Journey 5
Next morning, back on the road again and way on its
way, the caravan arrived upon a Roman road block. These blockades were security
checks, or that’s what the mercenary soldiers said, when they stopped to search
them. Romans were disliked intensely. Their countenance was always severe, and
their manners rough and careless. They were godless and disrespectful to the
Jews; few even spoke the language. Distrusted and feared, children ran from
them, hiding in their mothers’ skirts, crying. They were requiring the regular Roman
tax, which totaled from one to five percent of a man’s income. Faithful Jews already
had other voluntary temple taxes, decreed since Moses, to pay for the
sacrifices and incense. So, paying an added half shekel or half an ounce of
silver was an onerous burden for the people of Nazareth.
The “tributum” as it was called, was truly the
"tribute" that Romans demanded from those, under their control. Most
of these taxes were placed upon the goods of travelers, collected as transit tolls
or “portoria” at town gates and harbors.
One of the villagers picked a fight, refusing to
comply. He was rejecting to pay now arguing he had no goods. In doing so, he was
unwittingly, putting the whole caravan in danger of total confiscation.
Mary looked on, picking up more than she wished to
know. The hardened soldier to the left, had his hand on the stilt of his sword.
His quivering upper lip denoted withheld aggression. He stood ready to pounce
on the attack, awaiting for the order. His mouth watered with anticipation. He
wanted blood.
“Thomas, stop!” yelled the man´s wife as she hid behind
other trembling onlookers. The fighting continued, turning into a power-play without
signs of stopping, but neither giving signs of growing out of proportion.
Meanwhile, Mary´s eyes met those of the chief centurion,
who shifted, some distance away, supervising his men. For a long time their
eyes locked together searchingly, venturing into each other´s souls. Suddenly
he took a step back, aghast. Color escaped his lips and his face froze.
His mind raced through the recent memory of a life-changing
experience. His eyes shone, alit with hope and unutterable joy as he remembered.
‘Yes’, he recalled.. ‘Jhesus had entered Capernaum, when
he had been seeking help for his beloved servant, bedridden and dying, at home.
In desperate hopelessness he had asked Jhesus for help’.
"Lord," he remembered saying, "my
servant lies at home paralyzed, suffering terribly."
‘Jhesus had immediately offered to go to him. But how
could he? His home was undeserving of such distinction’. Grasped by unknowing assurance
he had gone on….
“Just say the
word. You are, as myself, a commander and surely, with your authority, my
servant will be healed”. ‘Yes, it had been a miracle!’
Awe-stricken he thought to himself, ‘This is his
mother’, and went on, recalling… ‘Jhesus was from Nazareth. Definitely, there
was the same hue of holiness about them’.
The centurion started transfixed, towards Mary.
“Blessed are you among women, because blessed is Jhesus,
the fruit of your womb”, he said in deep reverence, as he came up to her.
Mary´s eyes swelled in tears, deeply moved by this
man´s faith. This centurion's servant, whom his master had valued so highly,
was healed because of his loving faith, she somehow knew.
Just then, the centurion called out “Jair, come forth”.
A sturdy middle-aged servant came forth; his hardy face and white hair depicted
someone knowledgeable and honest, with the likes of someone, Greek. “This is
your real Master´s mother”, he said, “and I command you to take care of her. Go
with them into Jerusalem, and be free.”
The servant broke down in deep gratitude; Mary, deeply
moved.
Such had been the compassion evoked, that the belligerence
had stopped, and all were standing around, aghast. ‘Had the centurion let his
servant free? Had he commanded him to guard and travel with Jews? Was this the mother
of him, so talked about; the miracle-maker?’
“In tears
myself, I marvel at faith and pray to be as trusting”.
Journey 4
By now, the villagers from Nazareth were preparing to
travel together to Jerusalem. The caravan would include whole families; donkeys,
camels and some even took fowl for food. Dogs also came along to help protect
them from outlaws and stragglers, waiting to rob them from their tents, animals
and goods. Mugging was not uncommon at this time of the year. They would travel
along the Jordan River for water, and stop periodically for the women and
children to rest, and the animals, to quench their thirst. At nightfall, tents
would be put up and woodfires lit, for prayers to be shared before mealtime.
Mary´s two daughters-in-law travelled with her and her
grandchildren. Omar, was now old enough to be of great help, carrying the
provisions that they had been preparing. She had packed gifts for her sons,
Jhesus and James and their followers, by now, also part of the family. How she
hated for them to be referred to, as “master” and “disciples”; one, placed over
the other. They were all devout believers, praying and preaching hope in the
love of God. There was such hopelessness, such strife, nowadays…no one believed
much anymore, much less prayed. Temples had become marketplaces, mercenary
meeting grounds with the spoil of the big cities. All had to be distrusted.
