The Shepherd's Story: Sermon on Luke 2:8-20

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Listen—I don’t have long—I simply must tell you what I must tell you.

You know me. You know my brothers and me, and how we watch our father’s flocks of sheep and goats. We are shepherds. You know what that means. We are not people who are given to flights of fancy. We are not dreamers and we are not romantics. Our lives and our responsibilities are very real: We rise in the morning before the flock becomes restless. WE take a quick count—assuming the person on the night watch didn’t fall asleep—to ensure that no wolves or coyotes decimated their ranks in the night. Then we move them, with the help of our dogs, across the mountain terrain, to the stream that runs south-southwest of here. We let them drink. Then we move them, again, across the rugged land to a place where they can pasture. While they eat we keep a watch for predators—as you know, that is the most important work we do. We protect the flocks. There is no one better with a staff than my brother Ezekiel. He killed a stalking leopard with one stroke last summer. He left a would-be poacher maimed the year before. Still, no one, not even Ezekiel, enjoys the attack. But this is our life. It is very real.

And you know that, our ancestor David notwithstanding, shepherds are not held in the highest esteem. We are needed. Everyone wants our lambs and kids to adorn their table. Everyone wants the sweet milk of our goats to drink and to make savory cheeses. But no one much wants a shepherd around. We do a job everyone acknowledges must be done. But everyone would just as soon we stay out of sight.

What I am trying to say is... I don’t know why this happened to us. I don’t know why this happened to me. I only know that it happened. It happened to us. And we will never be the same.

There we were last night, keeping watch over our sheep on the cold mountainside. They had settled down. Two of my brothers had curled up in front of a small fire, the end of a long day taking its toll on even the youngest and strongest bodies. Ezekiel and I were keeping watch. We were settling into the silence of a starry night, and the ground was beginning to cover over with a light frost.

Suddenly there was someone right in front of us—no warning. He had not walked to us. He had not run to us. We had not seen him coming—he was right there!

But that is not what I meant to say. The thing was this: we couldn’t look at him. We couldn’t bear to look at him. He was so bright—it was as if the brightest lightning shone a hundred times in the same spot, for many minutes. It was what it is like if you stare and stare into the brightest firelight for a long, long, time, and then turn your head and try to see something in the dark. All you see is the light.

There he stood, burning, radiant. Though I could not properly see him, I had the sense that he flowed and moved about even as he stood completely still. Were they robes that swirled in front of me? Were they... wings? Ezekiel and I fell to our knees. We knew what we had before us. You know what we had before us. A messenger from Ha Shem, Adonai, the Lord. A messenger from God can mean only—death. We knew our time had come, and so we fell to our knees. It was an instinct: the instinct to beg for our lives.

Then he spoke, and his voice was like the sound of rushing water. He spoke in our language, but he made it sound so beautiful... not the way my brothers and I speak at all. He sounded a little like a rabbi, only more beautiful, and more—filled with authority.

“Do not be afraid,” he said, “for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savoir, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”

The sound of his voice had awakened my sleeping brothers... I could see them out of the corner of my eye, huddled together like children, trembling. All I could hear at that moment was the sound of my own heart, beating, thump, thump. The messenger regarded us silently. Then there was a burst of sound as we all began to talk at once, our voices tumbling over each other.

“Good news...” “The city of David... that’s Bethlehem... that’s just a few miles from here...” “A Savior... but that’s what the Gentiles call their Emperor!” “How can a nursling babe be anyone’s Savior?”

Ezekiel had been silent until now. Then he spoke. “The Messiah? The one who is come to save our people? David’s son? The son of the shepherd?”

We were all silent again. The messenger swirled and swooped and somehow stood still. The voice like water burst forth again. “This will be a sign for you: you will find the child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” He waited a moment to see that we had taken in these words. Then the sky exploded, as if a hundred clouds had collided and issued a hundred thunderclaps, and we were all on the ground, covering our heads in fear. The flock, quiet until that moment, burst into bleating and stirred and stamped. I looked through my shaking arms and saw an army of a hundred—no, a thousand messengers, each as brilliant as the one who had spoken to us, so that the sky was no longer dark, but bright as a sunny noontime.

The messengers were calling to one another, and it was like rushing water all around our heads. It was like music. It was like the crackling of fire. They were yelling. They were singing! “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth, peace, good will among people!” The noise was both exquisitely beautiful and painful to hear. It was as if there was too much beauty for this shepherd’s heart to take in at once. Finally we rolled onto our backs, looking and listening and gasping for breath, and laughing at the amazement of it all.

I don’t know how long we were there. But eventually the last messenger ascended into the starry heavens, and we were left alone with our bleating flock. We lay there for a few minutes, struck dumb by what we had witnessed.

Then my brother rose. “Up!” said Ezekiel. “Up! You heard him! You heard them! We have to go! We have to tell! We have to see!” Then he stopped, and a broad smile came over his dark face. “Did you hear what he said? He said, ‘To you.’ To you is born a Savior! To us!” We all stood breathless, as the truth of the words dawned. This Savior... this was not someone for the rich and powerful only, like the Roman Emperor. This was someone who was coming to us, for us. Shepherds! The lowest of the low! We knew what it meant. If we were included, everyone was included.

And now I have paused as long as I dare. My brothers have gone on ahead of me, and I will have to run to catch up. But I wanted you to know. I had to tell. And now I have to see, this child of God, this son of David, this baby shepherd who will save us, who will save us all. I have to go. I have to go! Thanks be to God! Amen.

On the Road with Jesus: Monologue Sermon on Luke 24:13-35

I have just put the bread in the oven—four beautiful, fragrant loaves. Their scent is beginning to permeate the house. That smell… well, there’s nothing like it, is there? It’s the smell of nourishment, of care, it’s the smell of life! I have always loved this particular part of women’s work, baking the bread and bringing it to the table. But now… it always makes my heart burn with joy, as I remember the day we were on the road with Jesus.

It began as a day of confusion… three days, really. My husband Cleopas and I were staying in Jerusalem for the Passover and of course the news—the terrible news—spread like a raging fire over parched earth. We had learned within hours of the terrible event, of what had happened to Jesus of Nazareth—whom we had believed to be a prophet. Whom we had believed to be the Messiah. We had heard how our leaders handed him over to be condemned to death, and how the Romans had crucified him.

And we had hoped… how can I even convey to you what we had hoped? We had hoped that he, who wandered Galilee free as a bird on the wing, would lead our people to a life of freedom. We had hoped that he, who spoke of putting away the sword, would lead our people to a life of peace. We had hoped that he, who healed every kind of disease and malady, would lead our people to a life of wholeness. And how our hopes were no more. They were nothing but foolish wishes. Those in power had shown us what happens to those with dreams of freedom, peace and wholeness.

