposed to get as many as I can. Master Jacob wants his banquet hall full!”

I kinda just looked at him then, because I couldn’t figure it out. Why would Old Man Jacob try to fill up his party with us? It’s not like there wasn’t enough rich and fancy and educated people around. There were lots! And he’d invited them, too—Eli told me the names of every single person Old Man Jacob had invited—Eli always knows all the gossip. I’ve never been any good at shutting up, even when I ought to , so I said, “Hey Mister, how come we’re invited?”

Well, the guy started to smile, like he was remembering something funny. He said, “You know all those fancy people he invited? They didn’t want to come.”

“They didn’t WANT to?”

“No! None of them! They wrote back and said they were busy! Master Simon said he’d just bought a field and he had to go look at it, and Master Nathan said he’d just bought a whole lot of ploughing oxen and he wanted to watch his servants trying them out.”

I couldn‘t believe it. Rich people! They’d rather stare at what they’d got than go to a PARTY? “Can’t they do that later?”

“I guess not.” The guy was grinning now. “Master Jacob was so mad! You should’ve seen him, he was red in the face—I tell you what, he’s never inviting them again!”

By this time, little Marcus had stood up and gotten over to our side of the road wanting to know what it was all about. I turned to him and said, “Marcus, we’re going to Old Man Jacob’s party. We’re invited!”

His eyes got big. “We are?” He turned to the servant guy and tugged on his cloak, his eyes as big as saucers. “Mister?” he said. “Is it true about the roasted cow?”

“It’s true, son,” the servant guy said. “Except Master Jacob changed his mind at the last minute and made it two cows.”

Marcus’ eyes bugged out even further. My mouth was watering.

“And, young man,” the servant guy said, “Master Jacob has told me to invite everyone in town who’s poor or crippled or blind or lame. Do you know anybody else I should invite, and where I could find them?”

“Oh—” said Marcus—“Sara’ll wanna go—she’s just over on the next street usually—and old Joseph—and Jason—”

“And Eli,” I said, “don’t forget Eli—and Johanna and Mary—and—”

“You two had better come with me,” said the servant guy. And he whistled, and this other guy came up, big and burly, and he picked me up in his arms like I was a child. I didn’t weigh that much. No steak, no cake. Till now.

Oh man oh man. We went through town like a carnival—we got little Sarah, and we got Joseph and blind Eli and Saul and Johanna, and we got Jason and his two little brothers that can’t say a word between them but Oh man, you should’ve heard them laugh. We were like a parade, everyone running and dancing and jumping, all except us cripples—we were carried along like queens and kings. And Mary and Johanna started up a song, and everybody sang as loud as they could, and people looked out of their windows and saw all the beggars going down the street to Old Man Jacob’s party!

And we got there in the end, and oh man. What a party. I did exactly like I had planned. The steak and the white bread and the figs and dates and the cake and the steak again. It was unbelievable. And I sat there and watched little Marcus stuffing his face, and Mary and Johanna dancing, and old Joseph eating his fill for once in his life and just grinning away, and it was all more beautiful than anything I’d ever seen. And Eli sat by me and we listened to the music and I told him exactly what everyone was doing and what everything looked like, and then I told him the smile on his face was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And then I said something I never said to him before. I said, “If I wasn’t crippled and you weren’t blind, would you dance with me?”

His smile got even prettier. He said yes, kind of quietly. And then he said. “Maybe someday, Rebekah. Maybe we will dance together, in the kingdom of God. When he sends his servants out to invite us all to his party, will you dance with me then?”

And I said yes.

a little about me

2010-01-09T21:33:00.007-06:00

My name is Heather Munn. I'm 30 years old and married to Paul Munn, whom you can find over at his pilgrimage journal... By vocation I'm a writer and a would-be assistant healer of souls. Paul and I host free spiritual retreats and try to live by the words of Jesus.

We live in a small Christian community, and take turns, among others, leading worship; some of the readings on this site were written for our church services. Others were written for our spiritual retreats. Some of these stories I've written simply because I love to write about profound, wrenching spiritual drama and the Bible is an inexhaustible well of it; and some I've written as a devotional work, because at no time do I enter deeper into the heart of a story in the Bible than when I am writing it, and this is one of the ways I meet God. Many of these stories I've written for almost all of these reasons.

I hope to continue. Expect more stories to be added to this site; if you want them and they don't come, write me and complain! I am currently working on a series of readings for the four weeks of Advent, to precede the Christmas reading "No Room." Eventually I hope to complete a full cycle of readings for the Church year.

No Room

2009-12-28T13:29:00.005-06:00

This is the story of Jesus' birth, told from a slightly different angle. A good reading for a Christmas Eve service. I think it's best read in darkness lit only by candles. In a big church, the readers could read from the back of the church or the soundbooth, with the stage empty except for candles and perhaps a prop or two to help imagination (an oil lamp and some straw?); in a small gathering, the readers can simply sit among the listeners, each reading by the light of a candle held close to the page.

The first narrator section is not of course necessary, but helps to clarify a little. It's good to have the narrator announce each character before they read, to help the listener keep them straight.

Narrator

And they laid him in a manger,‭ ‬for there was no room in the inn.‭

But what were they doing at an inn,‭ ‬in Joseph's own hometown‭? ‬Only foreigners used inns.‭ ‬And maybe people whose relatives had thrown them out.‭ ‬That,‭ ‬of course,‭ ‬is possible. Especially under the circumstances.

But there is another possibility.‭ ‬There's another way to translate it:

And they laid him in a manger,‭ ‬for there was no room in the guestroom.