There was always some hidden personal gain to be bartered for. How she feared
for her sons… ‘lambs among wolves’, she often thought. She could only pray for
them and trust God would protect them, as He did, her. He was always with her; ‘Even
her guardian angel had come along, on the trip!’, she thought as she spotted
her little featherless bird who had finally decided to leave his cage, deciding
to follow along. ‘Good thing she had brought added seeds for pigeons and fowl
along the way’, she mused.
The hustle and bustle all around, had a ring to it.
Yes, there was also the little blind boy, who had learned to play the windpipe,
and sat on one of the carts as everyone got their things together, playing
cheerfully. It took all day to pack, but they were ready to leave, early next
morning.
Mary was relieved when they parted and finally settled
to rest in the family cart, now on its way. It had been hard work preparing the
food, finishing the weaving and fixing the tent…but worst of all, bearing the
constant growing worry. She closed her eyes and prayed on her prayer-beads,
silently, safely inconspicuous.
The caravan would travel towards the southernmost mouth
of the Sea of Galilee, to avoid the mountainous region of Mount Tabor, and
follow down the Jordan River’s flow southward, towards the Dead Sea. It had
been years since Mary had travelled, and wouldn´t have known the way, if she
weren´t travelling with the village men who often sold their goods in
Jerusalem, taking that same route at least twice a year. Feeling confident,
Mary doze off.
The road was a rough, dirt path traced out by caravans.
It had mud pits, wash-outs, and cave-ins. They had long debated whether to take
the newly paved Roman highway that ran along the entire shore of the
Mediterranean Sea, along the opposite side of Israel. They called it the “Via Maris”,
but had decided against it because they would need river water for their
animals. They chose instead, what the Roman’s called the “King’s Highway”, just
east of Israel, along the Jordan River. It was however, much more dangerous
since it was newly paved and much travelled by foreigners that exchanged their
goods, in what Mary recognized as the Queen of Sheba’s mother country.
By the afternoon, the caravan sighted the Sea of
Galilee at a distance. They arrived just in time to see the sun walk over its
water. The effect was miraculous against the black clouds behind. The golden
sunlight seemed to extend their pathway directly into its warmth. They thought
to camp early, to fill their water skins and stone jars (since the Sea of
Galilee is the lowest freshwater lake on earth). They washed up, fed their
animals and prayed together, for blessings and protection along their way,
before sharing bread and wine.
Later that evening, Mary walked up to the seashore,
alone. It was a cool evening, refreshing after the dust-ridden heat. She dipped
her hand into the soothing waters, as if caressing them and thanking them for
always being there for Jhesus. Ever since a child, he had loved jumping into it
and swimming far off. How she hated it! The Sea was easily 200 meters deep!
Many had lost their lives in it. But it always seemed to befriend Jhesus. Even
when he started fishing with Joseph, he returned triumphant with a shoal of
fish, generously bestowed. Its ripples shone with memories under the moonlight.
Two years ago, Mary had travelled about 30 kms to
Capernaum, with the village women, to take food and clothes to Jhesus and his
fast growing followers. At first, it was Andrew, Simon, Philip, and Nathaniel who
followed him from Bethabara. But now, the well-known fishermen from Galilee, Simon
Peter and Andrew had joined them. They had told her about their meeting, as
they ate the food she had graciously taken, from Nazareth.
Peter and his friends had been fishing all night
without catching any fish. Disheartened, they returned onshore to find Jhesus wanting
to join them, urging the boat back into deep waters. He had told Peter and his
friends to throw their fishing nets back into the water. Unbelievably, they found they had
caught so many fish that their nets began to break. Excitedly, Peter had called
to his friends onshore, to get another boat to come to their aid. Their catch
was so, that it filled both boats to the point of starting to sink. All, were
in disbelief. It was obvious that it was all Jhesus’ doing.
The story hadn´t surprised Mary. Ever since he was a
child, animals, birds, fish would all swarm around Jhesus, at his bidding.
Since then, Peter and Andrew had become his followers. They even had other
friends’ of Peter join them. James and John, two brothers, sons of Zebedee, also
left everything and follow Jhesus. “They would all become fishers of men”, they
told Mary, proudly, as they asked her for more bread
to spread the cooked grains, butter and cheese she had brought.
She sat musing on the seashore, till she got cold and
walked back to the tent to rest. “God, she said, please lead them not into
temptation but deliver them from all evil”, she prayed for each and every one
of them.
