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Minstrel worldliness, God, above, loving

Man Tower

Man Tower

Walking, Cassandra moved swiftly, bringing herself next to Alberto, Man Tower, clutching his hand as they walked. She lifted his hand to her mouth, kissing it, wiping her tearful eye with it. Upon his hand, Alberto felt the moisture upon her face. He thought of his mother passing, feeling distant yet close to the imposing woman desperately holding his hand. His heart hardened as he pulled his hand away. The darkness that filled his deepest regions would not allow the intimacy to continue. He forced his thoughts to Ricco. Cassandra did not react, watching closely the man she stood next to. She saw his darkness. It only made her more determined to assist him in removing it. She could not lift her own darkness from her soul, yet she was confident she could erase that in another. Possibly with the eliminating of her beloved’s demons, her own demons would be exorcised.

As a knight, Alberto broke conventional traditions by traveling alone. Other knights traveled in entourages, possibly up to six or seven, and more counting squires, cooks and accomplices of various kinds. Knights, similar to castles, courts, and monasteries, came with many attached. Alberto, a terminally unique man, travelled solo. His solitary days were now ceasing. Ricco made a fine squire, a quality companion, and strongly the idea emerged the woman was going to prove interesting in her persistence. He did not fear the woman, amused by the fact he would break her heart. Let her try and tame him. The woman acted tough, yet his superior insight announced she was too strongly attached to him. He was bound for none. In the morning, after the sex act, he saw the one conquered lying next to him. Other women, women he raped, near death, pathetic in state, would sometimes stare at him with complete dependence upon him. After being raped, the women were willing to become slaves. The pathetic realization appalled.

Cassandra was different. At heart, he was convinced the sturdy, strong young lady was a simple soul struggling. Somehow, through all of her difficulties, she held on to innocence. The thought of the woman, cowering underneath her covers, possessing the mind of a five year old, brightened his heart. Yet she was a woman and with being a woman came extreme complexities. Depression a part, sadness weighing heavily upon her. Even if she could stand above riffraff, she could not stand above being human. Strong in a crowd, alone she suffered the wreckage of her past–one complex because of demands, satisfied and unsatisfied, justified and unjustified. A wayward child clinging to the remembrance of innocence, embroiled within sin, she spoke as one aiming for the soul when addressing him. Alberto sensed the feminine ethereal intent. He recalled the words of a wise man: only trust those who speak to the heart. Those who speak to impress, to gain your friendship for reward’s sake—praising, manipulating, and complimenting, or for any other selfish and vain reason, will surely shoot an arrow into your back if it suits their need. Watch those who ‘need’ to identify you as a friend. For most, it is simply a matter of time before they strike at you. Trust those who care and love others. Trust not those who control through a lack of charity. You are smart. You easily know the difference.

It was not long before, Alberto and Cassandra located Ricco. He rested in the stables, right where Alberto expected him to be. Rufino was in his company. Ricco introduced him as a childhood friend. Ricco informed Alberto of the strange former Templar Knight returning from the Holy Land, and the fact in the morning he was killed by unknown assailants. Alberto desired details of the men who attacked the haunted erstwhile crusader, although none were for the giving. Putting aside the morning death, contemplating words of the murdered man, travel to the Holy Land was discussed. Rufino introduced himself, in mannerism begging for company with Man Tower. Running his words together, he told how he had nowhere to go, and the fact he was hunted by the worst of men, many desiring to inflict death.

“You were the young man confronting us on the street when Ricco first joined me.”

“That is when I wanted to kill Ricco. Now I want to share in his duties.”

“You look seriously handicapped.”

Cassandra stepped in. “I know the boy. He has a strong spirit, though he is prone to biting off more than he can chew. He attains powerful enemies while in reality he is only a pitiful boy. He fears nothing and that is a fault. He is lucky to be alive. There have been enough like him that no longer know the sun. He will be dead before twenty years if he continues alone. He will serve you well. He needs your protection, as do I. Together, we will form a band of misfits: traveling troubadours, we can wander about. I can sing and dance for money.”

Alberto laughed, wondering what in the world possessed the woman with the quick penetrating tongue. “You will support us? Already, I see you are a dreamer, making plans for those who have no plans for you.”

“No. I am more than a dreamer. I am a visionary. I have been that way since I was a little girl. One morning as a child, an uncle came calling, a strange man visiting my mother. Immediately, I knew I must avoid the man for he would kill my mother and attempt horrible things with me. I warned my mother, however my words of prophecy lacked persuasion. It cost me a mother, and the reality I killed a man. A small girl, I did not shirk from sticking a knife into the man’s liver, deftly inflicting death. We can travel as a troupe, minstrels afoot in strange lands, touring tournaments. You know the life Man Tower. None can best you in combat, and we can offer, for pay, the opportunity of reputation through battle with you. Individual men of every community feel themselves to be the strongest. It will be a great honor for them to contest with the brute of legend you have become. Ricco can learn and increase his skills, teaching other squires. His reputation is firmly established. Men speak of the training he endured in the lands of the lepers, wrestling with the older noble young men. There is nothing you do that is not spoken about by drunkards. Your swordplay and my singing and dancing will be our means of subsistence.”

“What about me?” Rufino, captured by the words, chimed in.

“I can teach you to dance and sing, beating upon a drum. I will teach you various beats. It is easy, and captivating for the soul to learn the rhythms of the drum. Together we can dance. I have another friend, her name is Beatrice, something is wrong with her right now that she is not speaking about—however she is strong, skilled and of a sharp mind. She will accompany. We can paint our faces, making fools of ourselves for others enjoyment. Actors and singers, we will be together. We can perform skits. I have always wanted to live such a life. When I was a young girl there was a troupe of actors who brought me to tears, making life seem precious, making tangible my life and experiences. I loved the stories they told in their performances, and within the imagining of their lives. Affecting a child, they induced hope into my soul. We can tell raucous jokes and stories of gallant knights saving cherished, treasured, ladies. We can do it together Rufino. We can all build a stage together, hanging fabric with painted images. Can you paint?”

“I have never tried.” Swept away visualizing, Rufino clutched onto the woman’s words.

“That is even better. People are leery of traveling actors. It eases them if they can watch us and laugh not only with us, but at us. Clumsiness and a lack of talent they enjoy. Weakness…what are the words the priest spoke… I willing boast of my weakness, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I am content with weakness, with mistreatment, with distress, with persecutions and difficulties for the sake of Christ; for when I am powerless, it is then that I am strong. Amazing, they all came with ease. Show the people weakness and they will be enthralled. If we show them faults, weakness, imperfections, while entertaining, they will enjoy us even more. Arrogance, no matter how great the skill, quickly grows annoying to those who wish to be amused.”

“Now you are a philosopher also. And you thought of this grand plan as we stand wasting time.”

“Yes, I am quite clever.  This will become extremely evident to you, so clearly it will become a part of your intuition.  Of course, the underlying employment of the traveling minstrel fantasy was there all along, something I have been dreaming about since a child.  I even have a name Troupe Tripudiante–Troupe Tripudiante that is how we shall be known.  You and the others are just recent additions, named faces I have been searching for throughout my life.  You three allow reality to bloom from seeds sown from childhood fascinations.  How wonderful you must feel.  I am a survivor, good at adjusting.  You will come to learn this.”