There they are,‭ ‬in Joseph's own hometown with Joseph's relatives,‭ ‬who have taken them in as good relatives must,‭ ‬no matter what.‭ ‬But there is no room in the guestroom.‭ ‬No room for a pregnant mother,‭ ‬no room for a new baby‭; ‬there is no room anywhere but where the mangers are,‭ ‬in the back room of the house where the animals live. Under the circumstances.

There they are,‭ ‬in the house of Judah and Rachel,‭ ‬where there is no room.‭ ‬And there in this house is Mary,‭ ‬or as they called her back then...

Miriam.

Miriam‭

I sleep so much now in my ninth month.‭ ‬I'm alone in the dim bedroom for once,‭ ‬everyone gone to some gathering except the women,‭ ‬and them working outside at the bread-baking.‭ ‬At night the sleeping mats are packed with bodies,‭ ‬I couldn't roll over even if my belly weren't the size of a house.‭ ‬It's lovely to be alone.‭ ‬The afternoon sunlight glows warm through the thin curtain‭; ‬outside I hear the rhythmic thumping of the kneading trough,‭ ‬and the low voices of Rachel and Tabitha her daughter.‭

Then the voices begin to rise.
‭
“‬I have to fetch water again‭?” ‬It's Tabitha,‭ ‬her voice incredulous.‭ “‬What do we need‭ ‬more for‭? ‬We have plenty‭!”

“You need a lot of water at a birth.‭” ‬Rachel's voice is firm.‭ “‬And it could be anytime now.‭”

“It's for‭ ‬her‭?”

“Yes.‭” ‬Rachel's voice has an edge to it now.
‭
“‬She should fetch her own water.‭ ‬After what she's done.‭”

I hear a clank,‭ ‬and a silence charged with anger‭; ‬I hear a sharp intake of breath.‭ ‬My hand moves in spite of me,‭ ‬and I twitch aside the curtain just a tiny bit,‭ ‬and raise my head to see‭; ‬in the little courtyard,‭ ‬Rachel stands glowering beside the bread-oven,‭ ‬and Tabitha kneels,‭ ‬her hands still in the kneading-trough,‭ ‬her head thrown back in defiance.
‭
“‬You don't know what she's done,‭ ‬girl,‭ ‬so you can keep your mouth shut about it.‭ ‬She is a guest in this house.‭ ‬And she is married to Joseph. And that's all I need to know and it's all‭ ‬you need to know too.‭”

“And what do the girls at the well need to know‭? ‬You want to tell me what to tell‭ ‬them‭? ‬Do you have‭ ‬any idea what the neighbors are saying about the fact that you even let her under our roof‭?”

Rachel's hand flashes out and the slap rings in the quiet courtyard.‭ ‬Tabitha is on her knees,‭ ‬her eyes wide,‭ ‬her hair wild,‭ ‬a red mark on her cheek.‭ ‬She rises slowly,‭ ‬jerkily,‭ ‬as if her legs will hardly obey her.‭ ‬She leans into her mother's furious face and says through her teeth,‭ “‬That's not my cousin's baby,‭ ‬and you know it.‭ ‬I'd have been‭ ‬stoned.‭ ‬And you wouldn't have lifted a finger.‭”
Rachel stands like a statue as Tabitha grabs the bucket and walks out of the courtyard.‭ ‬I see her go by my window,‭ ‬her face twitching with fury.

I drop the curtain and settle back down on my mat,‭ ‬shifting the awkward weight of my belly.

‭Rachel

It's the middle of the night‭; ‬pitch black in here.‭ ‬What woke me‭? ‬I hear it again,‭ ‬from the back room where the animals sleep—a flurry of voices,‭ ‬a low bellow from the ox.‭ ‬It's happening.
‭
‬The house is so full this winter you can hardly sit down or breathe—it could be almost anything,‭ ‬the ox could have kicked someone in his sleep—but I have a feeling,‭ ‬and I'm not the oldest of ten and a mother of eight for nothing.‭ ‬It's come.‭ ‬And it's God's mercy it's come now,‭ ‬halfway through the night,‭ ‬and I'll not wake Judah or anyone but the girls,‭ ‬and by the time he wakes it'll be over.‭ ‬Finally.‭ ‬This will be over.
‭
“‬Tabitha‭!” ‬I hiss.
‭
‬Tabitha groans,‭ ‬loudly.‭ ‬I shouldn't have woken her—but I have to.‭ ‬I have to get her out of here.‭ “‬Tabitha.‭ ‬Wake up,‭ ‬girl,‭ ‬and run for the midwife.‭”

“The‭ ‬midwife‭? ‬She's having it‭ ‬now‭?”

“Hush.‭” ‬If she wakes Judah she'll regret it.
‭
“‬Abigail,‭” ‬I whisper.‭ ‬My younger daughter is awake,‭ ‬I can see the whites of her eyes gleam in the dark.‭ ‬She slides out of bed lengthwise so as not to touch her brother beside her,‭ ‬and I pull her with me out the door.‭ “‬Run and get me the cleanest rags from the bag,‭ ‬and the old blanket.‭ ‬And check how much water is in the water jars,‭ ‬and then join us in the back room.‭”

“The back room,‭ ‬Mother‭? ‬Is that where she'll...‭”

“We can't put her in the guestroom,‭ ‬there are people from wall to wall in there and they'd‭ ‬allwake—and I don't think she'd rather give birth out here in the courtyard.‭ ‬Do you‭?”