And so we had planned, on the first day of the week, to leave Jerusalem, to return to our village, Emmaus. We couldn’t bear to stay in that place where our hopes and dreams had been killed. We needed to return to family, and familiarity. We needed to go home.

But then another story started to spread—and this one wasn’t fire, it was wind, it blew into the place we were staying early that morning. Some women of our group astounded us. They had gone to the tomb early that morning, and they did not find his body there. They came back and told us that they had seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.

Cleopas and I whispered together in a corner. “What shall we do?” I asked. “What can we do?” he said. “There’s nothing for us here. There’s nothing but cruel taunts, inviting us to hope again and be crushed again. There’s nothing to do except to go home.” And so that is what we did. On that day of confusion we set out for our home village.

I love to walk with my husband. He is unusual, I think, in that he likes to talk. And that is what we do, when we take a journey of several hours or more. We talk about all the things we don’t have time to talk about in the day-to-day busyness of our lives. We talk about what matters to us. That day, we talked only of Jesus.

We talked of the day Cleopas first saw him. He had been working with his brother hauling rocks from a quarry to build a pavilion for a wealthy man in our town. Emmaus is known for its hot springs, which means those with money travel here for their health. Cleopas and Markus paused in their work, in the heat of the day, and saw a man sitting by a well, surrounded by people who were jostling one another to get closer to him. When they too moved closer, they heard him tell the most remarkable tale—a tale about a Samaritan and some Jews and a man who had been beaten by robbers and left for dead, and how the Samaritan saved him, while the Jews did nothing. Markus scoffed and turned back to his work, but there was something in the words that captured my husband’s attention. “Is it possible?” he’d asked me that night, as we leaned together over our supper. “Is it possible that not all Samaritans are evil and godless? I’ve never thought about it before.” The next day Cleopas took me to see him. I was skeptical. But Cleopas was insistent. He had learned his name—Jesus, of Nazareth—and he had heard that, not only was he a teacher, but also a healer.

As Cleopas pulled me through the village, I felt my face burning with shame. I knew why he was taking me to see this healer. We had been married for more than three years, and I had yet to bring forth a child. The other women were starting to look at me with that terrible pity they get when they decide one of us is barren. A woman who is not a mother in my village—well, she may as well be dead. She has no value. Not to my Cleopas, though. I knew my husband treasured me. I knew that I had value to him. But it still pained me that he thought I needed to be healed.

When we arrived, there was a great commotion. The crowd gathered around Jesus was full of men shouting, and arguing. At the center of it all, a man sat on the ground at Jesus’ feet, talking quietly with him. But when we drew near enough to see who man that was—Cleopas and I clutched one another in shock. It was Jacob, the beggar. Jacob, cousin to my cousin. Jacob, who had never been able to utter a word. Jacob, who now was conversing with Jesus as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Jacob had been mute, and Jesus had opened his mouth.

Cleopas turned to me and said, “Mariam, what more evidence do we need? This man—he is the Messiah. He is the one who will save our people. I don’t understand everything he says, but the power of God is in him.” And that day we became his followers. We didn’t leave our home; we couldn’t. But we followed him from afar. We met others who believed he was the Messiah. We heard by word of mouth when he would be anywhere near, and we went to see him, as far as a two-day walk, just to be near him.

We talked of all these things as we walked toward our home. As we walked and talked, a stranger joined us on our journey. It was not such an unusual thing. Pilgrims were leaving Jerusalem, now that the great Sabbath of Passover was past. It is always safer to travel with company than to go alone on unknown paths.

As Cleopas and I paused in our conversation, the stranger asked what we were talking about. When I heard his voice, it struck me: there was something familiar about it, but I didn’t give it much thought. In our village, everybody was somebody’s relative. Cleopas asked him, incredulous, how it was he knew nothing about Jesus. But then the stranger began to talk, and it was clear: he knew everything.

He began to tell us about the Messiah, and how it was necessary—necessary—for him to suffer, and only by suffering would the glory of God truly be revealed. He explained that the Messiah had been foretold by the prophets—he reminded us of the words of Isaiah, “Surely he has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases… by his bruises we are healed. [Isaiah 53:4-5].”

He told us how God was victorious over death, and that the Messiah truly lived, just as the women had said.

We were silent, and our hearts began to burn with something indefinable, something we would only understand much later. But it was as if we had been walking around in a fog—a cold cloud of misery and grief and crushed hopes—and now, the sun was coming out, on that dusty road, all because of the words of a stranger.

As we approached our village, the stranger bid us farewell, but we couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Cleopas asked him, pleaded with him— “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” And so he entered our home.

Everything that followed was somehow familiar and brand new all at the same time. I ran to my sister’s house for some bread, and then we sat at table together. My sister had just taken the loaves from the oven for her own family’s meal. The smell of the good grain and the yeast filled our small room, and it was warm in my hands as I carried it home. The stranger took the bread in his hands and closed his eyes in prayer: “Baruch atah Adonai Eloheynu, melech ha-olam ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz; Blessed are you, Lord God, king of all creation, who brings forth bread from the earth.” And he broke the bread and gave it to us.

That was the moment when we saw. That’s when the fog lifted. That’s when we understood, finally, that Jesus was with us. That’s when we knew him, when he broke the bread and shared it with us. That’s when we understood we had been on the road with Jesus all day long. As I took the bread from his hand, he looked into my eyes, and I knew that I was healed—but not in the way Cleopas had anticipated. I don’t have a child. But I knew in that moment that my value did not depend on being able to produce a child. I knew myself to be loved, by my Messiah and my God. That is how I was healed.

Can you smell the bread now? Every time I place the loaves in the oven I remember that he left us this sign, as an
everlasting reminder. Every time that scent fills our little house, I know that he is with us still, and that we are taking the good bread from his hands.. Every time Cleopas and I walk together, I know that we are on the road with Jesus again. I know that he is, truly, leading us to freedom and peace and wholeness after all. Thanks be to God. Amen.

The Tale of the Innkeeper's Wife: A Sermon for Christmas Eve

“It’s all about the hospitality,” he says, my husband, Amos. He says that all the time. I suppose it makes sense. We’re innkeepers. What else would it be about? Well, I’ll tell you what else it would be about: it’s all about the business. It’s a business! Sometimes you have to shake that man to remind him: we’re not doing this for our health.

Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Rachel, and my husband and I are innkeepers in Bethlehem, the great City of David. Oh, it’s not so “great.” Just a thousand souls or so. But every so often, when the Roman bigwigs get it into their minds that they want a count of us, just to see how much trouble we’ll be, or where they need to send their regiments and legions, Bethlehem swells to be a city of many, many more than that. It’s a great homecoming: everyone of the house and lineage of David, which is to say, the tribe of Judah, comes home to Bethlehem. Amos and I, we’re not from Bethlehem. We’re of a different tribe, the tribe of Benjamin. And the tribe of Benjamin—let’s just say, we don’t have quite the reputation for hospitality of our brother tribes. Maybe that’s why Amos has such an issue with it. Maybe he feels he has something to prove.

It’s like those guests we had, in the time of that last census. Oh my, the city was packed. I had never seen it so filled with travelers. Now, most travelers, when they come to their ancestral city, well, of course, they stay with family. But occasionally, you have a family that’s not—well, let’s say, they’re not so friendly with one another. Let’s be realists here, shall we? It happens all the time. So, that’s where we come in! Some poor travelers come all the way from Bethany or Jerusalem or even, God help them, some backwater like Cana or Nazareth—and who puts them up for the night or the week or however long it takes the Romans to count them on their little beads? We do! Amos Ben Joseph! And wife. Of course.

And children. We have five, thanks be to God, five who have lived beyond the age of two, at any rate. The children work with their father and me in the inn, they tend our little garden and see to the livestock. It’s a good life, an honest living. And it’s a service that is needed.

So the town was filled to overflowing, and for the first time ever we had to turn away traveler after traveler. A lot of families having squabbles that year, I suppose. Or maybe our people are exploding in number! Who knows? But day in and day out for two weeks, Amos and I were forced to say, “No, I’m sorry, we are full—try Jacob and Naomi down the street.”

I remember I was working in the kitchen that night, trying to provide a decent meal for about thirty hungry souls when in walks Amos, with that look on his face. That look he gets when he has to tell me something he knows I’m not going to like.

“What is it?” I asked. I was kneading dough for bread. I’m sure my face was flushed, which also happens when I get angry. I wasn’t angry. Yet. He hesitated. Amos is a good man, but he can be timid. Especially with me.

“What is it?” I asked. I was so busy. I had no time for some great complication that probably wouldn’t matter in the end. I had so many things to do!

Amos straightened himself up and said, “We have taken in some additional guests. You will find them in the stable. See that they have a decent meal tonight.” And he turned on his heel and walked away.

Or, tried to. “Just a minute, husband,” I stopped him, and he turned around to face me again. I see that very same look on our children sometimes. That look of almost having gotten away with something.

“What in the world are you telling me? The busiest night of our year, the we are full to overflowing, and you get it into your mind to put someone up with the cows and the goats?” Then I thought a moment. Maybe Amos was a good business man after all. I was suddenly eager to hear what could possibly have persuaded him to open our stable to travelers. “What—did they offer you some exorbitant amount of money? Did they give you a denarius?”

Amos shook his head. And all pretense left his face, all false bravado. He was just the man I married, just for a moment. A deeply kind face, my Amos has. Kinder than his wife.

“Rachel, they were so poor. A husband and a wife. And… she was in a bad way.” My Amos, five children, and he still can’t bring himself to speak frankly about the facts of life. I knew instantly what he meant.

“The girl is with child?” He nodded vigorously. “Is it… soon?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Could be.” I nodded, still kneading.

“And there’s something else,” Amos said. I could feel myself bristling with irritation. “What? What else?” I snapped. Amos looked down. He was twisting a piece of cloth in his hands. “His name was Joseph, like my father.” Then he looked up at me again. “It’s all about hospitality, Rachel. What kind of people would we be to turn them away?”

I shook my head. It’s all about the business, except when it isn’t. Then I looked up into my husband’s kind face. I suppose even we Benjaminites have learned a thing or two about hospitality. “Fetch me one of the girls,” I said, and he nodded and ducked out of the kitchen.

I placed six fat fragrant loaves on the stone in the oven, and stepped out to the well to wash my hands and face. Hannah, my eldest came running to me, a little out of breath. She had been serving the guests in the great room. Hannah is a good girl, smart, and ready to be helpful. Truth be told, she should be married by now—she’s almost fifteen. But I have been dragging my feet. It’s good to have a good daughter by your side.

“Mama?” she said, expectantly.

I placed my hand on her shoulder. “Hannah, there are guests in the stable, a husband and wife, and the wife is going to have a baby. Go to them, see what they need.”

She nodded, turned and ran. My Hannah. I know I can depend on her.

A few short minutes later she came running back. “Mama,” she said. “I think you’d better come.” My daughter does not panic. If Hannah felt it was urgent, I should listen to her.

“Check the loaves in about an hour,” I said, “unless they smell done before that. See to the guests in the great room.” I smiled at her. “I know you can do it.” She smiled back at me.

I ran to our closet and took an armful of soft cloths, and I went to the well for water. I ducked my head back into the kitchen. “And Hannah—warm up some water for me. Not too hot.” She nodded, and pulled out a large pot. I took a good sharp knife from the table, and I was ready.

As I headed towards the stable I was shaking my head. For the goodness and kindness of my husband, tonight I would be a midwife. This was a first. Not midwifing a birth—no woman gets to be my age in Bethlehem without standing in on a birth or two or ten. No, the first was—they were strangers. It was in our stable. I said a quick prayer of thanksgiving that Amos and I had taught our boys to keep a tidy stable; I knew there would be fresh straw at least, for a bed for the mother.

I stepped into the dim light. There was a lantern near the door, and another at the far end, which is where they were, the wife already lying on the ground with her back to the wall, the husband hovering nervously over her. I looked around at the animals… they were restless. They knew what was happening. Animals have unfailing instincts about birth and death, and they lend their sympathy to all creatures going through the great passages.

I approached, and I could see she was already in hard labor—she probably had been for some time. I smiled at the husband, in a way I hoped was reassuring. The wife—young thing, high color, grimacing with pain and trying as hard as she could not to make any noise—looked up at me with, not fear exactly, something more like—hope. The husband startled me by his insistence on staying, though I tried to shoo him out more than once. He seemed—very attached to his wife, which is always refreshing. At some point Hannah crept in with the basin of warm water. She stayed by my side, wordlessly taking directions from me, helping as if she’d been doing it for thirty years instead of just an hour.

What happened next is what nearly always happens. The hard, hard work of bring a new life into the world. She was brave. Far more brave than I was at her age, and I had my mother and my sisters beside me. As the night wore on and the moment grew nearer, her face changed so that—I swear, this is true—it was filled with a kind of light. I have never before seen anything like it, or anything since.

