If you ask someone, ìWhat do you think of Jesus?î expect one of only three responses. The first is that he has no opinion; the name is unfamiliar to him. (There are few who will answer this way.)
The second response is overwhelming adoration. My student Mark is a good example. He did not immediately speak in worshipful tones, but that may have been because his cautious nature prevented it. He started speaking instead of how he thought Jesus was ìa very good teacher;î he was positive but vague. Once I pressed him for details, however, his descriptions of the man grew ever more glowing. It was clear that if I had allowed it, Mark could have talked about this ìvery good teacherî until the early watches of the morning, only stopping if exhaustion felled him. Whatís more, every admirer of Jesus I met reacted the same way. I found the unanimity of responses puzzling and a little disturbing. I was talking with people of many different backgrounds, from tax men in Jerusalem to shepherds outside the Decapolis. All of them, once I mentioned Jesus, could talk of nothing else.
Then there is the last category of opinions on the subject. For those who do know who he is but have not been let in on the secret of his appeal, Jesus is a monster. It is as startling as that. I never heard, ìHe is not the kind of preacher I like, but thatís all right.î I heard, ìHe is an abomination.î
Varieties of opinion donít exist here. Anyone in any category reacts to Jesus exactly like everyone else in that category. And oneís options only include extremes: utter love, utter hate, or complete apathy. (I count even the apathy as a strong opinion because I could sense people were clinging to it. Perhaps they could sense how divisive this figure was and made up their minds not to learn anything about him.)
When I was researching the subject, I wondered what sustained the hatred. I soon discovered people grew more vehement as reports of Jesusí good works increased. At market one day I overheard an old man scoffing: ìI saw him up close, you know. He had that ridiculous smile, that ëI love you allí look in his eyes. And they said he had cast out demons. Why donít they see him for what he is?î
I did not consider this attitude very strange. I, too, had been convinced at first that all the good reports of this teacher were the product of fakery. And the better the report, the more my suspicions seemed confirmed. It didnít even occur to me to believe the things said about Jesus could be true. No one could be that good. The more healings there were, the more miracles, the more monstrous the lie became. All of my experience had conditioned me to expect nothing but insincerity.
Once I took the time to learn who he was, I knew goodness did sing in him. And yet. And yet I could not call myself a disciple. Jesus had never asked me to follow him, and I hoped he never would. Why? Because I could never understand the disciples. ìThey follow him around like toddlers their mother,î I complained once to Mary Magdalene. ìThey are unquestioning in their devotion.î
Men and women came every day to prostrate themselves at his feet. ìWe are yours,î they say. Itís not that I thought Jesus would lead them, or me, down the wrong path. Itís that I did not want to be led at all. I would not surrender my will to any man, and I did not understand the impulse others obviously felt to do so.
ìWhy doesnít Jesus do something about them?î I asked Mary.
ìWhat do you want him to do?î
ìTell them to go away! Live their own lives! Quit using him to decide what they should be deciding for themselves!î
Mary looked at me. A faint smile crept to her lips. ìYou have no idea what youíve just said, have you?î
ìWhatís wrong with it?î
ìYou want Jesus to say ëDonít let me tell you what to do,í right? But then if they obeyed, theyíd still be following his orders. He canít tell them ëDonít listen to me.í Theyíre the ones who have to decide whether they will or not. He canít prevent them.î
We spent the better part of the evening discussing the issue. The more time we spent on it, the more amused Mary looked. Finally I asked, ìWhat?î
She grinned, showing her teeth. She wasnít shy, so she didnít hide her smile behind her hand as the young women do. ìYou told me once how amazed you were that those interested in Jesus could talk and talk about him and never tire of the subject,î she explained.
We had begun our debate in the early evening; it was now full dark. ìWe havenít been talking about Jesus,î I pointed out. ìJust his followers.î
She nodded, still grinning.
I didn't really want to call this "Superstitions" because that's not exactly what I'm looking for. Still, it's close, and I want to elicit as many responses as possible, as happened when I had the "nursery rhymes" game. I figure if I title this something that people are likely to Google, my pool of potential respondents increases.
So...