“Um...‭”

“Trust me,‭ ‬girl.‭ ‬A house full of chaos is‭ ‬nota better place to give birth than a barn.‭ ‬Now get back in there and get your sister out of bed,‭ ‬and don't wake anyone and don't let‭ ‬herwake anyone either.‭ ‬And remind her she's to run for the midwife,‭ ‬and then get me the rags.‭”

“Yes ma'am.‭” ‬Abigail goes.
‭
‬I take a deep breath.‭ ‬I am alone in the courtyard.‭ ‬The air is clear and cool.‭ ‬The stars are bright.‭ ‬Oh God have mercy and don't let my husband wake.‭ ‬Make Tabitha hold her tongue for once...‭ ‬Help us now.
‭
‬It will be all right.‭ ‬It has to be all right.‭ ‬What if it’s a girl‭? ‬Then I’ll know they lied...‭ ‬and so will Judah.‭ ‬And what will he do‭?

I take another deep breath.‭ ‬A low moan comes from the back room.‭ ‬Sshh,‭ ‬girl...What an unfair thing to have to say to a woman in labor.‭ ‬Time to go say it.

‭ ‬The midwife

So Tabitha,‭ ‬Judah and Rachel’s daughter,‭ ‬comes and wakes me right smack in the middle of the night,‭ ‬no closer to dawn than to sundown.‭ ‬Of course,‭ ‬it’s not the first time that’s happened‭; ‬I swear I’ve done every birth in this town for the last ten years,‭ ‬and there’s nothing more familiar to me than having a girl wake me yelling a woman’s name.
‭
‬But Tabitha‭? ‬Honestly,‭ ‬that girl...‭ ‬She comes to me with no name‭! ‬Just,‭ “‬There’s a,‭ ‬a baby coming at our house...‭”

“A baby coming‭? ‬By‭ ‬itself‭?‬Who’s having it,‭ ‬you idiot‭?”

“My cousin’s wife...‭” ‬And then she looks down as if she’s ashamed that her cousin has a wife,‭ ‬of all things.‭ “‬They’re in town for the census.‭”

“What’s her name‭?”

“Miriam.‭” ‬She still doesn’t look up.‭ ‬Of course by this time I’m starting to get a feeling about this.

‭ ‬Miriam

‭ “‬How close together are they‭? ‬Can you sit up‭? ‬Here...‭” ‬The midwife beckons me to slide my hips forward onto the torn blanket,‭ ‬and Joseph supports my shoulders as I try to push myself up on one arm.‭ ‬I inch myself forward,‭ ‬off our mat and onto the packed earth‭; ‬I can feel it through the thin blanket,‭ ‬rock-hard and unforgiving under the weight of my hips.‭ ‬A wave of power and pain passes from the core of my body down towards my legs.‭ ‬Or not power...‭ ‬power going out of me,‭ ‬not coming in,‭ ‬yet it doesn’t feel like my own at all.‭ ‬I have no power.‭ ‬I am breathing fast.‭ ‬Can I do this‭? ‬How much worse does it get‭? ‬Will there be room for him to come out,‭ ‬through that place where I have never been touched‭? ‬Will I tear‭?

When the angel came,‭ ‬there was strange light in the room,‭ ‬different from anything I knew.‭ ‬Like a color I'd never seen.‭ ‬It outlined everything so clearly—the kneading trough,‭ ‬the folds of my skirt on the ground around me,‭ ‬looked twice as real as they had ever been,‭ ‬almost alive...‭ ‬The light is gone now.‭ ‬Rachel and the midwife crouch beside me in the dark,‭ ‬whispering.
‭
‬I know what they think.‭ ‬They can’t help it.‭ ‬The oil lamp flickers in a corner,‭ ‬a tiny flame that cannot banish the dark,‭ ‬and the dim forms of beasts move in the shadows.‭ ‬Sometimes I could wonder myself if I really saw that unreal light—that light more real than me...
‭
‬Another pang grabs me and twists my body on the hard earth.‭ ‬Joseph’s hands on my shoulders grip harder and I can hear his whisper:‭ ‬Breathe...‭ ‬it’s all right Miriam...‭ ‬I’m here...I want to answer him somehow but all my breath is stolen.
‭
‬I knew.‭ ‬The strange light and the strange voice,‭ ‬saying God was with me,‭ ‬God...‭ ‬I knew then that there was reason to fear.‭ ‬He told me not to,‭ ‬but he didn’t say I had nothing to fear.‭ ‬God’s favor,‭ ‬yes‭; ‬I know the stories,‭ ‬I know how it is with those on whom God’s favor rests.‭ ‬Hard earth and darkness,‭ ‬David in the caves and Jeremiah in the cistern,‭ ‬yes,‭ ‬and your husband's family all around you calling you a whore under their breath...‭ ‬God is with me.‭ ‬It’s His son they’ll call a bastard.‭ ‬I know.‭ ‬He knows.
‭
‬Another pain is coming.‭ ‬I take a long slow breath in the huge dark.

‭
The midwife

She's doing pretty well.‭ ‬Doesn't seem too scared.‭ ‬I've see plenty who thought they would die their first time‭; ‬and some that did.‭ ‬But she's doing well.
‭
‬That young man of hers won't go away.‭ ‬I tried.‭ ‬Says he has to be here,‭ ‬whatever that means.‭ ‬Never seen such a pigheaded husband,‭ ‬and with a birth like this one too‭; ‬I guess he thinks that baby's his.‭ ‬Guess he wouldn't have married her otherwise.‭ ‬Heh.‭ ‬And nobody's better placed to know than he is.‭ ‬If he's right.
‭
‬The pains are closer together now.‭ ‬As long as it's not too big,‭ ‬nor turned the wrong way,‭ ‬it should be a simple enough birth.‭ ‬She’s strong,‭ ‬and her hips are broad enough—not like Rachel’s but there aren’t many of those.‭ ‬I put my hand on her rock-hard belly as another pain runs through her.‭ ‬Twenty breaths from one to the next,‭ ‬and speeding up.‭ ‬There's a little light now through the chinks in the walls,‭ ‬getting on toward morning.‭ ‬She's doing well.

