No Matter What By Marla Fair It was at that moment that I knew. The garden was lit by the light of the stars that ranged above. It was hushed and quiet; a sanctuary away from the busy streets and noisy crowds. My men were sleeping, filled with too much wine and bread, and wrung dry by worry and concern. The leaves bowed before me as I pushed through to a sheltered niche carved out of the greenery, reminding me of the palm branches laid in my path as I entered the city. The voice of the wind was strong, like those of the women who chanted my name, proclaiming I had come in the name of the Lord. As my Father had promised…. It had begun. And as He promised as well, it would end in another chant. One calling for my blood. How did it begin? What are my first memories? I think they are my mother’s and not mine. A stable. A woman with a kind but harried face apologetically offering a bed of straw. My father, worried, feeling less than adequate for failing us both. Helping my mother to lay on the rough pallet of fodder meant to warm the bellies of the animals within the cavernous womb of the stable. I can hear her crying out, in pain, in joy, and then in fear. What had God wrought? What was it entered the world when I drew my first breath? What? I remember sleeping, nestling in the crook of her arm, feeding and sleeping again. My father kept close watch, pacing, not sleeping the whole of the first night. When the shepherds appeared at the stable door he at first sought to bar the ragtag mob entry. By their sincerity they won their way in. Smelling of both sheep and field, they regaled our tiny family with tales of wonder – a star in the heavens, a great host of angels, singing glory to God on High. God. Father. Abba. I knew Him even then. How can I explain it? When I was done suckling, when I closed my eyes to sleep, He was there. Within the womb I had known Him, though there were no words. Only a peace which assured me that, no matter what, all would be well. No matter how impoverished my parents were. No matter that we were far from home and friends. No matter that I was brought into this world and placed in a bed of hay with a donkey for a nursemaid. No matter. I was loved and always would be. No matter what. You know what it is like. You remember only snatches of your childhood. We live each day and yet, in an odd way, we truly experience only a few. I remember the men who came from far away to visit us. I was something under two years old. We had a humble home, but times were hard. My father struggled to put food on the table. He was a good carpenter, but in an occupied land people make do with very little, and a fine table and set of matching chairs is counted as a luxury. He mended yokes and made farming implements, but more often than not he took a chicken or a promise in payment. I remember my mother crying one day. She was sitting by the window, looking out onto the street. A Roman guard was tramping past, all metal and no manners. I touched her hand and she looked at me and gathered me into her arms. “We have been promised,” she whispered with a kiss, “that we will never be forsaken. God is always with us, even in the hardest of times.” I asked her why she was crying and she said she worried for me – that I would not grow up to be tall and manly if I did not have enough food. I took her hand and kissed it. ‘God will watch over us, Mama,’ I said. ‘No matter what.’ My father entered and cleared his throat. Mother stood and I turned around. He had that same look – the one he had greeted the shepherds with. Wary, but excited. “What is it?” my mother asked. “Joseph?” He swallowed and replied, “Mary, we have visitors.” I was fascinated by their hats. Funny hats, with colored bands of fabric wound round and round and round. And jewels. Big shiny jewels of red and blue and emerald-green. One of them laughed as I pulled his hat apart and became lost in the long pieces of fabric – even as my mother scolded me. ‘Let the boy have his fun,” the visitor with dark skin remarked. ‘The day will come when my gift will be his only comfort.’ They were rich and brought us many things. We would no longer be hungry. One brought us gold. Real gold, such as kings had. Another myrrh. The man with the dark skin brought us frankincense. My mother said she would keep it for my burial. It was not long after this that we moved. Far away. The place we went had people who wore funnier hats than the visitors. In Egypt they wore very little clothing, and painted their eyes and sometimes their toes. Men and women wore gold in their ears and their noses. And they worshipped many gods. My mother said they were scandalous. Once as we passed one of their temples, a kindly man offered me a tiny figure shaped like a man with a bird’s head. It was shiny and pretty. I asked him what it was and he said it was god. How could this be god? I thought as I touched the metal. It was cold and uncaring. And its blank eyes stared at me as if I were not there. God always knows where I am. No matter what. When I was four or five my father sat me down. He asked me if I knew I was special. If I understood why he and my mother always kept such a close watch over me. