Good Friday, 1 AM. Walked from home in the depth of the night, the waning moon gold behind ragged clouds. The churchs windows filter a soft light through stained glass and faded Plexiglass. The small altar bears Real Presence veiled in white cloth. The dead rabbi hangs in small effigy behind the silver and glass, the bland wafer and the sweet wine. A table holds pages of prayer, poetry, scriptures, wisdom of the saints. Hanging lights brighten a strip of pews. The bare altar, white surrounded by dark paneling, stands naked in the shadows. The little brass door is open, with nothing inside. Shadows hide silently in corners. The heating system moans and huffs. The building creaks from time to time. An occasional car whispers by outside. Earlier last night, there was light here, and a few faithful disciples. I spoke and listened. Sometimes my voice, sometimes others were lifted in Word and prayer. I knelt, pushing aside the red and gold raw silk sewn by my long-gone mother, for my long-ago setting apart as a priest. The good people come and sit. Shoes are unlaced and pulled off, socks stripped away. I slide the basin under the foot, pour the warm water. A thick, soft towel. My wife, a mother and priest, plucks at my vestments. Take a seat, she whispers. Shoe and sock are off, as she kneels, washes. I receive this gift for the first time in my many Holy Weeks as a priest. A moment for tears. Hands raised, vessels elevated, bread broken, words spoken. Then silk and linen and silver put aside, leaving only bare wood. Here I am, a few hours later. Yeshu the Rabbi has asked me to come and pray with him. I try, but sleep is bearing me down. My eyes are heavy, my mind is thick. Some of the others have given up, have lain down among the trees, by the oil-press. The Rabbi sees that I am not quite asleep. He beckons me. We move a little apart. I dont have much time left, he says. You know theyll be here for me soon. I nod. I try to come up with some stalwart words of courage, a promise to stay always at this his side, no matter what. Im afraid. Across the valley, the torches are already gathering. The words will not come. I think Im ready for this, he says. Its going to be horrible, though. I think Im ready. Its going to be hard for you guys, too. We sip from the wineskin. Do the best you can. Help each other. Youre not going to be perfect. Just do the best you can. Now we can hear a crowd coming. They are trying to be stealthy, but the voices in heavy whispers give them away. Those damned nailed boots of the cops, tricked out like Roman legionaries, scrape and clump on the cobblestones. Yehuda, one of us, comes forward. Shalom, Rabbi, how are you? A nervous grin, a quick kiss on the cheek, and he stands away. An officious little creep comes forward, with a couple of the fake-Roman cops. Yeshu bar Yosef, of Nazareth? You know who I am. Officious Creep raises his voice. Im warning you not to resist. Were here with proper authority. The cops come forward. Take him. They pull his hands behind his back, tie his wrists with a leather thong. We have proper authority. One cop on each side, hands on his biceps. They give him a shove. Hes gone. What do I do now? I remember wisps and ghosts of his words about the Kingdom, about love, about wealth. What am I supposed to do? Should I wake everybody up? Should we follow him? Should we hide? Should we try to find his other followers? What are we supposed to do? I dont know what to do. I dont know whats going to happen to him. I dont know what he expects me to do. What do I do now?
Posted on: Fri, 18 Apr 2014 23:38:20 +0000
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