Journey 3
Unrest continued gnawing at Mary’s soul. She knew not
why. Her heart was split between her eager desire to see her son, and a strange
resistance that kept wanting to hold her back and stay home. She was scared,
but knew not why. This on-going infighting made her strangely irritable. She,
who was known for her serene and peaceful nature, was uptight. It was in this
mood that she snapped at Omar. Luckily, he was not around to hear her complain
about his leaving the palm tree leaves, in a pile under the shadow of a tree,
instead of laying them out one, by one, to dry. Just as she was picking one of
the palm sheaths up, setting herself to the task, she felt a sudden stinging
pain. Her had immediately swelled and was fast becoming numb, when she screamed
for help. Omar, still on a palm tree cutting leaves nearby, ran to his
grandmother´s call. He found her on the floor, feeling faint. He recognized the
symptoms immediately. It wasn´t uncommon to find scorpions on palm tree leaves,
at this time of the year. She had been stung. He knew that, though scorpions in
the region were not deadly, they could stop your breath. So he wasted no time
hurrying to bare her arm and tie it with her sash, as he took her hand and
started sucking on the wound. Over and over he spit the venom out, flushing her
blood out painstakingly. Slowly, she came back to herself, regaining her
strength. Seeing she was better Omar rushed to find and kill the scorpion, but
Mary held him back. “Don´t” she said faintly. “Even scorpions are God’s
creatures. His sting is a sign that must be honored. Let him be”.
Back in the house, when the commotion had stilled and
nightfall befell, Mary wondered to herself, what it all meant. ‘Let it be, let
it be’ she kept repeating, as if to convince herself to stop trying to control
fate and ‘let go’. She found solace in her psalms and prayed: “Out of the depth
I cry to you- Lord, hear my prayer; let your ears hear my voice of supplication”
and after bitter tears, finally subdued, she continued, “My soul relies on your
word -Your will be done, not mine”, and at last in resignation, she found peace
and fell asleep.
As I prayed
with Mary, I found it was my profound grief that yearned for relief. Presently,
I realized that it was I who was making the trip to Jhesus. I had been on the
road all my life, resisting the suffering that necessarily lied ahead. And I
cried bitterly. “Mary, walk with me”, I prayed.
Journey 2
There was a lot of bustle in town, with men, women and
children packing for Pesach (Passover). Everyone seemed to be going to
Jerusalem. For seven days, all Israel would be commemorating their freedom from
Egyptian slavery. Mary had learned about it from her father, Heli Joachim and
Hanna, her mother, who, in turn had retold the story, they had heard from their
forefathers. At nightfall, Hebrews would honor the memory of the midnight of
the 15th of the month of Nissan in the year 2448 from creation, when, during
special Seder meals, chametz (leaven) would be replaced by matzah (unleavened
bread) and maror (bitter herbs). Over four cups of wine, they would retell how,
after many decades of backbreaking labor and unbearable horrors, God had sent
His last warning to Egyptian pharaohs, to set Israelite slaves free. Despite
ten devastating plagues that had destroyed everything from livestock to crops,
Egyptian pharaohs still held them hostage. Because God wanted His people to
serve Him, He wrought upon Egyptians, the death of all their firstborn
children, “passing over” Hebrew homes, whose children were spared.
For Mary it was not a celebration that she wished to
remember. She would have preferred to totally overlook the date, blocking it
out completely, if it hadn’t been for Sarah, Her eldest son’s wife, who had
insisted on having them join the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The date evoked painful
memories of a similar massacre which she and Joseph had rushed from, scuttling
their firstborn out of Israel, back into Egypt when he was just a baby. It had
been horrible. She still couldn´t understand what had happened. If it hadn´t
been for her loving angel, who had warned them just in time to flee, she herself
would have chosen to be killed along with her adored Jhesus.
It was early spring, the Hebrew month of Nissan, and
the trip to celebrate Pesach, gave her the perfect excuse to go to Jerusalem. She
was planning to go anyway, and it would avoid having to find a reason why she
wanted to go, in the first place. She really didn´t know. Confessing it was
because of an intuitive presage, would have put her in the lips of all, who
were already spreading venom critically, about Jhesus and His friends.
She had continued pondering over the killing of
Egyptian firstborn and her similar experience, wondering why such innocent
sacrificial lambs had to die in the first place. It almost seemed to be a
prerequisite for Life, to continue. Her mulling was abruptly interrupted when
Sarah rushed over to hug her. “Thank you”, she said effusively, “Oh! Thank you!
I’ll be able to see James! He will be so happy to see the children!”