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Acceptance: Strife of Life

…he  has placed his confidence in God alone and has accepted in advance all that his good Master may be pleased to ordain.  This obviously is not the peace of paradise, but it is the most perfect peace possible here below.  God does not will that we should enjoy absolute repose here on earth or enduring happiness.  We cannot avoid tribulation.  The cross will pursue us wherever we go. –Abbot Vital Lehodey.

vital_lehodey_01

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Man Tower witnesses the baptism of St Francis before setting out for the old man of the mountain

Towers

Towers

There was another also witnessing. Alberto saw Pietro making his way to the stables as he exited in the morning. Rarely sleeping, up before others, falling asleep after others, Man Tower dominated through perception and awareness. Something about the merchant bothered him greatly. The man schemed. He intended espionage through his squire. Never would Man Tower have kissed his very footprint, giving thanks to God for the existence of anything close to resembling the merchant represented. Certain men reviled him. Convinced he possessed no choice in the matter, he deployed to counter attacks, preparing for the demise of those who acutely agitated. When the merchant emerged from the stables with Ricco, he followed. Trusting his squire, he had to know what the wily shop owner was up to, such a man did nothing without motive for profit.

It was not long before Pietro was escorting Ricco into the cathedral of St Rufino. Man Tower stood outside unobservantly observing, before following into the interior. In the stealth manner he was able to attain despite his size, Alberto snuck into the cathedral, witnessing the baptism himself. It was innocent enough. He perceived the intent of the textile merchant. The shop owner was attempting to gain his favor through Ricco. Alberto trusted Ricco, fearing nothing the crafty shop owner, usual with unclean spirits, could conceive.

About to stealthy depart, the crying of the baptized baby drew Alberto’s attention. The thought struck he never witnessed a baptism before. He observed the baby as he was handed to his godparents. An iridescent aura radiated. The strangeness of ordinary things that occurred upon the unordinary battlefield struck the moment. Details became acutely apparent, time transparent to unfathomable profoundness, meanings manifested that could not be obviously stated, nor appropriately comprehended. The baby’s eyes turned toward him, closing the distance between them, a vertiginous moment soothing. Alberto found it difficult to stand, to hold his place upon his feet. Strange, foreign interior words came forth evil spirit come out of her.

Alberto, always preparing for an attack, constantly entertaining conflict, felt the need to raise defenses. Something unseen confronted. What was happening during the baptizing of the merchant’s son? Everything; perception, reality, thought, physicality, all seemed to be an illusion pointing to something greater, to almighty God, yet there was no comfort, only collusion. Unknowable knowledge became apparent. God knew this baby, through the works of all things. The palpable indefinite conviction announced eternal salvation, something set apart becoming a part. The intuition blanketed his mind, covering mental sores and wounds of the mind, smothering. Acquiescing, he settled into admiration of the beautiful baby who would become the man of God, like a grandparent admiring their first grandchild; the acceptance of aging through the exquisiteness of infancy, polar opposites uniting in authentic conception; the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the needing—to be set free and to be with Christ. He prayed for his mother, wishing she could see this baby. People, that are in the world, gathering around the baby, blocked Alberto’s vision, eliminating the moment of sublime revelation.

Making the sign of the cross with holy water, reminding him of a washing, somewhat slightly dazed, Alberto exited the cathedral. The face of the baby, its aura, etched in his mind; the eyes and perpetual smile lasting. In the clefts of the rock, in the hollow of the wall, his eyes unfocused, wandered past.

Emptied of himself, walking through Assisi, Man Tower, reposing back into demented knightly persona, sought Lord Montaninus, his former comrade in arms, hand in hand, with Barbarossa. Montaninus made arraignments to meet at a tavern near Minerva’s Temple. Alberto was to eat at the tavern. The cost would be of no concern. What was of the Lord? Following the meal, he would be led to the back of the establishment where Montaninus would be waiting. They would then venture to a castle hidden amongst the wilderness of Mount Subasio, a castle hosting an aged nobleman whispered to be insane, as well as a mystic, the word of God upon his lips, a man of worldly and spiritual extraordinariness.

An unseen female voice spoke from a table in close proximity. “That old man gives me the creeps. I don’t care what you say I am convinced he is a pervert.”

“It does not matter what he is. What has been wrong with you? For weeks now you have proven impossible, snapping at everything. The old noble provides means we could never attain. Trusting to the mercy of the almighty. You are so quick to grow angry in time of need. I worry about you. Look deeper. The old one truly asks very little of us. We know worse debauchery for less pay—only the younger ones are handsomer and hearty, yet that does not seem to bother you as much as the old one who never asks for deplorable things. Though he began to speak, you should not despise him.”

“Maybe he gives wealth, providing jewelry and gold as easy as others give promises, however we pay through the debasing we endure acquiescing to his, to his…I am not even sure what it is the old man burdens us with. Unspoken demands—that is what he procures. I cannot figure the old one out.”

“You feel him to be a burden. Those who were touched in their hearts, amazed with his deeds, tell of his goodness.”

“Yes. He is insane. How often he resorts to a juvenile nature. I cannot stand looking at his decrepit face. Determination, I cannot maintain. Sometimes, the way he speaks to us, as if we were children just learning to walk, makes me desire to scratch his eyes out. His patronizing is so demeaning. And you fall into the childish talk he so enjoys, speaking to one another as if you were children. I have to force my mind into other places, fearing his insanity will infiltrate my mind. Tainted are his ways. He must know I hate him.”

“Why would you hate him? Over the saints household, he perseveres. I feel sorry for him for being so gullible, a son…an only child to its mother. A story here, emotion espoused, a tear, and the old fool is opening his coffers. It is too easy sleeping in the lap. I even find it fun, like playing a part in the theater. There is no reason to hate him. Seriously sweetie, you just have not been yourself for some time now. The new planting of a fresh attitude you must embrace.”

“I guess…I do not know…it is too easy. I feel my soul is at stake in unknown ways. For this very reason alone, everything is wrong. One day, he will discharge his guards upon us. His chosen vineyard protected. Then we will know death and maybe he will have arraigned everything so our souls are sucked down into the depths of hell. They will say about us their efforts came to naught. We will lose our heads and suffer eternally. It is so creepy to be blindfolded en route to provide for their needs. Still, I hate it even more when he visits the city, sent down to the earth.”

“You worry too much. Please him. Open his heart to the experience of a daughter, be joined to the soul. That is all he wants from us, the pleasure to love a child, his own child. Rejoice greatly, falling at his feet. His sons are dead, the father of the poor. He has no one, for empty glory. He provides so well. A gift horse must not be examined too closely. A curse, he is not. To masquerade as a daughter is not such a horrid thing. The father of the poor, let him be. Christ made himself poor for us in this world. Let us not suffer a similar fate. We have done far worse than the old man. Heartbreaking stories, lies of sorrow, dreams unrequited, tears of tribulations; that is all we must provide in order for the sweet old one to open his treasure chest. He loves to preach the word of the Lord. Allow him his liberties.”

“I catch him, the appointed minister of a faith I hold not deeply in my heart, looking at me as no proper father observes a daughter. Do not make him out to be so innocent. Every time we call, his leering grows. I expect soon, I will have to sleep with him.”

“Again, the nasty attitude, I have slept with him. It is only sleep he demands and touched with sorrow in his heart, he dreams.”