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. I had never seen my father cry. It frightened me more than anything ever had. He held his hands out and said he felt as if there were blood on them. We had just returned to Nazareth and he had been to the market. He said he had not known. My mother came to him and took his shoulders in her arms. She whispered words I could not hear and then added softly, ‘If we had not left, it would have been Jesus. For each of those little boys that died, he has come. Remember that.” I learned the next day that, after we left, King Herod had ordered the slaughter of every baby born in Nazareth the same year I had been. Every infant under two years of age. There were no boys left in Nazareth my age. Was this what my father meant – that I was special? I think I cried myself to sleep that night, thinking of them. The memories wash from mist to water over the next few years. During that time I began my training – both as a carpenter and in my faith. In Israel you are not a boy for very long. When very young I rose each day and said my prayers, studied with my mother or father, and then followed him to the carpenter’s shop to watch him ply his trade. By the time I was twelve I was attending Hebrew school and learning it as my own. The days passed swiftly and soon, I was a man. To this day it puzzles me why my parents were so worried. Yes, Jerusalem is a big city, full of danger and peril, peopled by prostitutes and soldiers, vagabonds and criminals. But they should have known I would be safe no matter what. They should have known I would be in my Father’s house. How could they not know? I must admit I sneaked off. I knew my father would not let me go. We were traveling with a caravan. It was ready to leave the city, but I could not go without visiting the temple one last time. I have watched moths when a candle is lit and seen how they are drawn to the flame. So it was with me. I lay on my pallet, trying to sleep, but sleep would not come. I tossed and turned, and then woke and began walking. In my heart I knew I had to go and so I assumed, they would know it as well. Surely God would inform them. But I had not reckoned on a parent’s fears, never having been one. My mother informed me later that God told her I was well, and that she told him I had better be. While I was talking with the rabbis, wondering why it was these wise men could not see the things that to me were crystal clear, my parents were searching for me. They walked and walked, covering the city. They did not sleep at all that night and very little the next. My father cuffed my ear when they found me and my mother hugged me hard. She said that if I ever have a child, she hoped he would do such a thing and then I would know what they felt. I do not think I will ever have a child. John and I had been friends since childhood. The children of my neighborhood considered me odd – until they compared me to John. My cousin was wild and impulsive. He shouted. He liked to run up and down the hills, crying out as loudly as he could. Then he would fall into the grass and laugh and laugh and laugh. I liked John. One day when we were lying side by side, flattening stalks of wheat with our teeth, he asked me if my mother had ever told me anything about his parents and how he was born. I frowned and then remembered that she had. John’s mother had been very old when he was born – over fifty. His father even older. Zacharias had not been able to speak for the full nine months his wife had been pregnant. An angel of the Lord had spoken to him in the temple, telling him he would have a son. He had doubted, and the angel had taken his voice. John nodded. He knew this already. Was there anything else? I thought about it. Then I remembered something more. My mother had visited his mother, Elizabeth, while she was pregnant. My mother said Elizabeth’s baby had jumped at the sound of her voice. As if he recognized her. As I walked home, I thought about the thing I did not tell John. My mother had been pregnant too. But she had not been married. My little brother James had made certain that I knew. He said Joseph was not my father. James meant it to bring me shame. When I got home that day, I went to Joseph and asked him. He was working in his shop. He put down his tools and beckoned me to his side. Placing his hands on my shoulders he asked, ‘Do you remember, the circumstances of your birth? The star? The stable? The angels singing? The kingly visitors?’ No, I answered. I remember those things only through your eyes. Yours and mother’s. Joseph’s hand covered mine. So strong. So calloused. Then what do you remember? he asked. Peace, I said. Safety. Love. No matter what. Joseph was dead in less than seven years. His death was curious to me. I loved my mortal father with all of my heart, but I could not help – at his passing – but feel a sort of joy. A few years less than thirty, I found myself uneasy in this world. A part of it and yet, never a part. I walked the earth, worked my wood, cared for my mother, ate, drank, talked with friends, but always, always I knew there was something more. Something just beyond the edge of living, something that could not be touched, but only felt or – Believed. I had been considered something of a wonder child. When I walked the streets of my home town, I heard the whispers. Jesus has not fulfilled his potential. Why is he not a rabbi? Why does he waste his time in Nazareth mending wagons for widows and making yokes for penniless farmers? I like farmers. And widows. And I like the feel of the wood beneath my fingers. Smooth. Fine. And while I work, I can walk away from the noise and bustle of life going on about me for a little while. My father told me once that when he worked he felt closest to God. It was the same for me. It is hard sometimes in the midst of daily life to hear God’s voice. Though He speaks, other words overtake his. Bread. Wine. Money. Power. School. Work. Even temple. These things become our focus rather than Him. When I was alone in the shop, I could hear Him. And I could hear the music. If I close my eyes I can still see the dove and hear that voice; the thunder of which echoes through the heart of the world. I can feel the water gently lapping against my thighs, washing away all the doubt and questions. My Father’s presence settled on me like a mantle that day. A mantle I would never shed. My spirit soared, riding on the water and the wind like that dove – joining in the song that had begun with Adam and Eve. King Joseph knew it. And King David. Each note of it is written directly upon my heart and will be played out as the composer intended. No matter what.. John actually laughed when he first saw me. But he sobered quickly as he too hearkened to the voice and the song. We had both been told that we were special, but it was not until that moment that we realized in what