Later that day, while starting to bake provisions for
their trip, her thoughts went back to Egypt. She thought of the food needed to
feed the six hundred thousand men, women and children, leaving Egypt on their
trek to Mount Sinai. ‘Of course!’ They would have to prepare matzah, flat
unleavened bread, zealously guarded against moisture, instead of chametz, for
it to last! ‘So that´s why handmade schmurach matzah was dried from the moment
of harvest’, she thought.
Celebrating the Passover Seders required strict adherence
to traditional Hebrew rituals which would be difficult to adhere to, while
travelling. She tried to convince herself that honoring the miracle of liberty
didn´t need strict following of the obliged fifteen-ritual-ceremony. ‘Just bringing
the family together and sharing Seders with the boys in Jerusalem was a feast
in itself. They were travelling from so far away’ she reflected. ‘The greatest
miracle they would celebrate would be the life they had had after such near
death’.
Back home, the celebration would require intensive
spring-cleaning, in search of all leavened grain. Any food or drink with a
trace of wheat, barley, rye or oats would have to be disposed of and destroyed.
Mary was convinced that the burning of the chametz ceremony, the morning prior
to Pesach, could be replaced with acts of humility. ‘The flat, unflavored bread
just required ridding inflated selves, to be able to tap into the miraculous
well of divine energy we all have within our souls’, she thought. So, taking her
cue from the matzah, she would give away something personal to the needy,
before they left. That would cleanse her from chametz.
‘Of course, the recitation of the Haggadah, could not
be replaced’. It was an obligation to recount the story of the Exodus on the
night of Passover.
Though the commemoration should last the whole week,
the first two Seder nights would be enough to rejoice over the miracle of being
together; that in itself would be a full celebration.
‘Oh!’ She thought suddenly, ‘She must take the wine
for Kiddush. Sanctifying the shabbath would require wine!’ She would ask Sarah
to make a leather bag, from the sheeps´hide they were preparing. The trip´s
continual travelling would help crush the grapes and shake them enough to
settle into wine, just in time for Pesach.
Urgency pressed her on. So, she eked out the strength
to continue her diligent preparation.
‘Where was it they were going!?’….she rummaged. Again,
the familiar foreboding had her envision a coming storm… She automatically
diverted from her pressing pessimism, assuring it was because it would surely rain.
‘She had to ask her little grandson, Omar, to cut some palm tree leaves to take
along, for shelter’.
For years, Mary had opened her home to villagers for
afternoon prayers. They had formed quite a large group of regulars, that always
left an air of benediction. And she was grateful for it. But lately she had
left vespers and preferred to pray alone in the garden´s grove. Her spirit stirred
with unrest and only solitude gave her solace.
That afternoon, she had unwittingly kept repeating
‘Abba, Aboon’ (“Father, Our Father” in Aramaic). Over and over, her heart beat
to that mantra-like plea, surging from some profound, dire prayer.
‘Aboon Dbashmayo’ (“Our Father who art in Heaven”)… she
continued, with desperate persistence. ‘Oh! But “heaven” seemed so far from the
everyday chaos which Romans had wrought…’she thought hopelessly. As if to
suppress her distrust, she suddenly remembered the comforting words with which Isabel
had greeted her, years back, when both cousins had shared their fears during
pregnancy.
“Moran a'amekh”, (“the Lord is with thee”), Isabel had
reminded her, as they greeted… ‘Yes, my Father is always with me’ she repeated
to herself, again and again, till her anguish was finally appeased.
As I
reflected, in contemplation, I found myself, too, keeping unconscious rhythm to
the same urgent plea…inhaling “Bless me…”, and exhaling “Bless all…, Abba,
Aboon”.
Journey 1
I found her shaking, trembling inconsolably…she
shivered under a foreboding shadow of terror, she knew not why. She suddenly
felt alone…She knelt and as She covered her eyes to cry. She found herself
leaning her head on an angel´s lap…or was it Joseph´s? It seemed so familiar. She
had recently lost him and found herself about to commiserate pitifully about her
agony, to God. But Job had come to mind…and she held back.
Somehow, this was different.
Again, she felt lifeless, totally depleted. But this
time, her intuitive nature had tearful anticipation, of a bleeding heart. She
knew it wasn´t hers. Her heart could bear being torn apart and pierced for
Love.. but this was a pain too heavy to bear. She wept and as she washed Her
tears away, found Her hands were full of blood. The lap held her bleeding face
reassuringly. She cuddled closer, letting go. It somehow held her up and gave Her
strength… and eventually peace.. not from acceptance but from holy resignation.