And then all was silent, as the mother lay back in the straw, breathless, pale again. I took the babe, and showed the mother how to wrap him in clean strips of cloth. I held him, for just a moment. I saw it in his face too—that light, I swear it stopped breath in my lungs. And then I handed him to his mother. I left them, and the father had curled himself around the mother, who curled herself around the child. Just an ordinary babe, an ordinary family, after all. As Hannah and I left I realized I was trembling. I wondered why it affected me so much. Why it affects me still.

It was already early in the morning by the time we returned to our room, where we found Amos awake, waiting for us. I must have looked tired; he put his arm around me without saying a word. I was still filled with the wonder of the birth—the accident of it all, wandering travelers who just happened to find their way to us, my husband who just happened to have a soft spot for young couples in distress, and for men named “Joseph” like his father. And me, called upon to be midwife for these poor strangers. It just seemed the right thing to do. In the end, it changed me. I’m still not sure how.

It’s all about the business. That’s what I like to tell Amos when it seems he’s grown too softhearted to make tough decisions. But maybe Amos is right. Maybe it’s all about opening your home, opening your heart to the weary, needy traveler. Opening your life to a young family, to a child in need. Maybe it’s only when we do that, that we can truly open our hearts to the holy One, to God. Thanks be. Amen.

"At the River": A Monologue of Lydia, Acts 16:9-15

Ever since I was a child I have felt the sure sense of something greater when I am in the presence of running water. I was always drawn to the river… it put me in mind of the eternal, as I saw the cool, crystal tides flowing fast from an unknown source and proceeding in an unending course to the sea. Even as a little girl, when my mother would clothe me in my finest robe and take me to the temple for the ceremonies in honor of Athena, I would hang back, dropping a stone into the water to watch its ripples. I knew the gods and goddesses were not in the temple. I knew they were playing along the riverbanks, frolicking in the water.

I grew up in Thyatira, the eldest daughter in a family with many generations of membership in the venerable guild of dyers. Thyatira was known throughout the world for its exceptional indigo dyes; that meant our city was frequented by the emissaries of lords, chieftains and kings. Every royal family had need of our luxurious purple cloth. They needed to let the world know. To clothe yourself in purple is to announce: I am royalty. I am king.

I was schooled in the trade by my mother. While my brothers learned the art and craft of creating and using the precious indigo dyes, my sisters and I were learning the fine art of selling our goods, whether to brokers or directly to the very, very wealthy and powerful. Because I also married—as did most girls and women—I was a working mother, once my children came along. My daughter, Maia, proved a particularly good traveler. She came with me on my many trips to Philippi, when, with an entourage of two or three men, we would travel the 250 miles to trade, to sell our dyes and our cloths to those who could afford them.

My travels took me to many rivers and even to the sea. And my travels led me into the presence of others who felt the presence of the gods in different ways. I remember well dealing with a Jew from Samothrace, who puzzled me by being unable to make an appointment on the seventh day of the week. When I pressed him, he said “It is a day holy to my God. It is a day of rest, not of work or trade.” When I heard those words—a quiet thrill pierced my soul. And I tried to imagine what would be the shape of a life in which one day of the week —one entire day—was so sacred that no work might be done on that day, no trade, but only a kind of holy rest.

It became my custom both at home and in my travels to find a place where I might gather with others who worshipped the God of the Jews. I took particular pains to do this on the Sabbath—that was what they called the seventh day, the Sabbath. And to my delight, I found that in many places where there was no Jewish temple, such times of prayer took place at the river. This to me seemed a sign from the gods—or was it, simply, God?—that the worship of the Jews was right and good, and I decided to learn from them as much as I could.

It was a particularly trying journey, that year, the trek to Philippi. The rainy season lasted longer than normal, and so we set out later in the year than we had planned. Add to that the fact that my daughter, my Maia, became ill—nothing serious, just the normal discomforts of a traveling child’s stomach. When we arrived at our usual place of lodging, the rooms had been given away, and we found ourselves scrambling for other accommodations in the busiest trading days of the year. On an impulse, I went to a neighborhood I knew to be a home to the Jews, and knocked at the closest door. A woman answered, just about my age, and I explained our plight to her. I could see curious children gathered behind her. She hesitated; I knew that Jews were loath to share lodgings with Gentiles. Finally she looked down and saw my little Maia, pale but upright, clinging to my skirts. Her face softened. “We will find a place for you.”

An hour later we were settled in modest but comfortable rooms, one for Maia and myself and one for the men. After I had soothed and sung Maia into a nap I noticed a flurry of activity in the household. Two little boys carried wood, laughing and teasing as they ran in and out of the house, one little girl swept the floors while another stood alongside her mother kneading fragrant dough for bread. I stood uncertainly in the kitchen door, and asked our hostess, Rebekah: “Please, tell me you are not going to all these lengths for us; we do not want to impose.” Rebekah looked up and laughed. “Not at all. The Sabbath approaches. This is how you will always find us as evening draws near on the sixth day of the week.”

The Sabbath. Of course! I had nearly forgotten. And we would be in a household of Jews as they went about their observances. I was thrilled. I set out with an assistant to meet one of my buyers, with a firm promise to be back before the sun had set. Rebekah in turn promised to look in on Maia if she should stir.

I returned as promised, and found that Rebekah’s husband was home with the meat for the evening’s meal. As we gathered at the table, I heard Rebekah’s quiet explanation to her husband of our presence, and saw with relief he responded with a smile. “Our Lord Yeshua never turned away a stranger, Jew or Gentile alike. You did well, wife.”

This was the first time I heard the name which is above all other names. But I did not know that yet.

That Sabbath meal remains as one of the highlights of my life. How can I explain it? It was not the food, though the food was delicious. It was the soul, the spirit of the meal. I remember the flickering light of the Sabbath candles as Rebekah lit them, and then waved her hands over them, as if to welcome the Sabbath as a beloved guest. She intoned the Hebrew prayers that brought the Sabbath in words:

Blessed are You, LORD our God, King of the universe,
who has sanctified us with his commandments,
and has commanded us to kindle the lights of the Sabbath.

And then a similar blessing over the shiny brown loaves of bread and the cup of sweet wine. And finally, a blessing I found most mysterious:

Blessed are You, LORD our God, King of the universe,
Who sanctified us with his commandments, and commanded us to be a light to the nations
and Who gave to us Jesus our Messiah
the Light of the world.