way. John was the herald, proclaiming the coming, preparing the path – For the true King. “This is my beloved son, with whom I am well pleased.” People ask sometimes why I lift my hands when I pray. I think it is like a child, reaching up to their parent, wanting to be picked up, craving arms about them.. Abba. Daddy. Catch me and keep me from the perils of the world. Catch me, and keep me from the perils of this day. At first I was angry that they fell asleep. But then I realized I would probably have been asleep if not for the foreknowledge of what was to come. I remember standing, staring down at Peter and John, at James. Wondering. What would it be like to be an ordinary man? To lead an ordinary life? To live and love? To have a family. Mary was not with us that night. Poor, sweet Mary. She loved me and I knew it, but there was no time. As I broke the surface of the waters the day John baptized me, many things unfolded before my eyes – the miracles, the myriad who would need them, and the many who would doubt and accuse. The preaching and the prayers, the hosannas, the path to Jerusalem and the cost. The cross. I could not take her there – not even if I had wanted to. I cared for her too much. Peter had a wife and he left her. Many of the others had as well. What if in the troubles to come, they died by my side? It was selfish enough to keep them with me. To put them in harm’s way. And yet, I did not want to be alone. Not this week. Not this night. No matter what. That was your promise. No matter what. You will be with me tonight when I am beaten and broken. You will be with me when I am chained and lie in the dark amidst the vermin, the refuse and human waste. You will be with me as I face my own people who hate me because I work miracles in your name. Because I preach love. Because I AM. You will be with me as I stand before the authority of Rome and proclaim there is no authority but You. You will be with me? Abba. Daddy. Take this cup from me. I cannot bear it. The poison of it eats into my soul. I do not want to hurt. I do not want to suffer. I have walked the path to Jerusalem. I have seen them. The men. Hanging. Crucified. I have seen their suffering. The agonizingly slow death. Bleeding. Weakening. A struggle just to draw a breath. I wanted to reach out and heal them – every one. But I could not heal everyone. And I will chose not to heal myself. Still…. I am afraid. We shared a last meal this night, the disciples and me, before coming to the garden. Everyone was there. Even Judas. I cannot find it in my heart to hate or condemn him. I have you, Abba, written in my heart and still, I despair at times. I cried when I heard that Lazarus died. I cried. If anyone knew that Lazarus was alive, it was me. The tears in a way were for myself. I would not see him again on this earth. Judas’ tears are for himself. He does not understand. His heart is closed like a fist. And with that fist he strikes out at the world. He has convinced himself that I have betrayed him and our cause. His thought is, that if he betrays me, both will be restored. I do not think Judas means for me to die. Even now I hear the hushed voices outside the garden wall, the stamp of boots, the shuffle of his feet as second thoughts plague him and he seeks to run. I see the torches and feel the heat of their fire. I see my friend, now my killer. And deliverer. He greets me with a kiss. I answer him with tears. Agony. The agony. Piercing my flesh. My hands. My feet. My soul. Abba. Words cannot express how sorry I am. I am not strong enough. They taunt me and I want to do what they say. I want to come down from the cross. I want to be mended. I want to be whole. Your will. Not mine. I want to strike out. I want to have them feel my pain. I want them to know the agony. I want…. Abba, forgive them. They know not what they do. I must forgive them. With feet that are on fire you push upward to take a breath. The pain of taking that breath forces your body down. You do it once. Again and again. Agony. The blood from the thorns pressed into my flesh clouds my eyes. The ropes burn my wrists. I remember the day the dove appeared. The water gently lapping against my thighs. Now blood flows in a river down my neck, my chest, my legs, my feet. There are Romans at my feet, bidding for the kingly robe they clothed me in, after they had mantled me in a red robe of blood. They laugh and throw dice. One of them is drinking from a water skin. I am thirsty. The sponge on the tip of the sword tastes of vinegar and death. My death. Where are you, Abba? Father? Why have you forsaken me? Why have you forgotten me? Am I not your beloved son in whom you are well pleased? Where is the dove now that I am dying? Where is the music of your voice? Abba. Where are you? It has been a long time since I have heard the music. In the approach of death it returns. I remember the star. The stable. The angels singing. The kingly visitors. The promise. No matter what. Father, into Your hands, I commend my spirit. I really shouldn’t. It isn’t fair. But then…. While I cannot say I am ‘only’ human, I am human. I see her. By the tomb. Weeping. The stone has been rolled away. The sun is just rising. It is in her eyes and she cannot see. She thinks I am the gardener. Imagine that. Woman, why do you weep? I ask, knowing full well why she does. ‘If you have borne him hence,’ she says, ‘tell me where.’ More tears flow. ‘Mary….’ I say. ‘Mary.’ You should have seen her face. The tomb was dark and dank and smelled of earth and stone. I awoke suddenly, free of restraint. Abba asked me if I wanted to mend the wounds in my hands and feet. I said ‘no’. They are the best part of me. How did it begin? With a woman who was willing. A man who did not mind. A child born in a stable with a donkey for a nursemaid. A child who showed promise, who might have ruled the world. But chose instead to die. And live again. No matter what. Story copyright Marla F. Fair 2006. Please email dfair@woh.rr.com for permission to reprint or link to this story. |