‭ ‬Abigail

This isn't right.‭ ‬My sister Tabitha is mean.‭ ‬I don't care whose the baby is,‭ ‬it's not the‭ ‬baby's fault‭! ‬But everyone acts like it just makes him bad,‭ ‬and he comes into the world in a barn smelling of dung and someone tells the midwife she needn't trouble herself for this kind of birth and the kids point at him and the women at the well whisper things about sinners and he doesn't know why,‭ ‬and then when he's old enough he finally figures it out.‭ ‬And what did‭ ‬he do‭?

She's lying on the floor beside the empty manger,‭ ‬with only the torn blanket under her,‭ ‬and her husband sitting there against the wall kind of trying to cradle her head on his lap.‭ ‬He looks so tired.‭ ‬Dead tired.‭ ‬He's been here a long time with her.‭ ‬My mother says men shouldn't be allowed in a birthing-room,‭ ‬there's nothing men hate more than when there's nothing they can do.
‭
‬The ox at the other manger shifts his hindquarters a little and drops a mound of dung.‭ ‬Joseph glances over at it but that's all.‭ ‬Miriam is grunting in pain again; she's stiff, and her neck is shiny with sweat.‭ ‬Joseph reaches down and starts to rub her shoulders,‭ ‬slowly.

‭ ‬Just look at those two.‭ ‬I don't believe what they said at the well.‭ ‬I don't.

‭ “‬He’s coming‭!”

“He‭?”

Joseph lifts his weary eyes.‭ “‬It’s going to be a boy.‭ ‬Ask Rachel what I told her.‭”

“Push,‭ ‬Miriam.‭ ‬This is it.‭”

“Push‭!”

“Shh...‭ ‬not so loud...‭”

“I‭ ‬am...‭ ‬pushing,‭ ‬you...‭”

“You’ll be all right,‭ ‬Miriam,‭ ‬I know you will,‭ ‬He promised...‭”

Miriam’s eyes flash up at Joseph,‭ ‬suddenly wild,‭ ‬though all that comes out of her mouth is‭ “‬Aaanh...‭” ‬The midwife is holding out her hands between Miriam’s legs,‭ ‬ready for the tiny head already showing darkly through the blood.
‭
“‬She’s tearing.‭ ‬Rachel,‭ ‬hand me a rag...‭”

“She can’t be tearing‭ ‬yet‭—”

“Don’t tell me what I‭ ‬see‭! ‬Hand me a rag‭!”

“Here...‭”

“No wait,‭ ‬you hold the rag.‭ ‬Here,‭ ‬see where she’s bleeding.‭ ‬Put it there and push hard against it,‭ ‬not‭ ‬towards the baby,‭ ‬that way.‭ ‬Have to stop the bleeding.‭ ‬There—there‭—‬now,‭ ‬Miriam‭! ‬PUSH‭!”

The head is coming,‭ ‬slipping viscously out into the midwife’s waiting hands,‭ ‬the dark hair wet with slime and blood.‭ ‬The hands turn gently as the shoulders follow quickly...‭ ‬Silence,‭ ‬no one breathing as they watch,‭ ‬Miriam hard as rock and silent now with the power that is washing through her,‭ ‬pushing,‭ ‬until the midwife calls out.‭ “‬Here it is‭!”

A tiny wrinkled thing,‭ ‬red and slippery‭; ‬eyes screwed shut against the darkness,‭ ‬wailing with new-found fear in the midwife’s capable hands.‭ “‬More rags,‭” ‬she says.

‭ ‬Rachel

She’s wiped it and put it in my hands and it’s breathing,‭ ‬crying now,‭ ‬and it’s a boy,‭ ‬thank God when Judah wakes I can tell him it’s a boy.‭ ‬I may never know now if they lied or not but it doesn’t matter,‭ ‬at least God preserved us from‭ ‬that.‭ ‬And Tabitha’s back in bed,‭ ‬thank goodness,‭ ‬she won’t make any trouble.‭ ‬The poor girl looks exhausted.‭ ‬I hope she hasn’t lost too much blood.‭ ‬And Joseph.‭ ‬Look at his eyes on that child.‭ ‬You’d think he’d never set eyes on a baby before,‭ ‬poor boy.‭ ‬You’d think it was—oh,‭ ‬I don’t know...‭ ‬I hope it’s really his...

‭ ‬Miriam

The last push ends and my body lets go,‭ ‬limp,‭ ‬emptied of power.‭ ‬There is nothing.‭ ‬Only the dark drawn close around me,‭ ‬a silent embrace above the small and distant chaos of voices.‭ ‬Am I dying‭? ‬The angel promised the boy’s life,‭ ‬not mine,‭ ‬Joseph,‭ ‬not mine...‭ ‬No.‭ ‬I am not dying,‭ ‬just far away.‭ ‬Voices.‭ ‬It’s a boy.‭ ‬What,‭ ‬are they‭ ‬surprised...‭ ‬There’s Joseph’s voice:‭ “‬I know.‭” ‬Of course he knows.‭ ‬Waves of red in front of my eyes.‭ ‬Where am I‭?

“Are you all right,‭ ‬Miriam‭?”