As I tucked Maia into her bed that night, she said “I love the Sabbath” in her sleepy child’s voice. “So do I,” I murmured, as I kissed her on the forehead… I loved it, and I hardly knew what it was.

We rose early in the morning. W followed Rebekah and her daughters as she took the winding streets of the city and followed them through the city gate, to a wooded path that wound gently downhill, bringing us, finally, to the location we were seeking: a place of prayer at the river. There was a circle of rocks there, just the right size upon which to sit, and we took our places as a group of about a dozen women gathered there. A breeze whispered through the leaves of the trees as the river swept freshly across the rocks below.

Rebekah spoke: “It is written in Torah: ‘When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt: I am the LORD your God.’” [Leviticus 19:34-35]. As she spoke three men walked slowly down the hill and stood at a slight distance, listening. One of them was quite young—hardly older than a youth. Another man, perhaps a bit older, was tall and pale; he hung back and seemed disinclined to speak. But the man who arrested my attention was older still, small of stature, with thinning hair upon his head, and a somewhat twisted, limping gait. But these were not the first things one noticed about him. The first things I noticed were his eyes. I have never seen such fire behind a man’s eyes, before or since.

Rebekah looked up, expectantly, and the man with the fiery eyes spoke: “Grace and peace to you, sisters, from God our Father and the Lord Jesus, the Christ. I am Paul of Tarsus, and these are my companions Timothy and Silas. We are following the leading of a vision granted by the Holy Spirit. We believe the Spirit brought us here to Philippi to share the great Good News with you. Let us tell you about Jesus the Messiah, the Christ, he who is full of grace and truth…”

For the next hour—or was it more? I have no idea—I listened to the story of a man who had no need to clothe himself in purple in order to show that he was a king; a man whose royal nature expressed itself in miracles, in healing, in acts of love towards the least of his brothers and sisters. I listened to the story of the one who was the true child of God. I listened, and finally, I knew.

I understood, at last, what the river had been telling me since I had been a child. It was then that my heart opened like a flower in the spring sunshine, and I knew that I had found the answer I had been seeking all my life: the river was calling me. Paul led my daughter and me, and the others of my household to the water’s edge and asked whether we wanted to be baptized in the name of Jesus the Christ, and I answered, yes, we did. And one by one he led us into the cold, swirling water, and lowered us into it so that we arose, breathless, gasping for air, and so filled with the Holy Breath of God. And since that day I have made it my one goal to live a life—a busy, active life, the life of a mother and a wife, the life of a merchant of indigo dye and cloths—to live this life in a manner worthy of the Good News that took hold of my heart that Sabbath morning at the river. I invite you to do the same. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Thanks be to God. Amen.

My Brother, Myself: Sermon on Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

I wrote this sermon many years ago (12!) and have not preached it since (though I did post it here three years ago). It will be preached tomorrow.

~~~

They are all in there—I can hear the music from here, the stamping of the feet, the voices as they raise the cups in toast after toast. They are celebrating as if it were the harvest, or a wedding. I can’t go in there. I can’t go in there. If you had seen what I have seen, you would understand why.

A year ago my father was an honorable man, with not one but two sons to share his good fortune. As the oldest, naturally I had a place of honor at my father’s table, and beside him at prayers in the synagogue. After all, I would inherit the lion’s share of his estate: two thirds, as it is written, a double-portion for the firstborn. My father never had a moment’s anxiety on my account. I was there, by his side, every day from the time I left my mother’s care, learning from him: the land, the accounts, the servants. I learned how to manage his estate by his wisdom, and I gave him the honor he was due as my father. And I ate my daily bread by the sweat of my brow.

But my brother… from the day he was born you could see that his eyes never properly focused on what was right in front of him: his family, our honor. He walked about as if in a dream. Far off lands. Exotic tales of strange peoples. He saw no good in the bread that was before him on his plate, but longed for strange and alien feasts.

I remember well the day he left. He stood in front of the house, in broad daylight, in front of the hired servants, and said, “Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.” He stood there with no shame on his face, and all but told our father, “Your only use to me, old man, is as a corpse.” With his words he wished our father dead. The servants hid their faces and scurried away, so as not to look upon their master’s shame. And, in truth, something in my father did die that day… I could see it in his eyes. His younger son had killed him just as surely as if he’d driven a knife into his breast.

My father walked slowly away from the house, and gestured to a parcel of land. “There. That is your third. The servants will draw up the contracts. So be it.” And then he took his tunic between his great hands, and I thought, for a moment, he was about to tear it. And I thought, “Ah, he will tear his garments to show that this son of his is dead to him.” At least, that is as a man of honor would have seen it. But my father… he did not tear his tunic. It fell from his hands, and hung limply about him, and he shuffled back into the house.

No one said good-bye to my brother. He took his deeds and a parcel of clothing and he disappeared over a low hill.

So. Now I too was a landowner, and not just the oldest son, for my father had divided his property. The servant had handed me a deed of ownerships just as he had handed one to my brother. My father left his place as head of the household, preferring, for some months, to sleep beneath a shade tree in the garden. His ceremonial robes hung unworn inside the house, and he never left to go to the village to trade or to the synagogue to pray. He ate only such food as would sustain a child, and so took on the lean look of a hired man, even though he did no work. And I… well, I was put in the most impossible position of all.

I became the head of the household, but my father lived on. I had accepted my inheritance while my father still breathed! How could I sit in the place of honor at the table beside my own father? How could I wear his robes and trade with the merchants who knew that he had been shamed by a vile, ungrateful child? The other men of the village—they knew as well as I that my brother had marked our family as disgraced. I heard the plan they had for my brother should he ever dare to show his face again in our village. My brother would be dead within the hour he reappeared, they said. What was the alternative? That their sons be permitted to think a father could be so misused and his wicked son live on?

So my brother was a dead man. And my father was a dead man. And I was a man half-alive in my own home.

After a time my father roused himself from beneath his shade tree. He washed his face and put on a clean tunic. He stood out in front of the house, staring off at the low hill. And then he began to walk. He would set out early, before the heat of the day, and usually return in time for the meal, though not always. He would take his staff and walk in the direction of the low hill over which my brother had disappeared. When he returned, he would take his meal, saying little, but eating more now that his body was working again. And then he would sit on a little cushion outside the door, and watch. He sat there watching the horizon, the servants coming and going, every day. The sun hardened his skin, and he had only the occasional clouds for his shade.

I ask you, what am I? I am a child who has done his duty towards his father, no more and no less. If I had taken my pack and followed my brother, would my father’s grief have led him to hold this vigil for me? If my brother was all but dead—and the men of the village vowed never to let him return alive—why did my father hope for his return? Did he not have a son who loved him, who showed him honor? What am I?

Today my father went out for his usual three hours of walking. We had our meal together, as always. I saw nothing unusual—just some vagabond child off in the distance, coming over the hill as my father sat upon his cushion. No one worth noticing. I went out into the field to supervise several men who were digging a drainage ditch. I did not return until the sun had sunk low over the horizon.

When I returned I could smell the aroma of veal roasting, and I could see that the house was lit with lanterns, and I could hear the music that was playing, and the sound of the stamping of the dancers’ feet, and the voices as they raised their cups in toast after toast. I called a house servant to me and asked him to account for all these goings on.

“It was the most amazing thing master! One moment your father was seated, as always, on his cushion. And in the next he was up and running towards some beggar who we could see coming up the road! Yes, running, I tell you, his robes flapping about him! And still we had no idea what or who it was all about. And then we could see that he had embraced this beggar, and kissed him, and that he was bringing him back towards the house! And then I realized who it was. Master. It is your brother.”

My brother?

So. He has returned. And apparently the men of the village have not stoned him to death or cut his throat. Of course, once my father had kissed him, they could not. It appears that my father has taken his place once again as the head of this family, and that he has taken my good for nothing brother under his protection. So the men of the village are now raising the glass with him instead of describing his death in detail to their sons. So this is how it is.

Why is it that my father, who was so shamed, can forgive? And why is it that I, who have never shamed my father, find myself now standing outside the great feast, looking in? How can I go in?

And yet, there is my father, and he looks altogether unfamiliar to me, as if he were a stranger! Why is that so? Is it that the expression on his face is so alien to me I do knot know him when he wears it? He is smiling. He is smiling so broadly his eyes have disappeared into the deep creases on his face. He looks utterly at peace, completely happy.

And there is my brother. He looks like one who has been imprisoned, like a child who has been released from a prison. He looks as if he had suffered, truly. Gone is the face of that arrogant young man who demanded his portion of the inheritance. What remains is the face of a child. And he too is smiling as if the joy within him is too great to be contained.

My father came to me, just now, and he asked me—he pleaded with me—to come in, to raise the cup for my brother as well. “My son,” he said, “you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come back to life; he was lost and has been found.” All that is his is mine? Including this lost-and-found child, my brother?

Oh my father… your heart is so deep, so wide! Is that because it has been broken? Can a broken heart love all the more? Then let my heart stop its straining and break so that I too might come into the fold of your love again. Can I come in? Can I let my heart break once and for all so that I too can yield to love?