“He does not touch you? I should have known. The old fool is impotent.”

“I do not care, or know. He holds me, meek and humble. That I do know. Lead this little one from the midst of these goats. He means no harm.”

“He must reek of old age. God, the wretchedness his breath must contain. I get sick just thinking about him. Men are wretched beast. He must snore and grind his teeth, sounding like the devil himself in sleep.”

“I must admit he does stink, yet he slumbers silently. He gives thanks to God.”

“I despise that old fool. I give thanks to God every time we depart from his abode. I love playing him for the fool he is. He makes bold in his claim to be the man of God, yet I offer no solace for his intent.”

“Oh stop. You are wicked Beatrice my child. I know, I was touched in his heart. He gave thanks to God, the last time you allowed him to kiss you goodbye.”

The two young ladies burst into laughter. Seated behind the women, a partition between them, Alberto, continually on guard, listened to the conversation. He assumed the two were prostitutes. The crowd in the tavern was thin. It was early. The majority of Assisi slept late, recovering from the excess of the festival. He nibbled upon bread, slowly sipping his wine, allowing his meal of lamp stew to settle as he waited. There was no sign of Montaninus. The tavern worker, a man previously speaking of Ricco’s deed of killing the bull with some morning drinkers, approached.

Whispering, he spoke, barely missing a step as he passed. “My lord you are requested in the back.”

Rubens_old_man

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Foreign Witness (running fiction)

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

“Simply, it is an inability to control the passions. The twitching of appetite. Fueled by intemperance, the chained man the locals identify as Legion is helplessly lost to the fires of his desires, an abscess to the universe, privation embodied. Know thy self. Take up and read. He is out of the natural order. A wet soul as we Greeks say, obviously a drunkard, progressively it becomes worse. Only a dry soul can attain wisdom. Look at him thrashing about, a terrible display. There is nothing logical, no mastering of the logos, not even a curiosity of something greater. It is pure barbarianism, a level barely above animalistic. He may as well have fur sprouting from his flesh. Where is the pursuit of virtue, the controlling of fate? Quisque faber suae fortunae.

“Notice the size of the man. Tremendous. He is even taller and stronger than I am, yet he is foreign to his own body, a stranger to himself. A man that size could be powerful in the gymnasium. Understand, training the body is also training the mind, developing discipline, comprehending limitations and then transcendence. One’s abilities to move beyond the accepted. Becoming whole. It is good we came here to watch this man fighting that which we are all born into. My voice has returned and the desert is behind us. Once again, your instincts proved correct my friend Paki. You were invaluable in the sand and heat, and now this experience promises the extraordinary. The journey is Homeric in its extraordinariness, even more than my wanderings into India, although I did not make it to the mountain mysteries of Tibet. There is something to be learned here.”

Paki saw that his companion, the Greek, Timoleon, had returned to his former self. The talker was talking, the snakebite and swollen throat behind him. During the crossing of the Sinai, Timoleon lost his voice from dehydration. Due to dryness, his tongue and throat swelled, restricting his breathing, nearly reaching a point of blockage. Eliminated, his voice became silent. Now he was back to never shutting up, knowing everything, verbally consistently loud.

Paki spoke to Timoleon. “The one the Hebrews in Alexandria are gossiping about is said to be near the Sea of Galilee. His camp is in the town of Capernaum. He is the true reason we come.”

“The one who brings a rebirth through a cleansing in sacred waters? A prophet like those from Hebrew scripture—my latest fascination.”

“No not him. That one baptized in the river Jordan. I did not tell you. One of the travelers informed me the baptizer, as the traveler called him, was named John. He was imprisoned and killed by the local tetrarch Herod, beheaded for the sake of a young woman. The traveler told me the baptizer was strong in words and following. Now the baptizer’s followers follow the one we seek, the one who produces miracles. Jesus of Capernaum he was called.”

“Jesus? I do not recall that name from their writing. Possibly it relates to Joshua, the warrior who would follow Moses, warring the Israelites to their Holy Land. This Jesus is the healer of the sick, the one who enables the blind to see.” Timoleon responded. “I wonder if he is recognized as the messiah they have prophesied about for years? Those Alexandrian Jews speak so much about one who is to come. A king to set the world aright, rumors constantly whispered. Talk of a miracle worker spreads fast. The literature of the Jews is engrossing, defining a God like no others, with the possible exception of Zeus. However Zeus was a God amongst Gods. The God of the Israelites rules solitary.

“Their scripture is truly on the level of Homer, engrossing and fantastic in human drama. Plato and Aristotle defined ethics, the study of right and wrong, proper behavior and responsibility, yet the Jews present such matters divinely through the mouth of their God. It is not a philosopher who speaks, but God, more precise and defining than the Delphi Oracle. The Jews are not men elucidating thoughts; rather they are men recording the words and laws of a Divine One.

“It is unique amongst all that I have read, quite enthralling in content. What a concept. A single God responsible for all creation, a jealous punishing God of righteousness who demands unwavering servitude, seeking to provide guidance for those he created, and yet constantly rebelling. Commandments, vows, consecration and rebellion, a constant falling away after a devastating original falling. It synchronizes so well with so many of my thoughts, and those of other profound thinkers. Man is imperfect, in need of an education. Truth is truth, and these Jews are onto something worth exploring. I feel I am discovering something fresh and new similar to my experiences in India. Although as Plato expresses, nothing is truly new. The most profound teaching is a revealing of that which already exists within us. Revelation is a more appropriate word than attaining”.

Paki was not sure he was happy to hear his companion so versed once again. Circumlocution a mastered art, his talking grew tiresome. Paki responded. “You know I am not familiar with their writing. The healer is why I came to this cursed land. That experience in the desert nearly turned me back, yet it did not. You seem to have recovered.” Paki hesitated, looking off before continuing. “The traveler also told me further news about the healer. Now there is word he has brought one back from the dead.”

“Do not remind me of our time in the desert. It is enough we are here alive. I have lived an extensive life, and nothing compares in tribulation with that accursed sand.”

Timoleon considered the words of his companion, studying him, reflecting upon the desert crossing, noticing Paki was lost to his own thoughts.

“Regarding the resurrecting of one from the dead, I say one thing: impossible, simply folk tales. We all know the common man’s love of lies. He will believe anything. Even the superiorly educated cannot resist a clever twist of the tongue. Factual truth is not so important for the making of popular talk. Resurrection, returning from the dead? Out of the question. If it were possible, we Greeks would have accomplished it years ago. These uncivilized people could never consummate such a thing.”

“It is not the people who claim to do anything. It is their God they give credit to. You should know that. You read their scripture.”

“Well of course. They make claims of their God being the true active God, a God alive in the world, One all powerful, greater than your Egyptian deities. In ancient times, our Greek gods were claimed to be conspicuously active in the world. At least, such things were written, spoken and believed. However, since our time of civilized enlightenment the gods have drawn back, allowing man freedom to rule his own destiny through creativity and intelligence. Belief does not matter. The refinement of the body and soul is my quest. Beauty. So much has been accomplished. Wisdom has been revealed and expanded in so many areas, yet we have never come close to conquering death. Chicanery is most likely the truth behind these tales of bringing one from the dead. Do these Israelites even have an oracle like the one who use to reside in Delphi? I know of their Arc of the Covenant, yet that was destroyed years ago by the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar. You spent time amongst them. Tell me what you think.”