My voice does not come.‭ ‬Yes.‭ ‬No.‭ ‬I am somewhere.‭ ‬Not here.
‭
“‬You’ve got a fine healthy boy.‭”

“Breathe,‭ ‬Miriam.‭”

The air is alive around me,‭ ‬the warm dung-smelling dark,‭ ‬coming into me‭; ‬I am alive.‭ ‬I still see nothing.‭ ‬I am here,‭ ‬in Judah’s house in Bethlehem.‭ ‬Beside Judah’s ox.‭ ‬Joseph’s hands are under my head,‭ ‬the hard earth is under my body,‭ ‬I can see now:‭ ‬Joseph’s face above me and the shadowed outline of his smile.‭ ‬The sky is paling beyond the doorway‭; ‬dawn is almost here.‭ ‬Rachel is standing over me,‭ ‬wrapping the baby.‭ ‬The baby.‭ ‬The promise.‭ ‬My first—alive,‭ ‬and a boy,‭ ‬and healthy.‭ ‬Not a bastard,‭ ‬God knows.‭ ‬God knows...
‭
‬The sky is lighting slowly,‭ ‬growing pale behind the long gray clouds.‭ ‬Rachel puts my son in my arms.‭ ‬The sun catches the clouds from underneath and they shout glory.‭ ‬He is born.
‭
‬Listen to him cry.‭ ‬Strong.‭ ‬And I already know what to name him.

Click here to download this to your computer as an .rtf text file.

Click here to download a version designed as a dramatic reading for multiple readers, with a script for each character.

Before the Dawn: an Easter reading

2009-12-28T13:01:00.007-06:00

This is a reading for Easter morning. It would do well at the ending of an Easter vigil, or at the very beginning of an Easter service. It is meant to embody the hugeness of that turning point, not just the saving of the day but the reversal of unalterable fate.

The readers can either be visible to the listeners, or not. If you choose to have them visible, Mary Magdalene should rise and leave at the end of her monologue; after the fifteen seconds of silence after John's monologue, she should pound loudly on the door, and say her final sentence only after Peter or John has opened it for her.

After Mary's last words, the best follow-up is have a beat of silence, then have the music team strike up the most majestic and joyful Resurrection song they know how to play. (We used "Resuscito.") Lights come on, curtains are thrown open, dancers run out trailing streamers, whatever you've got. Joy happens.

Mary Magdalene

My eye is pressed to the crack in the shutters,‭ ‬looking for light.‭ ‬The doors and the windows are locked and barred.‭ ‬What are they so afraid of‭?

The sky is growing gray in the east,‭ ‬I think it is,‭ ‬I know it is‭; ‬soon it will be light enough to go.‭ ‬Shabbat is over now,‭ ‬that terrible Shabbat.‭ ‬Sitting in the dark,‭ ‬not moving,‭ ‬not speaking‭; ‬the shuffle of someone's foot in the darkness,‭ ‬then silence again.‭ ‬Nothing we could bear to say.‭ ‬I sat with the other women around the spices and the smell of the myrrh made me dizzy,‭ ‬and the shadows would shift and float,‭ ‬and I would come to myself again and again.‭ ‬Almost before I had time to think‭ ‬it's not real—it's a nightmare,‭ ‬I was jolted by the knowledge that it's not.‭ ‬It's true.‭ ‬It happened.‭ ‬I was there.
‭
‬ He's dead.
‭
‬He's dead and the world is not what I thought it was.‭ ‬He's dead,‭ ‬and it wasn't true.‭ ‬Oh,‭ ‬oh I know nightmares if anybody does,‭ ‬they walked beside me in the living day,‭ ‬in the time of my demons...‭ ‬I saw water turn to blood under my hands,‭ ‬I believed my touch would kill children‭; ‬I ran from them.‭ ‬There were voices,‭ ‬they were with me when I lay down and when I got up—whispering‭ ‬God hates you...‭ ‬Until he came.‭

He told me they were lies.‭ ‬He said to trust him.‭ ‬He asked me if I wanted them gone.‭ ‬They were flailing and screaming but I shouted over their voices,‭ ‬I shouted yes with all my strength—and he whipped them.‭ ‬Oh,‭ ‬if those men could have seen him then,‭ ‬those soldiers,‭ ‬those priests,‭ ‬if they could have seen the power in his hand,‭ ‬the light.‭ ‬His eyes were like the sun—terrible as an army with banners...‭ ‬And they really thought they could‭ ‬kill—Him‭?

And they did.‭ ‬They did.‭

There is no doubt.‭ ‬I watched him die.‭ ‬I watched his body broken on the tree.‭ ‬His breaths grew shorter‭; ‬farther apart‭; ‬desperate,‭ ‬fast,‭ ‬inhuman gasps,‭ ‬with silence in between.‭ ‬One last one,‭ ‬and then—no more.‭ ‬There is no doubt.
‭
‬ He's dead.‭ ‬And the world is empty now.‭ ‬And everything he said‭—

I'm like‭ ‬them now—I never thought I'd be like them.‭ ‬Like my uncle Matthew and the others,‭ ‬when Judas the Galilean was killed and his army scattered,‭ ‬and they came home exhausted and with bitter eyes.‭ ‬They thought Judas was the Messiah.‭ ‬And they were wrong.‭ ‬You believe in a man,‭ ‬you put all your faith in him,‭ ‬the very life in your body is his—who's to say he didn't shine in their eyes,‭ ‬as my Lord shone when he drove my demons away,‭ ‬who's to say he didn't pull them out of the depths and back into life‭? ‬You believe in a man,‭ ‬you‭ ‬believe.‭ ‬And then they kill him.‭ ‬And you have to face the truth.‭

You were wrong.
‭
‬ No.
‭
‬ No‭! ‬I was wrong then‭? ‬Then what was he‭? ‬Tell me that,‭ ‬what was he‭? ‬Was he a liar‭? ‬Him‭?‬ He was truth itself and no one knows it as I do.‭ ‬Was he a fool‭? ‬Proud,‭ ‬hopeful,‭ ‬overreaching—weak‭? ‬Is‭ ‬that what demons of hell screamed and ran from‭? ‬No.‭ ‬He was the one,‭ ‬he was everything,‭ ‬he was the very son of God and they killed him.‭ ‬And now the world is dark and empty but I'll tell you one thing—I don't care if he's dead,‭ ‬I'm his—they can kill me too if they want but I'm his.‭

And I will always be.
‭
‬ That's the sun.‭ ‬I can go now.‭ ‬I can go to him.