I was thinking about rules this morning when I was walking in the park. There was a robin in my path and, like I always do, I shifted my course a little to avoid disturbing him. The rule is that if he just runs a short distance away, that's all right, but if my approach startles him into actually flying, that's bad. This is a rule I've known for so long I just take it for granted, but it's probably not a rule anyone else has ever heard of. I'm looking for rules like that. Not the ones that are very well known, like "don't walk under a ladder" or "don't open an umbrella in the house," but the more obscure ones, like "it's all right to take a blossom that's fallen on the ground, but don't pick it off the tree."
What rules do you know?
Suppose one were a fish. No finer place to live than this. Falls continually drowning air within the pool so that it was a pleasure simply to breathe. Like (supposing one were not a water-breather) the high, fresh, wind-renewed air of an alpine meadow. Wonderful, and thoughtful of them so to provide for him, supposing that they thought of his or anyone's happiness or comfort. And here were no predators, and few competitors, because (though a fish couldn't be supposed to know it) the stream above was shallow and stony and so was the stream below, so that nothing approaching him in size came into the pool to contest with him for the constant fall of bugs from the dense and various woods which overhung. Really, they had thought of everything, supposing they thought of anything.
Yet (supposing that it was not his choice at all to be a swimmer here) how condign and terrible a punishment, bitter an exile. Mounted in liquid glass, unable to breathe, was he to make back-and-forth forever, biting at mosquitoes? He supposed that to a fish that taste was the toothsome matter of his happiest dreams. But if one were not a fish, what a memory, the endless multiplication of those tiny drops of bitter blood.
--from Little, Big, John Crowley
This bit of story comes before the part I posted last time, so Nicodemus hasn't reconnected with Mary Magdalen yet. (Novel in progress. Slowly slowly.)
Five people were standing by the side of the road when I walked up: a young man who hardly seemed older than a boy, a woman dressed like a beggar, a man in fine clothes, and two young men I thought might be students. These last two had their heads leaned in toward each other, talking quietly. The others were spaced a polite distance apart from them and from each other. The boyish one was shifting his weight from foot to foot. When I got closer I saw the beggar woman was doing some sewing. All five looked down the road every few moments, shielding their eyes from the noon sun. They turned and nodded as I approached. They were not surprised to see meónot me exactly, just someone else at this vigil.
Word had gotten around about Jesusí movements. Anyone who cared to know could find out what town he planned to visit next. Word had also gotten around that he often stopped to talk with people as he went from one place to another. ìIf you want to meet Jesus, you can,î my student Nathaniel had told me. ìI have.î
I stepped into the midst of the road-watchers. This wasnít so much about meeting Jesus, I told myself, as it was about meeting people like this. I needed to know about what they were doing and why they were doing it.
ìHas anyone said when Jesus would be coming?î I asked the expensively dressed man. At occasions like these, itís good to start with casual questions.
ìOn travel days he leaves early in the morning,î he said. ìWe thought heíd be here by now.î
ìThere are probably more of us further up the road,î the taller of the two students commented. ìTheyíre holding him up.î
ìHow long have you been waiting?î I met everyoneís eyes as I asked this.
Their grins seemed sheepish. The students said theyíd been there since daybreak, the beggar woman had brought her son shortly afterward, the rich man had just preceded me. ìBut Iíve met him before,î the rich man added, introducing himself as Ezra. ìI saw him just after he preached in Nazareth. That trip hadnít gone well for him, so he wasnít in much of a mood for talking. But some friends of mine met him later and he invited them for supper! Just off the street like that!î Ezra turned; there was dust up the road. We watched in silence until it was clear there was only a solitary cart.
I talked to the students next. Yes, they had abandoned school for the day, ìbut our parents understand. The scrolls will still be there tomorrow, they saidóthis might be our only chance to see Jesus.î
The beggar woman wanted Jesus to give her son a blessing. ìHe is good to children. The people around him arenít always so accommodating with them.î
ìNot with any of us,î Ezra interrupted. ìWhen I met him outside Nazareth, one of the disciples nearly shoved me away.î
ìTheyíre just trying to protect him,î the tall student, Mark, said. ìSometimes I think Jesus is too generous with his attention. More and more people have found out how accessible he is. Surely someone who does not have Jesusí best interests in mind will show up on one of these roads one of these days.î
This set off lengthy discussion: should Jesus be more concerned for his safety? Most of the group said no, one way or another. ìHeís a good judge of character. He can tell whoís dangerous and whoís harmless. We only think heís not being careful because heís not careful around us, but he knows he doesnít have to be.î
ìHe understands how you want to meet someone youíve heard so much about. Didnít he seek out John the Baptist?î
ìHe has great faith. He trusts God will watch over him and protect him. And he treats everyone he meets with such respect. It inspires everyone to live up to his expectations.î
It was important to them that Jesus remain open to encounters with those who waited by the side of the road. I supposed I should have been able to predict that.