“They spoke to me about prophets, and one to come, a messiah who would save their nation, bringing them all together in their holy homeland. You have read their words you know about such talk. They are a closed society, isolating their nation from outside influence. They are difficult to understand as they breed fear and mistrust with the distance they demand. They do not work well with those of different heritage. Neither imitation nor inclusion is a part of their customs. They are a stiff necked people as you say.

“I became intimate with a close-knit community of Jewish musicians. One of them sought me out for assistance in the attaining of a lyre such as I have. I was able to acquire one for him and then I helped him and his son master it, putting it to use in accompaniment to the psalms they sing in praise of their God. They would gather and allow me to partake of their music and song. I have a beautiful voice as you know and they like to hear their sacred words coming from my mouth. I distinctly recall a particular song. The words are quite beautiful. In many ways, reminding me of the poetry you read Timoleon. Paki sang.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside the still waters,
He restores my soul.
He guides me through the right paths
for his name’s sake.
Although I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no evil,
for you are beside me:
your rod and your staff comfort me.
You spread a table before me
in the presence of my foes.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup is overflowing.
Goodness and kindness will follow me
all the days of my life,
I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
as long as I live.

“It always brings me comfort to sing these words. The sphere of influence of your philosophers has diminished with the ascendancy of Rome. You should be more considerate. Look at my people of Egypt. Time is not kind. Everything is small in the shadow of the wonder my ancestors created; monuments beyond conception. Yet now time moves forward. We have become nothing but the bread basket of Rome. The producer of grain for a foreign master.”

“Excellent with the song. The Israelites know poetry. Its possibilities, beauty, and depth. Their prophets I know. Magnificent words you sing. What we Greeks established can never be conquered. Wisdom is beyond the grasp of military might. We provided intellectual wealth and beauty; the advancement of humankind: civilization; an accumulation through generations, beyond completion, beyond particularism or individualism, an amassing of intellect. Individuals can emerge as harbingers, yet none can embrace totality. In fact, as mysteries exist: submission, humility, and diligence are means for individual glimpses. Mysticism is the par excellence of scholarly efforts. Lets us not forget that Socrates was who he was because he acknowledged his limited facilities. He forsook delusion, the pursuit of the irrelevant, for the sake of the meaningful.

“Wisdom eluded Alexander the Great. Combing the attributes of Achilles and Ulysses, the way of the warrior and cleverness, Alexander dominated the world with might and mind, yet he could not master himself, never able to rise to the rank of king, dying as a conqueror, unable to fill the void within. The Stoics honorably carry on, as do others. An easy mistake on the path of wisdom is the misperception that one’s ways are only true if they are greater than others, wasting vital energy in attack and defense. The mastering is subtle and mistakes can easily sidetrack. Wisdom is entrenched, unwavering, always proceeding, seeking light, desiring to be known, universal and loving.”

“Egypt left physical monuments to be admired. We have discussed your country often enough, and you know my feelings on Rome. Regarding intellect, they are nothing but borrowers, incorporating the ideas, customs, and beliefs of others. Might and engineering is the reason for their rise to supremacy. Politically and practically they are astute, understanding the wisdom of not conquering people, more wisely, bringing them into their nation, establishing relations based upon mutual benefit.

“Through might, Rome has brought peace to the civilized world. Pax Romana. There is much to be admired regarding the rise of Rome. Romans were clever in understanding citizenship as something viable, offering a greater life to those they defeated through Roman citizenship, a constant unifying of city states shall we say. We had our democracy, which was quite revolutionary, yet we never understood the strength of unifying. Us Greeks always warred upon each other. Animosity was the rule between our city states, and never did we envision the conquered as equals, always taking slaves.

“I find it interesting what you say regarding the Jews being isolationists. In Alexandria, people view them with suspicion. Now with Roman domination, the idea of amassing great numbers for validation seems to be the way of power. The mob has learned to rule. Pericles knew the political power of amassing the mob. Others have perpetrated such treason to reason. The future will only bring similar nonsense. I am partial to the words of Heraclitus when he uttered the wisdom: One man in my sight is a match for thirty thousand, but the countless hosts do not make a single one. It takes enlightenment and wisdom to rule, education a must, philosophy combined with real world experience essential. A responsible landowner, one capable in the courts and markets, as well as the arts and ethics, understands the importance of balancing for the greater good. If a governor is one who only knows how to govern, society will pay the debt. When politics becomes an end in itself, a career, good judgment is overshadowed. Professional politicians learn too quickly how to shape the malleable mob. The mob is incapable of seeing past selfishness. The mob’s ignorance promises destruction; implosion and chaos a natural consequence. I am in favor of the elite, well-rounded men in philosophy and business, ruling matters. Augustus is such a man, yet I am not in favor of one man ruling many, for it is inevitable that men of limited abilities, ignorant in everything except politics, will seize power. In the scheme of time, we will see where the rule of an emperor takes Rome.”

Paki saw that Timoleon had unequivocally returned to his former self. He was slightly annoyed, yet he did admire the mind of his companion, absorbing his thoughts.

Timoleon continued. “Back to the Hebrews. It is obvious to intentionally stay aloof as a group is dangerous, a recipe for disaster. Speaking of isolation, your Egypt was a rarity. What allowed Egypt to flourish for so many years is no longer possible in our part of the world. Only from the sea, the Mediterranean, the sea that connects so many terrains, was Egypt open to armies. The sea was always a treacherous place, feared by many cultures, the Israelites being one, and where it met land dangers always existed. Young women know to avoid the coast. With pirates roaming and honest sailors favoring beautiful foreign girls, the coast promised abduction bound for strange lands for a pretty girl. Egypt was a geographical marvel, inaccessibility due to deserts. For armies, the deserts were a border. Oh my friend, how we learned to hate the desert ourselves.”

Timoleon, the Greek, talked on into the night.

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No to the Supernatural

Interpreted properly, the following quote from Umberto Eco’s ‘Baudolino’ is a funny exhortation on John of the Cross’ warnings regarding the supernatural. The extraordinary experienced must be dismissed, especially by those inclined toward the supernatural.

…when I told my father Galiaudo that I saw Saint Baudolino he hit me on the back thirty times with a stick saying O Lord this had to happen to me, a son who sees things and cant even milk a cow either I bust his head with my stick or I give him to one of those men who visit the fairs making a monky dance. My sainted mother shouted good-for-nothing your the worst, a son who sees saints and my father said its not true he sees saints he’s a worse liar than Judas. He makes things up to get out of working…

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Fear or Love

Timidly a young girl made her way through the crowd. Strange was her appearance, in the midst of death and despair. She was in rags, gutter finery. Sonia stopped in the doorway. She forgot her gaudy silk dress, her immense crinoline, her bright shoes, the parasol, and the absurd straw hat with its flaring feather. Under the hat was a pale, frightened little face with lips parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of eighteen, fair hair, rather pretty, wonderful blue eyes.