Peter

She'll remember.‭ ‬She'll remember,‭ ‬won't she‭? ‬She promised.‭ ‬Come home a different way,‭ ‬split up,‭ ‬come home five different ways,‭ ‬visit anyone they can think of on the way‭; ‬she promised.‭ ‬Not to lead them to us.
‭
‬They won't arrest the women,‭ ‬not them.‭ ‬Women are no threat.‭ ‬It's us they want,‭ ‬it's us they're watching for.‭ ‬Strike the shepherd and the sheep will scatter‭; ‬he said it.‭ ‬He knew.‭ ‬That's what they want to know:‭ ‬if there are any shepherds left among us.‭ ‬If there are twelve of them maybe,‭ ‬or three.‭ ‬If they need to strike again.
‭
‬ They don't.‭ ‬The others are looking to‭ ‬me now.
‭
‬ And I wasn't even there.
‭
‬ In the garden‭—‬then I was there.‭ ‬When they came.‭ ‬I was there ready to draw the sword for him,‭ ‬against the soldiers of the high priest himself—those cowards with their swords and clubs and six times our number in the dead of night,‭ ‬with all of Rome on their side...‭ ‬was that worth nothing‭?

I was willing to lay down my life,‭ ‬to save him.
‭
‬ They grabbed him by the arms and forced his hands behind him,‭ ‬like a common criminal,‭ ‬like a thief.‭ ‬I swung for the closest one,‭ ‬I went for the neck and he ducked and my sword caught his ear—and he—he—the Master told me to stop.‭ ‬He told me to stop‭!

And they took him.
‭
‬ Those who live by the sword will die by the sword.‭ ‬And who dies by the cross‭?

No,‭ ‬I wasn't there.‭ ‬I didn't watch.‭ ‬I didn't see him die.‭ ‬Do you think I needed to‭? ‬I've seen men crucified.‭ ‬They hang there gasping for breath for hours.‭ ‬Before long there's blood and shit mixed together,‭ ‬running down the beam.‭ ‬Do you think I needed to see that‭? ‬To hear my Master scream‭?

They'll tell you tales—they always do,‭ ‬they love them—tales of men who stood torture and never cried out,‭ ‬never twitched a muscle,‭ ‬never made a sound.‭ ‬Every word of those tales is a lie.‭ ‬Everyone wants to believe that there is someone they can't break.‭ ‬There isn't.‭ ‬Not even him.
‭
‬ [long pause‭]

[low voice‭]‬ I don't want to be broken.
‭ ‬
I am a coward and I am a liar.‭ ‬What can I say‭? ‬He unmanned me.‭ ‬That sword was the only weapon I had.‭ ‬I don't know his way—I never understood—turn the other cheek and love your torturers,‭ ‬I never understood it,‭ ‬I never could,‭ ‬but I followed him‭! ‬He had the words of—of life...‭ ‬and I followed him...‭ ‬and I couldn't fight for him,‭ ‬he wouldn't let me fight for him,‭ ‬did he want me to throw down my sword and die with him,‭ ‬was that what he wanted‭? ‬To let them break me too‭? ‬How could he—how could I—no.‭ ‬No.‭ ‬Oh God...‭ ‬Oh God I hate myself.‭

He'll never forgive me.
‭
‬ Because he's gone.

John

I can't,‭ ‬I can't,‭ ‬I can't believe it.‭ ‬No.‭ ‬I still can't.‭ ‬God‭! ‬What has God done‭!

I knew.‭ ‬There was no question.‭ ‬I knew him.‭ ‬We broke bread together every day,‭ ‬how could I not know him‭? ‬I watched him break the bread on the hillside,‭ ‬how his eyes were alight in the doing of it,‭ ‬how the bread never ended,‭ ‬his hands giving and giving.‭ ‬His hands.‭ ‬I saw his hands weary with touching cripple after cripple,‭ ‬I saw them go away dancing.‭ ‬But it was more than that.‭ ‬More.‭ ‬I saw him on the mountain,‭ ‬standing between Moses and Elijah,‭ ‬shining with an everlasting light.‭ ‬I knew.
‭
‬He was the one.
‭
‬ [To God,‭ ‬low and angry‭]‬ So‭ ‬what have You done‭?

You were testing him.‭ ‬I knew,‭ ‬I saw,‭ ‬I know what You do‭! ‬You test Your people beyond endurance,‭ ‬you rule them with a rod of iron,‭ ‬you put them through the green heart of the fire—and then you snatch them out and they're purest gold.‭ ‬You send them to prison,‭ ‬you drive them into the wilderness,‭ ‬you throw them in cisterns where they sink in mud up to their necks.‭ ‬You made Abraham put a knife to his son's throat before you called out to him to stop.‭ ‬I was willing.‭ ‬I know it's your way,‭ ‬for me,‭ ‬for him,‭ ‬for all of us,‭ ‬I know it's the only way—he was willing and I knew he was.‭ ‬I sat on the ground in the garden and watched him sweating and crying,‭ ‬his face to the earth,‭ ‬a few paces away,‭ ‬and I saw that he was willing.‭ ‬He could have stood up and walked away.‭ ‬Anytime,‭ ‬he could have.‭ ‬But he was willing.‭ ‬He loves You...‭ ‬loved You.‭ ‬And where is he now‭?