ìYou say youíve met Jesus before,î I said to Ezra to change the subject. ìWhy wait for him a second time?î
ìItís worse than you think.î His smile was feeble. ìThis may be the tenth time Iíve done this.î
ìThe tenth?î How could he afford his rich clothes if he spent his days chasing preachers?
Ezra shrank back from the question and its tone of harsh judgment. ìIím not the worst! I just wait for Jesus and go home when he is gone. What about the ones following him from town to town? He chose twelve men as students, but dozens chose him as teacher. He is never rid of them!î
I apologized as best as I could. We watched another cart pass. In a low voice Ezra confessed, ìI donít even know why I keep coming back. I donít know what I want from him.î
The disapproval I had not been able to mask had not actually been for Ezra. I was wondering if I was seeing my future in him. Had he started as I have, skeptical of this new preacher but curious about his appeal? Did he find himself drawn more and more by reports of what he said and did, until finally he had to see Jesus for himself? Was it inevitable, then, that I would latch onto any chance to be near Jesus? Would I soon spend all my time waiting by the sides of roads?
The beggar woman put her sewing in her cloak and started taking out bits of bread from another pouch. As she was fussing with the cloak she was facing up the road. We heard her say, ìThereís more dust.î
Everyone stopped to watch. We were on a flat stretch; we could see a good distance. At first I could cover the cloud of dust with my thumb. In a little while shapes emerged from it. ìNo animals,î Ezra noted. We squinted harder. We all knew Jesus and his whole band would be traveling by foot. Mark laughed suddenly.
ìArenít we ridiculous?î he asked, throwing up his hands. ìWeíll know for certain whether or not itís Jesus if we just wait, but instead weíre all trying to make our eyes run up the road for us!î
We agreed it was foolish, but we didnít stop. Then Ezra said, ìIt is Jesus. I see Peter at the front of the group, where he always is.î
ìWhereís Jesus?î the beggar womanís son asked, showing more interest in the proceedings than he had as yet.
ìHeís probably at the very center. Everyone crowds him all the time, you know.î
ìPoor man,î the beggar woman sighed, clucking her tongue.
My heart was beating faster. Things started to seem less real. My mind could not quite accept that this same man whom thousands gathered to hear would soon pass in front of the six of us, nor that he might stop to talk. With sudden panic I realized I could not remember anything Iíd wanted to say.
The whole group was in sight now. Seeing Jesus among his friends was like looking at a pictureóhe was in a world entirely separate from mine. He was laughing at something someone near him was saying. I had the sudden odd urge to be the person who could make Jesus laugh.
I didnít want it to be like this. This would be an awkward encounterówe knew so much more about him than he knew about us. How could we really talk with him?
Our entire group stood still as pillars of salt. The one Ezra said was Peter glanced at us and shook his head almost imperceptibly. I felt a stab of embarrassment. What was I doing here? I was a respectable man, yet here I was waiting by the side of the road likeólike this beggar woman.
Then Jesus came walking out of the cage of bodies surrounding him. He said ìI hope you havenít been waiting here long.î
He spoke with the woman and her son first. He asked for and repeated her name. ìDeborah, is it? The judge and prophetess?î He said something I could not quite hear which made her laugh. She covered her mouth quickly, blushing. She stood straighter than she had before and smoothed her cloak without hiding the patches. Deborah pushed her son forward. Jesus talked with him, then with him and his mother together, finally saying a blessing over them both. They turned to go but the son ran back to throw his arms around Jesus. The students were already moving forward.
I was distracted during everyone elseís turn with Jesus. He had learned Deborahís name right away, and I had spent the afternoon with her without ever learning it. I wanted to see how everyone would act around the preacher, but I kept thinking of how he treated her like nobility and how she looked noble under his gaze.
Ezraís hand pushed me forward. I could speak with Jesus next.