I perceived something mystical in Dostoevsky’s description of Sonia, the young prostitute Raskolnikov, a disastrous example of self-will run riot, falls in love with. Amidst the stark reality of life, a poor creature of pitiful upraising, abandoned to the extremes of sin in regards to survival, she dresses herself fancifully and beautifully. She possesses hope of greater things. Her innocence will not give into despair. However, confronted with a greater reality, her costume, her mask, proves lacking. Fear dominates, yet still an openness, a malleability, the ability to surrender self-will shines through. Ridiculously, naively, Sonia is beautiful. She yearns for love, while experiencing fear.

God, I imagine, observes Sonia in her finery lovingly, adoring her faith in hope. Seeing the heart, knowing the willingness to love, He sees her desire for goodness. All-knowing, benevolent, God sees the child within. Broken experiences, pain, suffering, all the things that drove this sweet child He created in His image and likeness to a desperate life of selling her temple, her body, for the sensual pleasure of men are acknowledged. Absolute love, God is wise beyond measure.

Emotional in nature, Sonia is a precious symbol. Yet intention and a pure heart are not enough. The sensual life must be addressed, brought to healing, in order to provide God with a vessel capable of receiving His truth. The youthful hope of Sonia will be crushed, hardening her heart, if the promptings of God are not followed toward a greater understanding of God. Sonia is beautiful, inside and out adorned in a fine outfit and expressing fear, vulnerability, however there is an adversary roaming about, roaring like a lion, seeking to feast upon the hope of the weak. The malicious liar who dines with passion upon the faith, hope, and charity of earth bound misfits exists for more than sensual pleasure with Sonia. He corrupts upon the dramatics of eternity.

The choice is fear or love. Principalities and forces of darkness promote the fear. God oversees all, tendering mercy through the dispenser of grace Mary, salvation through his only begotten son Jesus Christ, accessible divinity through the Holy Spirit, wisdom and examples through the saints, an army in the Church Militant, cleansing and nutrition through the sacraments, a purging through the church of Purgatory, and glory through life everlasting in the company of all that is pure and holy within the ultimate church of heaven.

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Sermon on the Mount encounter

Naomi gathered her modest belongings into a blanket. She would carry her bundle over her shoulder. It was a time of departing. Looking about her gifted shelter, she understood she would never return.  She would miss her quaint abode, the small utilitarian fishermen’s shack served its purpose well, providing comfort to an ostracized older bleeding lady.  Something holy occurred within the shelter, a purging, a clearing of her troubled soul, fruitful isolation.

Parting, Naomi noticed a broken water vessel in the far corner. It represented something she could not identify. Her soul, her vessel, was broken, an ending announcing a beginning. Details shadowed distant, a defining lacking precision, she cared not for convictions, intuitively reposing upon faith, hope, and charity.

Alone, Naomi learned about herself.  She came to know herself, delusion subsisting in ostracization.  Removal from the duty of society produced graced results, gratefulness revealed in the emptiness of knowing a hint of sacredness. Sadness existed, yet greater was a knowing.  Life amongst others was complicated, distracting, filled with the noise of competing voices, individuals usurping understanding within and without.  Even those of goodness brought complexities.  Others would visit, yet she felt removed from their concerns, and manipulations, while desiring above all not to judge.  Distance became a craving, yet the contentment was not satisfaction, redemption remained unresolved.

Her grandfather loved the story of Job.  Humble in association, she understood Job’s disappointment in the counsel of his friends.  It was a point her grandfather stressed, the ineffectiveness of Job’s friends during his time of distress.  Sincerely seeking to aid, the words of the friends did not rise to truth, and in their confidence, subtle arrogance, the abandonment of camaraderie occurred, compassion lacking in their insight.  Limited in scope, they could do no better than warp truth.  The three, and then four, casting about with words.  None touched upon the Adversary.  Harangued by Satan, Job suffered alone, not daring to curse God.

Naomi recognized that many who compassionately came to her in exile, intending to show care, truly came for themselves, harboring hidden motives, inherit agendas.  As humans concerned with the world, enslavement dulled their understanding.  As the Israelites were once enslaved by the Egyptians, her visitors were bound.  Naive of exploitation, limitations created within the need for acknowledged goodness; imperfect, nothing greater through works could be garnered.

Naomi avoided recriminations, while insightfully witnessing matters for what they truly were.  Aloof, she ceased agendas, procuring a fear of individual will.  Individuals sought worldly redemption in spite of intrinsic weaknesses; the will self-appointing self-righteousness; the will, presuming self-entitlement to goodness, rationalizing one’s thoughts and actions as proper.  Playing the hero, many furthered their distance from God, busybodies nosing about.

Renouncing ambition, detached, she became acute in vision.  Her visitors became transparent, her fall metamorphosing into growth.  Naomi humbled herself; fearing bitterness was gnawing at her soul.  There was no victory or defeat in a battle never fought.  Obedient, tolerating visitors with a smile, she dreaded a knock at the door.

In solitude, a beating, yearning heart, left free to plunge depths, was no longer concealed.  With existence came time, the passing of moments.  Suffering dominated, yet moments overall were peaceful; physical pain and discomfort intimately known, the bleeding continued.  Overall, the debris within was settling; the mud separating from the water.  Naomi’s finest moments came when observing the surrounding world.  Early mornings became a favorite, the sun rising, and birds awakening in song.  It was the time she encountered the luminescent dove and internal voice mentioning a Godly son.  Watching the sunrise, the birds flying above the sea, searching for a sign of the special dove, or the water lapping upon the shore, she recognized a presence revealing itself.

In everything was one thing: Shekinah, a creative force, the God-Who-Dwells Within.  So much beauty existing, Naomi felt she could touch it by recognizing a subtle weightiness.  Sublime in nature, the mysterious Shekinah emerged through clarified perception, a revealing rather than learning.  Her quieted humble heart unrestricted from the burdens of identity allowed the revealing to occur.  Naomi found herself dreaming of capturing the physical beauty that announced magnificence through harmony.  David was a poet whom the Shekinah revealed within.  He extolled the glory of God through poetry and music; dancing for God a passion for the man.  Naomi wanted to duplicate the wonders she witnessed through a creative expression.  Solomon’s wisdom rang about:

She shines bright in the bloom of ignorance; She is unfading; She is easily seen by those who love Her; easily found by those who look for Her, And quickly does She come to those who seek Her help.

The wonders of creation captured within individual worship.  These moments brought Naomi supreme hope.  Motherly, lovingly, she longed to bring permanency to her profound moments.  Eyes wide open, she lived deeply amidst her exile.  She did not act upon her artistic ambitions, yet still they germinated.  She learned to sharpen charcoal sticks and sketch, yet she never learned to write, or paint like the better minds of Jerusalem.

Now departing her fishing home, the thought of a lasting image created by her hands honoring the interior of the space sprang to mind.  A minimal painting it would be; the simplicity and sparseness enlightening, the lacking predominant.  She knew how she would depict, while recognizing she never would conduct the act.  The image included a window, an empty bowl, a whole fish, a cup of wine, a loaf of bread—half sliced, and visible beyond the window a white dove.  The broken vessel came to mind and she knew within the shadows of a corner she must include it.

Naomi reflected upon her neighbor she drove away.  The younger woman offered her assistance, yet Naomi grew tired of her.  She never liked her visits.  The woman’s compassion was tainted, muddled in delusion.  She saw herself as a caretaker of all, assigning herself a position of authority, forcing others to accept her constant manipulations and perceptions; her saving of the poor.  In her mind, her goodness made her irrefutable.  Naomi found her overbearing.  The woman was a busybody.  A know it all who did not know it all, superior only in her design for control.  Naomi tolerated her presence at first, yet found herself disturbed after the woman’s visits.  The woman would discuss matters with her, gossiping about neighbors with a tone Naomi dared not disagree with.