I was with him.‭ ‬I heard him scream.‭ ‬I stood there under his twisted body shaking,‭ ‬waiting every moment for the change.‭ ‬For the veil to be torn away,‭ ‬for him to be revealed in the glory of his Father—oh,‭ ‬if they saw,‭ ‬if he had ever showed all that was in him.‭ ‬And I waited,‭ ‬and waited,‭ ‬and listened to him try to breathe.‭ ‬And he pulled himself up and I saw what it cost him,‭ ‬the pain,‭ ‬the breath,‭ ‬and he gasped to me to care for his mother.‭ ‬To care for his mother.‭ ‬When he was gone.
‭
‬ And the change never came.
‭
‬ I never thought.‭ ‬In my wildest and most terrible dreams,‭ ‬I never thought of this.‭ ‬That You could let your servant pass into the fire,‭ ‬and never snatch him out.‭ ‬That I would hear him scream‭ ‬why have you abandoned me and look up into the darkening sky and hear the silence.‭ ‬Only silence.‭ ‬I never thought You were a God like that.‭ ‬I knew You weren't.‭ ‬I knew.‭ ‬He knew.‭ ‬He trusted You.‭

[With rage‭]‬Was he wrong then‭? ‬Answer me.‭ ‬Was he wrong‭?

[a time of silence—about‭ ‬15‭ ‬seconds‭]

[Mary,‭ ‬calling in a loud voice‭]‬ Peter,‭ ‬John,‭ ‬let me in‭! ‬You won't believe what I've seen‭!

Mount Moriah

2009-12-28T12:05:00.007-06:00

This is the story of Abraham's experience on Mount Moriah, after God had told him to sacrifice his son. Unlike most of my other pieces, it is not specifically written for church use or for reading aloud, but is a personal exploration of the story. If you do use it in any worship or Bible study setting, please do so with care; this is one of the most traumatic and troubling moments in the Bible, and this piece provides a pretty strong exposure to it.

‭ ‬The old man told his wife the evening they returned‭; ‬almost the instant they returned.‭ ‬He shook as he told her,‭ ‬and once he made a tiny,‭ ‬childish movement toward her as if he thought she would gather him into her arms‭; ‬but her arms hung motionless by her sides,‭ ‬and he stopped.‭ ‬She neither moved nor spoke the whole time he was speaking‭; ‬she sat like a stone before him,‭ ‬and the glint of the oil-light flickered a little in her staring eyes.

‭ ‬ He had not slept,‭ ‬the night before they left.‭ ‬He had lain by her side with his eyes open to the huge dark around him,‭ ‬and let it pour itself into him,‭ ‬hour by hour,‭ ‬like the ocean pouring into a single drain.‭ ‬He tried to think,‭ ‬but there was no light,‭ ‬there were no words,‭ ‬in his mind‭; ‬only the darkness and the burning even the darkness could not quench,‭ ‬the burning of what he must do.‭ ‬He opened his mouth,‭ ‬not knowing if there would be words‭; ‬he spoke the words of the promise.‭ ‬He lay still again,‭ ‬letting the darkness pour in.‭ ‬He saw the edge of sky around the tent-flap lighten and pale with dawn.‭ ‬He felt the promise within him bloom in the midst of the burning,‭ ‬like a white almond-blossom on a glowing bed of coals.
‭
‬He got up.‭ ‬Outside a bird in the tamarisk tree gave three low clear notes.‭ ‬He found his knife,‭ ‬and tied it on his belt.
‭
‬On the journey he slept.‭ ‬They lay two nights under the stars,‭ ‬he and his son,‭ ‬close together‭; ‬and when the darkness had fallen and the stars been led out across the sky thick as an army and glorious as the children of God,‭ ‬then he would look at Isaac and see he was asleep.‭ ‬Then he would take his son in his arms and weep very quietly,‭ ‬and very quietly he would beg‭; ‬but the stars were silent then,‭ ‬and the voice behind them also.‭ ‬He looked up again at the stars and whispered the promise.
‭
‬ Then he slept.
‭
‬ On the third morning there was the mountain,‭ ‬a huge hunched beast in the distance,‭ ‬and the old man shut his eyes at the sight.‭ ‬There was the place where it would be done,‭ ‬and in his mind he could see the doing of it now.‭ ‬He whispered the promise to himself as they walked,‭ ‬as they came within striking-range of the beast,‭ ‬and the blossom lay in the heart of the fire in all its glory and fragility,‭ ‬and was not consumed,‭ ‬and did not quench the flames.‭ ‬The promise did not change the doing of it.‭ ‬He gave his son the bundle of wood,‭ ‬and let him hoist it on his strong young shoulder,‭ ‬and in his hand he took the fire and the knife.‭ ‬And from them a cold stream of terror seeped into his fingers.
‭
‬ They walked on.
‭
‬ The mountain grew‭; ‬it filled the old man's eyes.‭ ‬It had changed now,‭ ‬it was no beast‭; ‬he stood at its foot and looked up,‭ ‬and every rock recoiled from his gaze.‭ ‬The ragged,‭ ‬thirsty bushes shrank back from him and tried to hide themselves in the cracked ground.‭ ‬High above the mountain's crown,‭ ‬against the sky's pure and terrible blue,‭ ‬circled a vulture,‭ ‬and its cry came down to him where he stood and he understood it:‭ ‬murderer.‭