~~~~~

*Information about social customs and family relationships was taken from Social-Science Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels by Bruce J. Malina and Richard L. Rohrbaugh (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg/ Fortress Press, 1992), 370-373.

Image from artist Charlie Mackesy.

For Such a Time As This: Sermon on the Book of Esther

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It is so simple, yet it can be so difficult: telling the truth. For a long time, I hid the truth about myself. For a long time, I lived in fear that the truth would bring with it only danger, only sorrow. But in the end, the truth brought freedom, for me and for my people.

My Hebrew name is Hadassah, meaning myrtle. But I have a Babylonian name as well: Esther, Ishtar, like the goddess worshipped by those who kidnapped my people and took them into exile, the people who brought us here, long before I was born. I have two names, and I claim them both. I am a woman of two worlds. And that is why I began to keep my secret.

My story begins as another woman’s story ends. It was all the talk of the women at the well: beautiful Queen Vashti had been commanded to appear at a royal banquet by her husband, King Xerxes. The king was merry with wine, they chuckled to one another, and he ordered Vashti to appear before his banquet guests in her royal crown—and everyone knew that the king meant, only in her royal crown. At this, eyebrows were raised, and the women clucked their tongues in disapproval as they hoisted their buckets from the well. Proud Vashti refused, and so Xerxes deposed her and began his search for another Queen. The general consensus was that any woman who agreed to be the queen of Xerxes ought to be prepared for a life of such indignities.

My uncle Mordecai approached me for a dipper of water as I returned from the well, and he listened as I shared the gossip. My dear uncle had raised me from a child, ever since my parents had died. I saw a twinkle in his eye, and I knew him so well, I knew what it meant: despite the warnings of the women, this was an opportunity, not just for me, and not just for my family, but for my people. We were Jews. We were the outsiders, one of the tiniest ethnic minorities of the vast Persian Empire. We were strangers in a strange land, and we were looked upon with suspicion, even hate. Long ago we had been taken into captivity and exile… so long ago that many of us had been reared without the prayers and traditions and history of our people being taught to us. What would happen, we wondered, if a woman who was a Jew could find her way into royal favor? With my uncle’s encouragement I went and joined the throng, one of hundreds of girls to present themselves to the king for his consideration. But heeding my uncle’s warning, I kept the truth about my heritage a secret. No one would know that I was a Jew, not even those who would become my closest friends. No one would know, not even the man who was to be my husband.

What followed was a lengthy time of preparation. I do not know whether it was the legacy of having come after Queen Vashti, but we women of the harem were clearly intended to put our appearance before all else. We were schooled in beauty and deportment, we were treated with oil of myrrh and we were clothed with rich fabrics. At the end of our time of preparation, we were taken, one at a time, before the king. I never dreamed he would actually choose me, but he did. He gave a banquet in my honor and introduced me to the court.

Now, just as I took my place as the king’s bride my uncle performed an extraordinary service to him. Two of the king’s servants were talking carelessly at the gate to the palace, and my uncle was able to overhear that a plot was underway to kill the king. They spoke openly… perhaps the sight of an elderly Jew didn’t concern them… my people are often made invisible by the contempt of others. But my uncle’s ears were sharp, and before long King Xerxes was made to know that a good subject named Mordecai had interfered with a plot to kill him, and saved his life.

What shall I say about the king? He is devoted to me… that I can tell you with certainty. And I like to hope there is more to that than the blush of my cheek. I like to hope it is as much the conversation we make as my more, shall we say, decorative aspects. Is the king a good man? The Vashti incident notwithstanding, there is a kind of goodness about him, I suppose. But it is like the seeds that cling around the blossom of the dandelion. A strong wind can carry his goodness away, never to be seen again. In the case of the king, his continuing goodness depends very much on the company he keeps. And for a time, this king kept the company of Haman.

There are those, like the servants at the gate, who see my people and simply look right through us: we do not count, we are almost invisible. Then there are those, like Haman, who harbor a hatred for us that chills the blood. Haman was the king’s prime minister. He was trusted. He was respected. But he also had that dangerous kind of ego one finds in the world of politics. Haman wished, above all else, to be feared.