In her solitude, Naomi saw the woman for what she was.  Ruled by pride, prejudices, ambitions, and experiences; struggling above all for the sake of identity, always comparing and contrasting, she was limited in her ability to comprehend.  Her insight was blinded.  Sublime vainglory ruled.  Through works, good deeds, she confidently forced others into submission, imposing her will, forcing others to acknowledge her righteousness.

Naomi, driven apart, honestly saw matters.  Kindness not wanted was unkindness.  Her insight was keen.  Finally, Naomi asked the woman to cease with the visits.  The woman took offense, responding with the spreading of gossip, telling others Naomi was slowly losing her mind.  Going to great effort to make sure all understood that in her isolation, Naomi was losing a battle to insanity.  Cloaked in compassion, her malicious words mentioned how it broke her heart, however the truth could not be denied.  Naomi was lost. It was evident. God was punishing her.

Naomi reflected upon the woman and felt pity.  The silence of her small shelter appeared comforting.  Fear grew regarding a reemergence into the world of man, the world of misconception.

She took a lasting grateful look around the shelter gifted to her by the fishermen. The simplicity and scarceness of goods pleased her. She recalled the plenty she once knew when she was a healthy, wedded young woman. They were not wealthy, yet they never suffered serious need. Now, it seemed such an abundance. Whatever, it was all a distant past. She felt no longing or bitterness. There was a time for all things. Longing for the past, or dreaming about the future denied the moment. Feeling an ending of a stage, she thought of the birds from her childhood. So many birds migrating: storks, pelicans, smaller bids, birds of prey, flocks and flocks would pass close to her childhood home. It was a wonder for a child. She had not seen such massive number of birds in years.

She recalled a story her father use to tell of birds to stress the importance of obedience and respect. He would tell of a neighbor who was a greedy man, always attempting to attain more than he deserved. Through trick or guile, the man pressed upon others and the world. This neighbor cut short his life when he decided to climb a cliff in order to attain bird eggs. Filling his pouch with eggs, the man already enjoyed a bountiful collection when he came across a nest with a mother dove perched peacefully upon her nest. Instantly, he reached out snapping the dove’s neck, admiring her plumb breast, salivating at the thought of such a hearty meal. The man stuffed the dove into his pouch as he started his descent down the cliff. Once upon the narrow walking path angling downward, an avalanche came sweeping down from above, crashing the man ninety feet below to his doom. It was a story Naomi and all the children knew well.

Focused, no identifiable aspirations, a deep loneliness neighbors could not fill weighing upon her heart, Naomi exited her make-shift home for a journey to the extinct volcano Karne Hittim.  It was well known, a respected place and now Susanna wanted her to accompany her to the place for a visit with Susanna’s nephew, Bartholomew, and his Rabbouni named Jesus.

Arriving at Karne Hiitim, the size of the crowd astounded Naomi, so many gathered for one man preaching.  Amidst the crowd, ashamed of her outcast status, she insisted that Susanna continue her search for her nephew without her.  She would rest and wait.

Naomi observed the gathered.  People from all parts were amongst the Israelite crowd.  The blind, sick and lame ubiquitous.  It was obvious the news of healing miracles had spread.  Those desiring rescue from the pains of the human body waited with despairing hearts.  Incredulous, the hopeless wanted hope.  There was nowhere else to go.  Death and suffering were the only ulterior, and of these two all had their fill.

There were elders and babes; families and strangers.  Most were poor.  The minimal food was shared.  Water was dispersed to satisfy all.  There was an order amidst the waiting, a peace, a silent buzz, an unspoken need.  The hopeless desired to believe.  Naomi could not deny the power.  The gathered seemed anxious, ready for something.  She felt no peril, receiving only smiles.  Though recognized as an outcast, the friendly glances were more than she enjoyed in years.  The bleeding woman who came to peace in solitude was replete in charity.

Resoundingly, a hushing swept through the crowd, people attentively assuming seats.  Naomi noticed those around her focusing upon something above her.  She turned and saw a man in a red chiton, inner-tunic, with a himation, outer-cloak of blue draped about his shoulders.  The man elegantly clothed in red and blue, obviously a man of order and cleanliness, appeared poor, yet stately.  Undeniably dignified, Naomi knew instantly he was the one they all came for.  She imagined his garments representing blood and water, the thought erupting from her heart.  He was a handsome man, captivating in appearance.  Witnessing, it was impossible to see beyond him.

Here was Jesus and he was close, raising his arms in a motion of quieting.  He seated himself, reclining in order to speak at length.  The crowd moved in to be near.  Naomi observed the man.  Her focus eliminated the reality of others.  She was alone with the man before her.

His words began to flow, and his voice alone was the sound of milk and honey.  Naomi was spellbound, a burgeoning trust emerging.  Words transformed into concepts.  Her thoughts quieted, a chill raced up her spine.  He was teaching of blessings, and oddly the blessed he spoke of were those who knew not worldly praise, instantly bringing to mind the remembrance of her grandfather, the storyteller.  The neglected, the poor, the humble, those who suffered were the ones Jesus offered hope.  Hope in the sense of eternal reward, life ever after, heavenly treasures.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.
Blessed are those who have been persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you, and falsely say all kinds of evil against you…. 

Naomi marveled at the simple words as they mirrored her personal suppositions and the ways of her grandfather.  Her grandfather told stories.  Stories told to him as a boy, he passed on.  Around a campfire after a day of hard work, or underneath the light of the moon and stars, away from Jerusalem officials, Naomi loved the stories her grandfather and his friends told.  Her childhood was that of a poor grateful girl, familial love abounding, and stories portending worldly difficulties and the might of God working through His chosen people.

As a child, one amongst her people, Naomi paid tribute to Mosaic Law and religious authorities.  Fearing God, moral in behavior, attending ceremonies within the temple as far as a female could, she felt distant from a deeply religious experience.  Her grandfather and his storytelling friends were a different matter.  They were her chosen people.  There was love, warmth, and a personal awareness of God and Jewish history.  The loss of her grandfather was the start of disenchantment.

Mosaic Law would ultimately condemn her.  An emotional empty core remained, a cast aside individual desiring something beyond formality, acceptance, and conformity to Law.  The focus upon behavior was not enough.  It did not take into account the internal life.  The hand was subject to the head and heart.  Amidst a downtrodden state, Naomi dreamed of redemption.  Was victory still possible?  A new creation as an outcast, she listened to the teacher speak of heavenly blessings.

This teacher with the voice of wonder offered divine optimism to the despised.  He taught that the Kingdom of God was for the lowly and lesser.  He did not speak of nation building, the revitalization and independence of Israel, a greater city of God’s chosen people reestablished, a philosophy so many were fixated upon.  He was not obsessed with taking back the City of David through military or political might.  He did not speak of Laws and sacrifices, nor the wrath of God.  Jesus spoke to the heart, internalizing, grasping for individuals.  The downtrodden he sought.  The hopeless he encouraged to seek and hope.  Naomi merged with the shared consciousness; a multitude of divinely personal experiences, none more or less momentous than the next.  The gathered listened as one, while moved individually, like snowflakes during a snowstorm.