It was then that Isaac spoke,‭ ‬and said‭ "‬Father‭?" ‬and his father answered with the same words he had said to God:‭ "‬Here I am.‭" ‬But as the boy asked his question,‭ ‬the old man hardly heard his words for the beating of the boy's heart that asked,‭ ‬in its gentle one-two-three rhythm:‭ "‬God told you‭? ‬God told you‭? ‬God told you‭?" ‬But he told him the only thing he knew:‭ ‬that God knew.‭ ‬That God would provide.
‭
‬At the crown of Mount Moriah was a flat place,‭ ‬like a stage.‭ ‬The sun was at its zenith,‭ ‬a pure and cruel white.‭ ‬The air was heavy around them,‭ ‬heavy as the hand of God,‭ ‬and the hand of God was heavier than it had ever been.‭ ‬The old man knelt on the cracked earth to wrench up its stones for the altar‭; ‬he pulled as though he were wrenching out his own heart,‭ ‬his liver,‭ ‬his testicles.‭ ‬He did not dare recite the promise now,‭ ‬even in a whisper.‭ ‬He did not dare anything but what he had to do.‭ ‬The old man ran with sweat.‭ ‬The stones were too heavy‭; ‬his son knelt down beside him,‭ ‬to help him wrench them out.
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‬ He did not look at the altar when it was finished.‭ ‬He looked at nothing.‭ ‬Inside him was fire,‭ ‬like the heart of the coals where the flames lick green.‭ ‬It ate at his bones,‭ ‬it ate of the roots of his soul.‭ ‬The friend of his soul was its cruelest enemy.‭ ‬The white flower lay lovely amid the green flames‭; ‬but the ice-blue sky was dark to his eyes,‭ ‬and the fire spoke only of what he must do.
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"‬Isaac,‭" ‬he said.
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‬The rope was in his hands,‭ ‬the rope they had used to tie the wood.‭ ‬Give me your hands,‭ ‬he said,‭ ‬his voice cracked like the earth.‭ ‬The young man had never disobeyed his father in his life.‭ ‬He stretched out his hands with hardly a thought.‭ ‬The old man looked deep into his son's eyes as he looped the rope around his wrists,‭ ‬and the fire screamed in his vitals as he watched his son understand‭; ‬and for a moment in the two men's eyes lay the same terror,‭ ‬and flashed between them like lightning.
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‬ Then he was struggling with the knots.
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‬ The young man said nothing.‭ ‬The old man said nothing,‭ ‬but laid his hand on the altar,‭ ‬at its center where the wood was laid.‭ ‬Isaac laid himself down on his back.‭ ‬He could not hide his trembling though he tried.‭ ‬The old man hardly felt the water that ran down his cheeks like rain‭; ‬within him the tears hissed to steam.‭ ‬He took the knife,‭ ‬and raised it high above his head.
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‬Then the true terror took him.
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‬He brought the knife down but there was no strength in his arm,‭ ‬and the motion of his strike broke before the knife was halfway to Isaac's chest,‭ ‬his arm going limp.‭ ‬He doubled over like a man about to vomit,‭ ‬and his mouth opened in a soundless scream.‭ ‬He had seen Isaac's eyes,‭ ‬and he had seen Isaac's eyeless skull,‭ ‬charred black in the holocaust offering.
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‬ He raised the knife again.
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‬ But it was the same.‭ ‬The blackened flesh that he had held in his arms‭; ‬the empty ribcage where the beating heart was now.‭ ‬His body spasmed and his arm gave way.‭ ‬He screamed.
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‬ He raised the knife again.
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‬ The old man stood over his son on the mountain's barren crown,‭ ‬and he plunged the knife toward his son's heart,‭ ‬and broke off,‭ ‬and cried out,‭ ‬and raised it again.‭ ‬And again,‭ ‬and again.‭ ‬He wailed.‭ ‬He screamed‭ "‬I can't‭!" ‬to the pitiless sky.‭ ‬His body cramped and twisted as if he'd been stabbed‭; ‬his beard was wet with tears and spittle.‭ ‬He groaned like a woman in labor.‭ ‬He shouted fragments of the promise‭; ‬he choked out‭ "‬Have mercy.‭" ‬He raised the knife and he aimed it true,‭ ‬and again and again his strength broke before the body and blood of his son.
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‬Time did not exist.‭ ‬The childbirth of the soul does not know time.‭ ‬Yesterday is nothing‭; ‬tomorrow,‭ ‬unimaginable.‭ ‬Only the angel of the Lord,‭ ‬standing close enough to touch the old man's back,‭ ‬knew time,‭ ‬and would remember that the old man stood in his eternity three hours in all.
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‬Then came a moment‭; ‬the first moment in the world‭; ‬a moment unlike any that had come before.‭ ‬Then the fire gathered itself in Abraham and was simple,‭ ‬and he saw nothing,‭ ‬knew nothing else‭; ‬then all his thought,‭ ‬all his feeling,‭ ‬all his memory and desire was lost in the burning flood of his will and nothing existed on earth or in Heaven but himself and his God and what he must do,‭ ‬and he raised the knife for the last time and brought it down,‭ ‬one long strong plunge into his son's breast.
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‬It was as the knife's point touched Isaac's skin that the old man felt the burning hand around his wrist.
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‬He gasped like a drowning man,‭ ‬and a long shudder went through his body,‭ ‬and he fell back into the waiting arms.‭ ‬He felt the chest against his head and for an instant heard the heartbeat,‭ ‬terrible as the roaring of the sea‭; ‬then above it like the lonely cry of a bird came a wild broken voice calling his name.‭ ‬Abraham.‭ ‬Abraham.
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‬ He turned then,‭ ‬because the voice was so mighty and broken‭; ‬because the voice was a father's and a mother's and he knew the voice yet he did not.‭ ‬He turned,‭ ‬and the face that bent above him was awful as the sun,‭ ‬and streamed with tears.

‭ ‬ The face had commanded silence most clearly,‭ ‬and so strong was that command that even after all had been revealed,‭ ‬Isaac never told his father what he had seen.‭ ‬To the day of his death he neither forgot nor uttered a word about those three hours,‭ ‬when he had lain bound under the cruel sun and the knife in his father's hand,‭ ‬looking up into the weeping face of God.

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