My dear uncle had an encounter with him that changed the fate of every one of us. Mordecai had taken his place at the king’s gate. I do not know why he favored this location, except that, perhaps, he liked to be near me, and to see whether he could hear about my comings and goings. As he came and went to and from the castle, Haman enjoyed seeing the way all the people bowed down to him… all, that is, except one: my uncle Mordecai. I do not know why he refused… our people usually show respect to rulers in this way. Could my uncle see through to Haman’s evil and murderous soul? I do not know. But for some reason my uncle would not bow, and Haman grew to hate him. As his hatred grew, he learned that Mordecai was a Jew… for my uncle did not hide his heritage, and no one in the palace knew he was my uncle. Haman thought it beneath him to vent his rage on one man alone. So he planned to kill all the Jews, throughout Xerxes’ vast kingdom. He proposed his plan to the king, all built upon a lie—that the Jews were not obeying the king’s laws. Upon hearing this, Xerxes did not hesitate to agree with his trusted advisor. The edict went out. All the Jews were to be killed.

I remember where I was when I heard the news. I was in my chamber, with my serving women, embroidering myrtle flowers on a gown of rich fabric for myself. As the women shared the gossip my needle froze just as the tip was about to pierce the fabric, to create the fifth petal of the star-like blossom. Suddenly my hands were cold, and I knew I could sew no more that day. I rushed from the palace to the gate and fell on my knees beside my uncle.

I had never seen him like this. As I have said, I was raised without the rituals and prayers of my people. Mordecai had assumed what I have since learned to be the garments of one who is mourning, and begging God to intercede with rescue. Gone were his fine clothes, and he wore sackcloth in their place. His face and head were covered with soot, with ashes, and he wailed and prayed aloud.

Hear a just cause, O Lord; attend to my cry;
give ear to my prayer from lips free of deceit.
²From you let my vindication come; let your eyes see the right. ~ Psalm 17:1-2

³

Give ear to my prayer from lips free of deceit… my uncle could pray these words, but I could not. I was the queen. I had been chosen by the king, and he did not know this basic fact about me… he did not know the truth. He did not know that I was a Jew. He did not know that, by agreeing to Haman’s plan to kill every Jew, he had signed his queen’s death warrant.

I looked into my uncle’s eyes and I could see that in his prayers he was not only asking God to intervene: he was also asking me. I explained to him what I had learned from my long months in the palace: that one did not seek an audience with the king. One waited on his royal pleasure. Anyone who approached the king without his express invitation could be killed.

My uncle narrowed his eyes. I could see that he was not convinced by my protests. He spoke to me in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, hoarse from his hours of wailing and lamenting.

“My child, you believe that you can stay in the king’s house and remain silent. But I tell you, you cannot. You believe that your silence will keep you safe, but I tell you, it will not. The Lord Almighty will never forsake his people. But that help may not arise in time to keep your neck from being broken on the gallows. Who knows the ways of the Lord? Perhaps you have been placed in the royal palace for just such a time as this. Perhaps your presence there, a Jew in the king’s own chambers, is part of God’s plan of salvation for us.”

It is so simple, but it can be so difficult. And yet, once I had made the decision, the weight of fear was lifted. I returned to my chambers and once again picked up my needle. I finished the spray of white myrtle flowers on the purple cloth of my royal gown, and I dressed myself in it. Then I went to the king. It was time to speak the truth.

You know the rest of my story—how I invited the king to a banquet, at which Haman was also present. How I told the king that Haman was planning my death, and the deaths of my people. How the king’s rage at Haman led, not to those deaths, but to Haman’s own death. And then, taking his place at the king’s side was a Jew named Mordecai, my uncle, a good man who had saved the king’s life. Now I know that the king will continue as a good man; there is a good man at his side, advising him, counseling him, and seeing that he treats all his subjects well.

Every year after the harvest my people hold a festival in which we celebrate the fruits of all God’s gifts to us. There are four sacred plants we use at that time, to symbolize the four kinds of people who make up our community. One of these plants is Hadassah, the myrtle plant. Because it has a lovely fragrance, but it does not have a pleasing taste, myrtle represents those Jews who have good deeds to their credit, despite the fact that they have never studied Torah, God’s holy law. I am Esther, Hadassah, a woman of two worlds, a woman of the exile, who never learned the holy rites or words of my people. But I learned the hard and simple discipline of telling the truth. For a long time, I hid the truth. For a long time, I lived in fear that the truth would bring with it only danger, only sorrow. But in the end, the truth was all I had to save myself and my people. In the end, it was the truth that set us free. And thanks be to God. Amen.

Image: "Esther" by Minerva Teichert (1888-1976)

A Healing Touch: Monologue-Sermon on Mark 1:29-29

As soon as they left the synagogue, they entered the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. Now Simon’s mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.



That evening, at sundown, they brought to him all who were sick or possessed with demons...





~ Mark 1:29-32


A Monologue Sermon of Simon's Son


I’ve always wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps, from the time I was a tiny boy. I remember peeking out of my mother’s arms in the early morning, while it was still dark, to see my father and my uncle Andrew, faces shining in the firelight, ropes draped over their shoulders, saying goodbye before heading down to the sea to climb into their boats.

My father was a genius with the nets. In fact it was always a point of contention—even competition—between him and my uncle Andrew. Who could find the perfect spot, the place where, when the nets were cast, almost immediately the men in the boat would begin to feel the rustle and sway that told them, ah. Here it is! The place where the fish are today! Ah. Tonight my wife will smile warmly at me, because the proceeds from this catch will feed our family for a week, maybe even two.

I saw the joy my father took in the catch, the way he would throw back his head and murmur a prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord: “How good it is to sing praises to our God; for God is gracious!” I saw the satisfaction he had in a hard day’s labor, that made his muscles ache, yes, but also made them strong. I saw the contentment he found in providing for his family. I saw all these things, and I thought: that is what I will do. I will follow my father down to the sea and into the boats.

It was grandmother who first let us know that something was wrong. We lived with her, my mother’s mother, in her home. And every day, the routine was the same. The men left for the boats, and the women left for the well, and the market. We children busied ourselves with our tasks; the girls might weave, or bake bread, while we boys would set to memorizing our psalms. I was the oldest, so I was in charge. Thanks to me all my brothers know every psalm of our ancestor David by heart. Psalm 147: “The Lord builds up Jerusalem; he gathers the outcasts of Israel. He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds.” After the psalms, our other chores—bringing fuel for the fire, repairing the mud roof, even going down to the lakeside to repair and clean the nets. The women, my mother and grandmother, came home first, and began preparations for the main meal of the day, with the girls helping them. And we boys would go to the seaside to await the return of our father and uncle, and their boats.