Elongated moments unfolding, the teacher’s winged words soared.  A dream state enveloped.  Naomi’s thoughts, tracing back, centered upon her mother’s father, her grandfather.  She contemplated her treasured grandfather.  Mingling with the teacher’s words, the memory of her grandfather concretely emerged.  For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be.  Naomi recalled a final sighting of her beloved grandfather.  As a child, she entered his home, hoping to surprise him with an unannounced visit.  The moment from the past became an engraved memory, sharply defined.

The sun was bright that day of innocence lost.  In the glory of childhood, Naomi hastily made her way to her grandfather’s home.  He called her his sunshine and this day was a perfect day for celebrating sunshine.  Entering the dwelling, darkness confronted her, the silence unnerving, the darkness unnatural. She made her way to a window, opening the shutters, allowing light to penetrate within.  There was her grandfather sitting alone, staring intensely at nothing.  It appeared he had maintained the oblivious position for some time.  In the dark staring, her grandfather sat.  The change in illumination went unnoticed.  The sun pouring in meant nothing.  The loneliness of the moment still brought a chill to Naomi.  As a child, she instantly went to her grandfather, taking his hand, speaking to him.  Finally, her grandfather came about.  Noticing her, he smiled, patting her hand, calling her sunshine, telling her she must go away.  She felt his love.  None loved her like her grandfather.  Fear overwhelmed her as she knew a drastic changed occurred within her grandfather.  Something terrible was wrong.  She was losing her beloved.  The man who was always there with words of encouragement, stories, cheer, and lessons would be gone.  Another man was before her, an exhausted man preparing for death, a man in the dark staring, one who took no notice of his granddaughter’s entrance, a man accepting his leprosy.

From this defining moment, details blended, days passed.  Under the guidance of the community, her grandfather received the prescribed tests for declaring one a leper.  The one who bears the sore of leprosy shall keep his garments rent and his head bare.  And shall muffle his beard; he shall cry out, ’Unclean, Unclean’. As long as the sore is on him he shall declare himself unclean, since he is in fact unclean.  He shall dwell apart, making his abode outside the camp. He was also stripped of his sheepherding land, a wealthy family of moneylenders taking possession of the property.

Naomi was convinced her grandfather’s leprosy was the turning point of her life, her cursing.  Her people drove her grandfather away, declaring him unclean.  She saw her grandfather disrobed, his niveous condition exposed for his judges to observe.  She came to despise all.  As the prophet Hosea proclaimed Israel a nation of whoredom, she loathed those she should love.  Her people, God’s chosen people, were the people she hated.  She was positive God saw the totality of her indiscretion.  In her heart she knew hate was wrong.  Her silent hate reached beyond the religious officials, touching every member of the community that raised her.  None escaped her wrath.

The political complexities, the religious factions: zealots and collaborators, all elicited nothing but scorn.  Her people were a nation of stiff necks.  Arrogant, manipulating, taking advantage of the poor, using religion as a means of advancement, Naomi saw nothing except corruption surrounding her.  The foreign influences were also constantly badgering.  As a beautiful young girl, she felt the eyes of soldiers upon her, desiring her in ways that brought dread to her heart.  As a simple girl from a family of sheepherders, Naomi found no refuge in the world.

There was a young man from her village who joined the ascetic movement of the Essenes, living next to the sea of no life.  She spoke with the man when he returned to honor his deceased mother with three companions.  The Essenes significantly impressed her.  The men were young, yet they possessed a piety Naomi associated with older men, men of experience and wisdom.  They were good men.  Recently outcast, she was pleased when the three men did not flee from her, unafraid of her condition and the law condemning her.  The encouragement and words the men gave her brightened her heart for weeks and she considered venturing to their remote safe haven, yet never did.  Her heart returned to its dejected solitary state.

The community’s rejection of her grandfather was the point of Naomi’s departure from faith, a flight of abandonment destined for hopelessness.  As a child, she determined that if the Law recognized her grandfather as unclean then she would be unclean herself.  It was the will of a wounded child.  The self-imposed curse came to fruition with the continual bleeding.  A divide was there between herself, God, and her people.  She found no solace in the teachings of her ancestors, only her grandfather’s stories lingered.

Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets.  I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. 

The spoken words from the alluring soft-spoken teacher struck Naomi, bringing her back from her musing.  She understood the uselessness of her rebellion, blaming her sinful self for her sorry condition.  She had long since given up on her reasoning, the details and convictions that turned her away from God lost importance.  Her rebellion dissipated during her days of isolation.  Her thoughts and justifications, all former priorities, had long been demolished amidst the fisherman’s storage shack.  Assailing, the winged words of Jesus filled the emptiness she had become, smoothing away the hardness of her heart.

Naomi lost herself to the arising cleansing of disposition.  Her grandfather had been her light and life.  The one who taught her the songs of David, read to her the Wisdom of Solomon, and educated her with the Torah, emphasizing the wonderful stories: Abraham, Benjamin, Joseph, and Moses.  His unexpected departure left a shadow upon her soul.  In adulthood, she floundered spiritually, never trusting or able to soften her hardened heart.

Carved into her memory were the last words of her grandfather.  She was hiding outside his window for none were allowed in his soon to be seized home.  However, Naomi could not be without her grandfather.  She held to the window near his bed, amidst the bleating sheep and dogs.  She overheard the conversation within.  Her grandfather was speaking to the visiting Pharisee, quoting words she would never know in completeness.  But I would speak with the Almighty; I wish to reason with God.  You are glossing over falsehoods and offering vain remedies, every one of you!  Oh, that you would be altogether silent! This for you would be wisdom….  withdraw your hand far from me, and let not the terror of you frighten me.

“He speaks to us or his disciples?” asked an elderly man behind Naomi.  The voice broke her from reflections.  Naomi noticed the twelve men gathered around Jesus, also the various women.  Susanna was there.

“He speaks to all.  His voice carries like the wind, soft yet lucid upon the ears.”

I tell you, unless your righteousness surpasses that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will not enter into the kingdom of heaven….  whoever is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment….

He continued, expounding upon Mosaic Law, a subject Naomi perceived as unapproachable.  Where there was once rigidity and laws imposed, clarity and wisdom appeared.  Scribes, time, and the distance between God, or even prophets, grew tremendous in proportion throughout her life.  Religion was so much bigger than individual life, especially for a down-to-earth girl of poverty.  Jesus’ words possessed authority and practicality.  He reduced matters to comprehendible basics, internalizing matters.  He almost seemed desperate in his attempt to reach the hearts of listeners.

Naomi took note of the disciples gathered around Him.  The men were common, men of no distinction, unimpressive in appearance, obviously lacking sophistication.  They had no standing in society.  It could easily be discerned.  How different from the scribes, Pharisees, and Sadducees.  If the teacher’s ambitions included worldly recognition, he would surely surround himself with the sharpest and well-studied minds, selecting from the ranks of the elite.  Yet this speaker of winged words surrounded himself with simple workingmen.  There was even word that one of his disciples was a former tax collector, an ill-repute forbidden worship within the Temple.