“Not my will but Yours, be done, My Lord” She whispered….and fell asleep on the
holy lap.
An hour went by, or was it a day.. it felt like
centuries… She arose, strengthened with a courage beyond herself. Strangely, she
had her son in mind, strongly fixed on going to Jerusalem. It was an urgent
need to see Him.
Mary lived in Nazareth, in a little home embedded in
the mountain. It was close to a well, with grounds, big enough to breed her
chickens, goats and host a little garden with fruit trees and the herbs needed
for healing the neighboring villagers. She lived with two daughters-in-law who
kept her company and helped around the house. Her sons had gone off with
Jhesus, stubbornly insisting he would need them. It was all so unexpected, so
unconceivable…..far from anything She had ever hoped for them. Times were hard
and unpredictable with luring danger all around. They all said it was the
Romans who were the enemy, but somehow she distrusted even the Jews who now
seemed so foreign.
She walked up to cup seeds in her hand and feed the
chickens and a little bird she kept in an open cage. He had refused to fly away
after healing his broken wing in her hands. His singing always eased her
anguish.
It would take her at least two weeks to prepare for
the trip to Jerusalem. She was already making a mental list of all She would
have to do…fix olives…(would she pickle them or put them in vinegar?) She would
have to buy fish (perhaps she would ask one of the local villagers to fish a
fresh shoal for her, on the fishermen’s next trip to sea, at Galilee). She
would have to salt it and hang it up to dry for at least a week…and Oh! She
just had to finish the lovely silk shroud She had been weaving for Jhesus…She
so worried about him and his nomadic travels through cold and winds.
It was at least 100 miles to Jerusalem. It would take
well over 8 days to get there, since, she wouldn´t be travelling alone. Her two
daughters’ in law would have to accompany her. She was 47 years old now. Her
hair was almost completely grey and her feet were worn with life. Though she
felt strong, they would have to take her 3 grandchildren along. The older one,
now twelve, reminded her so much of Jhesus when she and Joseph had spent days
looking for him in Jerusalem. He was about the same age. They had been so
worried, back then…and, as it gladly turned out, needlessly so. Now, she was
confident God would always be taking care of him, or would He? Could He? She
shivered at the mere doubt and threw aside her ungodly thoughts.
Yes, they would have to travel along the Jordan, where
they could quell the thirst of their caravanning animals. They would have to
take the old cart, and at least three of four of the donkeys…and the mule would
have to tag along just to carry enough food for the trip, and an additional
rationing she wanted to take for Jhesus and the boys. She yearned eagerly to
see Him and yet she froze at the thought.
It was a 90-mile walk to the village of Ein Karem,
John the Baptist’s traditional birth place, and only five miles more to
Jerusalem from the southwest. They would surely have to stay a day or two at
Martha and Lazarus’ home. They would not forgive her if they knew she was going
to Jerusalem and didn´t stop by to see them. They lived at al-Eizariya,
Bethany, about two hours from Jerusalem. Perhaps she would find Jhesus there. She
knew he always stayed with them. It was safe, and they were always so loving.
What would she take for them? She remembered Lazarus had been ill for a while. After
pausing to think of it, she was appeased with the idea of carving them some
prayer beads.
‘Oh!’ She thought to herself suddenly, as the idea
caught up with her that she would also have to churn goats’ milk to take some
cheese. Yes, there was much to do.
It was a couple days later, when despite her busy
agenda, a sullen sadness weighed down upon her shoulders, again. It even blocked
the sunlight as it filtered through the grove, where she was pulling spices for
her cooking. She suddenly burst out
crying, despairingly, not knowing why. Her tears fell to the ground. Unexpectedly,
a flower bloomed where her tears had fallen, as if filled with holy compassion.
‘Hold on’, it seemed to say, and she smiled inadvertedly. ‘Had that flower been
there before’, she wondered?
Just then, her dogs ran directly to her side, wagging
their tails excitedly, as if she had called for them. They had responded to her
silent cry for solace. She patted them and pulled out, some dry unleaved bread
from her garments´s pocket, which she had been crumbling for the chickens. They
wagged on, gratefully. Oh! If only she could be so trusting; if only she could
rejoice at little things and overlook the shadow of death that loomed beside Her.
Again, she looked up at the Heavens and heaved heavily for breath.
Urgency returned, and pressed her on to hurry with her
chores. ‘She would have to take the dogs along’, she thought to herself,
regaining serenity.
As
I contemplated, meditating over the scene, reliving every imagined detail, I
realized Mary’s trip would take longer than the 40 days of Lent. In fact, her
journey is probably still on-going, since she would be trying to reach each us
all.