But on that day… as soon as we saw our grandmother, we knew something was different. The routine did not hold. The four adults left for their various labors, but soon, too soon, my grandmother walked back in the door, and my mother was not with her. My brothers and sisters and I stopped in our tasks, confused and quiet. We knew families whose days had been disrupted and whose lives had been forever turned upside down by an accident… mostly by drowning. Everyone knows about the wild and unpredictable storms that spring up on the Sea of Galilee. I looked at my grandmother’s ashen face and became convinced: my father had drowned. Or my uncle. Or both. There was a heavy silence in the air, and my grandmother collapsed beside the hearth.

“Is my father…?” I began to ask the terrible question. I was the oldest; it was my responsibility to know, to ready to be the man of the house now, if my father was indeed dead. She shook her head and looked at me with tears pooled in her eyes. “No, boy. No. Don’t….” she hesitated, searching for a word…her voice was so strained, I almost didn’t recognize it. “Don’t … alarm yourselves,” she said. “Go on, go on,” and her voice resumed something of its normal tenor. “Do your work.”

So we did, my brothers and sisters and I. But the girls had lost the rhythm of their weaving. The boys were fitful and distracted. Where was our mother? What was wrong?

The hours crept by. It was time for the main meal, and neither our mother nor the men had returned, and our grandmother was alternately standing in the doorway or pacing back and forth, a look of dread on her face. There was no dinner. The girls began to whisper together, wondering if they should start the fire, fetch the water. But no one moved. We were all suspended, waiting.

It was dark when my mother returned. She wore her veil clutched close about her face, and when she took it off, she fell into my grandmother’s arms, and both women shook together, weeping, strangely silent. Minutes passed, and they pulled apart. My grandmother left the room without a word, stumbled to her bed, and turned her face to the wall.

My mother prepared a cold and hasty dinner, the tears still streaming down her face. My sisters helped her silently, as best they could. At last we all sat around the table, where we knew we would, finally, learn what act of fate or of God had turned our family’s life upside down.

My mother had washed her face. She was pale but her voice was calm though her eyes were still red. “Your father will not be coming home tonight,” she said. We waited. No one ate. Finally, I said, “Where is he, mother? Shall I go and find him?”

My mother looked at me and smiled. “No, Samuel. There is no need. I know where he is. He has left his boats and he and your uncle are following a wise man, a preacher.” We all tried to take this in. My father wasn’t coming home… why? Not because a sudden wind had come up on the Sea of Galilee, or because he had been swallowed by a great fish, but because… he had decided to follow some self-proclaimed prophet?

I jumped to my feet. One of the girls giggled, but when she saw the look in my eye, she stopped. “I’m going to get him.” I looked at my next oldest brother. “Benjamin, come with me.”

Then my mother spoke to me with a sharpness I had never before heard in her voice. No… not sharpness. Authority. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I did not need to be the man of the house. “Your father has made a choice. He is a good man, and we will see him again. But you will not go in search of him.”

We ate our meal in silence. Afterwards everyone helped to clear away the meal, and I too found my way to bed.

I dreamed strange dreams of fishing boats and nets, and then I discovered that I was in a net, not wriggling like the fish, but resting, enjoying the rocking, a baby in a net cradle. I swam to the surface as dawn neared and an odd and wrong day dawned… no father, no uncle saying goodbye, and my grandmother not moving from her bed. Only my mother rose, and took her water jar, and left the house.

As the day dragged on we realized that my grandmother had become ill. When my mother returned she went in to her and sat with her a long time, holding her hands and smoothing her brow. Now the girls did step forward to make the meal, and the boys too. Our family disruption had shifted the roles all around. Boys helped with cooking. Girls brought in the fuel for the fire. My mother was the head of the household.

That night my grandmother grew worse, and my mother huddled close to her and tried to ease what was now a raging fever, cooling her face with a rag dipped in water fresh from the well. I could hear my grandmother’s moaning from her fever dreams and visions, but nothing distinct. Every so often I would hear my mother say, “Hush, hush, it’s alright. We’re alright.”

The third day dawned grey and strange again, and now my mother did not leave but sent my sisters to the well. As the sun rose well in the sky the girls returned, and a moment later, just behind them, a group of men came and stood in the doorway. At the front were my father and my uncle! I didn’t know whether to laugh and embrace them, or to try to wrestle them to the ground and pound out my frustrations on them. Before I could decide my father approached me, and took me in his arms where I cried a long time. “There, there,” he said. “It’s alright. It’s alright.”

There was a man standing behind him; I almost hadn’t noticed. He was not a large man, but he had a strange kind of stillness about him that filled the room. My mother came away from my grandmother’s bedside, and, to my amazement, gave a deep bow to the man, welcoming him as a highly honored guest. Then she gestured to my grandmother’s bed. The man walked forward and bent over my grandmother. He murmured some words I couldn’t hear; then he reached out his hand. My grandmother—who had been either sleeping or delirious for nearly two days—reached back. When he pulled her to her feet, she looked at him a long time, her eyes clear, her fever gone, and she said, simply, “Welcome, rabbi.” She gestured to him to recline at the table, and began to prepare a feast that more than made up for our three days of makeshift meals.

Later than evening I sat outside with my grandmother beneath a fig tree. The man—his name was Jesus—was still inside our house, but so were dozens of neighbors, and more dozens stood outside, straining to see in the windows and doors. There were probably a hundred all told, all of them, come to see the rabbi, the preacher, all coming for his healing touch.

“Grandmother, what happened?” I asked. She shook her head and smiled, and was quiet a long time. Finally she said, “I had a fever, and he healed me. I had anger, and he healed that too.” And then she said, “You know your psalms boy. Say it with me. Psalm 147: ‘The Lord builds up Jerusalem; he gathers the outcasts of Israel. He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds.’

I knew my father would be leaving again. I knew that he would follow Jesus. Now I had the beginning of an idea, the hint of an explanation, why. I’ve always wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps, from the time I was a tiny boy. I’ve always wanted to be that man, face shining in the firelight, ropes draped over my shoulder, heading down to the seaside to climb into the boat. My father tells me that now, he fishes for people, to make them followers of Jesus, followers of his way. I see the joy my father takes in the catch. I see all these things, and I think: this is what I will do. I will follow my father down to the sea and into the boats and wherever it is that Jesus takes him. Thanks be to God! Amen.