Naomi was disarmed.  Like a prophet from old, the man spoke not as a superior religious expert, but as a man of God, like the prophet Amos.  His authority was divine.  Naomi considered the matter, yet relegated the possibility to impossibility.  Who was this man and what entitled him to divine authority?  Naomi feared reprisal, for no matter where this authority originated, it would threaten men of greater political power.  This teacher would bring trouble down upon his head.  He was brave, yet foolish.  She longed deeply for her grandfather to be able to witness this new teacher.  Her grandfather’s keen insight would allow further clarification.

The teacher continued proclaiming the innocence of anonymity when praising Our Heavenly Father: …do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing…  Naomi, going past the fears of the reaction of those in power, acknowledged a stirring in the core of her beliefs.  She despised the current ruler of the territory, the tetrarch Herod Antipas, son of Herod the Great.

Antipas established his demoralizing city of Tiberas in the region, naming after the Roman emperor, spreading the selfishness and ungodly ways that his father had initiated.  A Jewish city built to honor Roman authority.  None of the Israelites would set foot in the city as a graveyard of their ancestors was unearthed during its construction.  Cursed, Israelites avoided Tiberas, recognizing it as another disdainful effort from a despicable Idumean family.  The Herodian family supplied the worst of kings.  In the Israelite line of kings demanded by a people unwilling to rely upon God, the Herodian family was despicable.

Herod the Great was not a descendant of King David.  Rumors existed, whispered words amongst the intelligentsia, the underground movement of respected religious authorities.  They spoke of a Joseph as the proper king with respect to the line of David, yet the talk digressed into puzzlement as the man identified worked as a humble carpenter, paying no heed to talk of kingdoms.  In worldly concern, the throne of Israel would have never been granted to Herod if it had not been for the king and high priest John Hyrcanus of the Hasmonean dynasty’ forcing the conversion of the Idumeans, or Edomites, descendants of Esau, the fraternal twin of Jacob who was renamed Israel after wrestling an angel; the grandson of Abraham; Herod would have never identified himself as an Israelite.  Politics and power were his greatest loves.  He never embraced the faith of God’s Chosen people.

Duplicitous in nature, Herod saw God as a means to his own end.  The God of the Israelites presented the opportunity for personal advantage.  Naomi despised all the manipulations and politics of those in power.  Herod the Great was the worst of the worst.  As a child, she heard the stories of Herod, the constant intrigues that became a focal point for even the sheepherders when they gathered at night.

Herod’s father was known as Antipater the Idumaean, an influential man in the politics of Jerusalem.  Naomi despised all the manipulations and politics of those in power.  She heard the stories, the constant intrigues.  Antipater supported Julius Caesar providing troops, and fighting in loyalty to Caesar.  This choice served him well as Caesar wrested authority from Pompey.  However, as was the way of men who brutally seek power, Antipater found no peace as his fellow Jews accused him of being disloyal to Caesar.  Antipater was brought before Caesar, defending himself simply by removing his clothing and stating to Caesar ‘here is proof of my loyalty’.  Antipater displayed his scarred body for all to see.  A brave and skilled warrior, he had fought valiantly for Caesar, risking his body, enduring many wounds and inflicting even more.  None of his accusers could claim the same.  The scars were many and impressive.  Antipater would win Caesar’s eternal gratitude.  His son Herod would become King of the Jews.

Herod the Great would oversee the construction of the most impressive of Temples, even grander than its predecessor built by Solomon.  Never would he sincerely observe the rituals of the descendents of Abraham, nor would he take the matter of morality serious.  All knew the man was corrupt.  In bed with who ever held power, depending upon Marc Anthony in the past, becoming obsequious to Rome in order to secure power, while embracing a Hellenistic intellect, Herod never relied upon the faith of Abraham.  Self-idolatry was his way of life.

In old age, paranoia and insanity ravaged Herod’s mind.  In the time of his dying, his body became grotesque.  Worms wallowed in his genitals.  Ulcers gnawed at his innards.  Gangrene festered about his limbs.  Fever seared his blood.  His breathe became unnatural in rapidity and horrible in stench.  Physically destitute, Herod the Great still clung to life.  A final act demonstrated the loathsomeness of Herod.  On his deathbed, Herod ordered numerous eminent men of Israel imprisoned and executed.  The deaths were to ensure there would be many tears shed during the time of Herod’s death.

Naomi recalled former kings of the northern and southern Jewish kingdoms.  In fact, it struck her that Yahweh opposed the idea of a king, reluctantly granting Samuel, the son of the loyal Hannah, the right to anoint Saul the first kingship.  Saul would disappoint, falling from honor due to his reliance upon self-will, proving himself impatient and bull-headed.  Saul would even turn to magic, seeking the service of conjurers, when he found the ways of God lacking.  David would rely upon God and through him would come the greatest of glory to a single Israelite nation.

Naomi realized how far in corruption Israel had sunk with King Herod.  The man was a known disgrace, the murderer of his own family.  It was better to be one of Herod’s hogs rather than a family member.  The drowning of his mother-in-law’s son Aristobulus in order to manipulate the position of high priest and the executing of three of his sons and his Hasmonean wife, one of nine, were included in his collection of wicked deeds.  Morality was a non-issue for the man.  The killing of every male child under the age of three was an atrocity, Naomi, as well as others, could never forget.

In beauty and scope, the allure of the crooked compared to the teacher Jesus was like a scorpion to a dove.  There was nothing to fear in Jesus.  Naomi listened with an open, clear mind, a heart hungry for truth.  Brightness overcame as words became concrete, as if they were physical entities, solid in formation.

Our Father in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.  Give us today our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

Jesus taught how to pray, heavenly sent winged words alighting upon the ears of the inurned.  Instantaneously, the words engraved themselves upon Naomi’s heart and mind, anchoring as they landed.  Never would she struggle to recall them.  Flowing to light in their being, the words came natural.

A silence amongst the crowd followed the words of prayer.  Jesus held still in body and word.  A baby crying and sparrows singing broke the corporeal silence.  Naomi noticed a young girl, her hair decorated with lilies, shedding tears.  There were tears, yet no sound.  Tangible and present, love vibrated; eternity, an everlasting life of peace in heaven conceptualized.  Naomi never considered such a grand idea a reality.  Existence within the bosom of God, resting protected beneath the wings of angels, the actuality was palpable.  Extirpated, her previous conception: from dust one came and from dust one returned, seemed lacking.  Jesus offered more.  Within his words; in what he said, as well as, what he did not say.  Her suffering, her grandfather’s, everyone’s anguish was not the end as God was truly love.  God intended more through the creation of man.  Unification in the afterlife was a majestic prize, eternal life the ultimate victory.

Through love, the teacher brought clarity.  Sin molded the world of man, perverting and deforming.  Love could redeem the world of man.  There was a battleground.  Jesus taught to overcome, to transform, metamorphosis.  Glory and redemption were through the Father.  The heart softened when adoring the Father.  He above all was love.  Through love, where once there was an end, now there was a beginning, an everlasting kingdom.

Ask and you will receive; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened.  For everyone who asks, receives; whoever seeks, finds; and the door will be opened to him who knocks.

Enlightened in a flash, Naomi saw the door did not open to the world of man, the world that turned cold with death.  Instead, the majesty of God graced eternity as a benevolent, timeless wonder.  Heaven was the Kingdom of God.  Jesus spoke to teach truth.  Truth was to know and love the Father who sent Him.

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

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