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First Century Photo Op
It seems to have been long ages ago,
and there has since been little reason
to think
about these things so lodged in the past;
but here is what I remember…
He
did not shine
as
I had been led to expect,
and
he smelt like my father,
except
for his feet, which smelt of dust.
My
father’s feet recalled the overturned loam
of
the cultivated fields after a rain,
and
the richly pungent dung of the sheepfold.
But,
I get ahead of my story:
First,
they came, two-by-two, his advance men,
disciples;
and they knocked on those doors
within
which they apparently had reason to expect
a
welcome, a meal, perhaps a pallet on the floor,
or
on mounded straw in a humble shed, comforted
in
the chill of night by the body heat of beasts.
A
strange lot, they walked unafraid through the dark
forests
and over the cave-riddled hills of the Galilee,
with
nothing more than a stout staff between them
to
afford a bit of protection from highway robbers.
Despite
the chill of the nighttime hills, each was content
with
but a single coat. And a robber would not have
profited
for the effort made to waylay these gentle
souls,
for they carried no purse, nor even a rough loaf;
each
relied for his sustenance on God’s providence
through
the inspired agency of sympathetic strangers.
Neither
did the stones in the road slow them,
though
they wore neither shoes nor sandals,
but
made their way like children, unshod in every weather.
I
happened to have been with my father, bringing a cartful
of
fresh produce to market on the day when a pair
of
these forerunning promoters arrived in our little country
township,
trailing a line of curious youngsters
like
the tail of a noisy gust-buffeted kite. Knocking,
they
were swiftly admitted through the front door
of
Jacob, the greengrocer, whose wife, one recalls,
had
a local reputation for mild hysteria, founded
upon
a devoutly anticipatory and credulous disposition.
Having
established this advance station and operational
headquarters
in the home of a respected merchant, and
generous
supporter of the local synagogue, each man went
his
separate way, mingling with the market folk, engaging
in
conversation whomever they could, to announce to every
man
and woman thus detained the imminent arrival
of
their teacher; a rabbi, so they claimed, of unprecedented wisdom,
whose
message of universal brotherhood and unconditional love
of
each for all would soon be the end of sickness and death
in
a gloriously transformed world; a New Eden in which
the
righteous would wear crowns that shone like stars,
and
where every miscreant would receive on that Last Day
his
just deserts, long since earned through their enjoyment
of
evil in its myriad manifestations, which mirror this fallen world.
I
may be too earthy, too pragmatic, too dubious
a
man; finally too much the straw-sucking hick,
but
even as a lad I never gave much credence to the rumor
that
these fellows possessed the power to cast out demons.
To
this day, I cannot personally attest to the reality of evil spirits.
I
tend to harbor a tentative, but persistent, conviction
that
your “demon” is really no more than a weak man’s
excuse
for his flagrant failure to do what is right,
having
exchanged the quieting of his conscience
for
the satisfaction of some overweening appetite;
the
gratification of his greed for gold; the titillation
of
his lust for forbidden flesh; or a bottomless hunger
for
an excess of victuals and wine to fill his burgeoning belly
and
muffle the quiet voice of prudent decency: elective deafness
empowering
a fear of damnation deferred to another day.
Based
upon the wonders told of this miraculous rabbi by his pitchmen,
I
had almost expected him to arrive in glory, shining like a Roman pillar,
riding
upon the winds in a colossal chariot of light-saturated clouds.
But
the sky did not open. It was a day much like any other. Hot, busy.
Children
ran the streets in shrieking packs. Women in pairs, well-wrapped
despite
the sun, stooped to criticize the goods in the market stalls,
in
hopes of getting a better price on the basis of their skepticism.
Excited
dogs pursued the soles of laughing men, who had walked
on
the urine pooled in the alleyway behind the public house.
And
when he arrived, barely stirring the dust of the market’s
central
lane, his mode of transportation was but humble shank’s mare.
Without
being led, he made his way to Jacob’s door, knocked and entered.
He
was not seen again for an interval of time during which village life
went
on as always. There had been little to see.
And that had ended.
I
was later to learn from my sister Shoshana, as she had from the lips
Jacob’s
all-too-nubile daughter, Rachaela -- a girl of fourteen and ripe
to
a fault -- just what had transpired within Jacob’s four walls.
This
girl had been bidden by her hyper-ventilating mother, to heat
water
for the bath of this dust-ridden rabbi, while she spread a meal
on
the table that his presence in their home so abundantly honored.
And
Rachaela told Shoshana, and she to me later whispered,
that
the bath duly poured, Rachaela had bowed and quickly departed,
but
only to peek through a chink in the wall as this guest in their home
disrobed
for the bathing. And Rachaela reported, with a lascivious titter,
that
this rabbi, once naked, had stood gleaming with water;
wholly
man, as revealed in every proportion.
There
stood a small copse, just without the market, where
the
women of the village maintained a small garden of flowers,
not
to squander such shade as leafy boughs had to offer.
It
was here, on a monolith, in the midst of this beauty, that his
scouts
predetermined that he would be seated to preach to those
gathered
of the glory of his Kingdom, which would surely arrive
without
preview or warning, like a thief in the
night, was how he later
described
it. And all through the market, their master once seated, his
disciples
had scurried, exhorting the shoppers to come hear their teacher
whose
words would transform them, show the way to redemption; and
so
a crowd gathered, not many in number, and quietly waited.
There
was now consultation of this man with his helpers;
for
led by Rachaela, a giggling set of young girls had shouldered
their
way to the front of those tightly assembled. And I was there
watching,
interested more in those girls, I can rightly assure you,
than
I was in the preacher. And I saw that his eye picked out the bracelet
on
the ankle of Rachaela, and he shook his head slightly and made a
small
gesture. It was not girls like these that would illustrate his message.
His
eyes searched the crowd and he picked out and summoned
the
innocent young ones. He bade them come forward. Pushed
from
behind by their fathers and mothers -- I amongst them --
these
reluctant children stood before the high seat of this
stranger
and soon found themselves unexpectedly joyful.
He
reached down and hoisted up two of the smallest, whom
he
placed on his lap, where they beamed like twin cherubs
singled
out in high heaven for special attention.
The
set thus arranged to his specifications, he began his performance.
And
that’s what I remember of that long-ago day.
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