Many people watched The Diary of Bono and Chris Tucker: Aiding Africa on MTV in 2002. They watched Bono, Tucker and then-Treasury Secretary Paul O'Neill tour a newly built well in Uganda, and learned more wells could be built for only a thousand dollars at a time. Each could save hundreds of lives; many Africans are dying of diseases spread by unclean water. They heard Bono say, "I just wanted to show what a little amount of money can do to a lot of lives."
Many of the people who watched that show felt the way U2 fan Joanna Sanchez felt afterward: "Maybe there is something I can do." Sanchez spread the word among online fans that she wanted to start a fund to build wells in Africa. "It was like wildfire. In a matter of six weeks fifty people had joined" a mailing list on Yahoo Groups discussing the project, according to Julie Cook. Cook was among those who watched Diary and felt the tug to do something. She surfs sites for info on U2 and chats with fellow fans, but the band's example makes her feel she should also be giving something back. "When I'm looking up U2 stuff on the web sites I'm thinking, 'Why am I spending my time on this?' I'm totally addicted but I feel guilty! We really, really do want to help."
Cook talked to @U2 recently about the African Well Fund, the project started by U2 fans who shared a desire to aid Africa in a concrete way. Only a few months old, the fund has already passed a significant milestone. A thousand dollars has been collected, enough to build their first well. Cook said they were aiming high: "I think there's a potential to reach a hundred thousand dollars. I want people to think the sky's the limit. How many people can we potentially give life to?"
Full article here.
If you're in a hospital, and you're plugged in to one of those displays that monitors your heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, etc., and you've just been on a 24-hour liquid diet and haven't had anything to eat or drink for nine hours, it's probably not the time to play "Fun with Biofeedback." Don't look at the screen that says your heart rate is 71 (beep) 68 (beep) 70 and think, "I wonder if I can make it go down?"
Because, you know, when it hits 50 it's not a green number on a black background anymore. It's a black number on a red background, and it goes BEEP!!!
And then the lady who's my demi-boss announced we'd be better off not helping anybody ever, since it's not appreciated. "Do we do it to be liked or because it's the right thing to do?" I asked.
"We shouldn't do it at all. We should help ourselves and forget everybody else."
I came around the corner. "Don't start," she warned, giggling reflexively, seeing the look on my face.
"We'll just put you on your own little island where you can live by yourself with your dog."
"That'd be fine."
Later she said, "I change my mind. If someone wants our help, we should help them. If they don't, we shouldn't."
I had to take a phone call. Afterward I announced, "I have an amendment to your proposal."
"What is it?"
"We help those who want our help. We don't help those who don't want our help. And when those who want our help lob missiles at us, we stop helping them."
This amendment was accepted. The entire office agreed that we should be the ones running the world.
During the afternoon we threw a paper airplane around, coughing on it before launching it into the next cubicle, threatening each other with germ warfare.
Didn't end up doing much writing yesterday--hung out with the nieces and nephews instead. This was after talk of war with Mom. We discussed Patrick Henry (he was not the first to say that men cry "Peace! Peace!" when there is no peace--he got that line from Jeremiah) and World War II.
I took Irish bookmarks to Z and E who were in the middle of a backgammon game. Z talked me into taking over for E, who had lost interest. Z, at six-soon-to-be-seven, is very much the Big Brother of E, who at five is very much the Little Girl. So when after a quick restating of the rules (been a long time since Aunt Jelle has played backgammon), I triumphantly took one of Z's pieces out of play, he looked at me with his most serious, sorrowful expression. He had expected something so much better from me, I suppose. "It's not about capturing, Aunt Jelle," he chastised. "Really little kids think it's about capturing, but it's not. That just wastes time."
He was right, of course. And of course at his next opportunity he took one of my pieces out of play. I parroted, "It's not about capturing!"
He smiled. "Well, you did it first!"
Mom asked me to help her do two things today--move a dumpster and go phone shopping. Someone had positioned the alley dumpster in front of our garage, so she couldn't park in it. And her phone's keypad had mysteriously quit allowing her to dial. I wanted to concentrate my energy today on writing, but I figured these chores wouldn't take much time, so I said all right.
We trooped out together through the backyard, through the hallway between our neighbor's garage and ours, and stopped short when we reached the alley. The dumpster had already been moved out of the way of our garage. Well! That was easy! So we trooped back inside again.
"Is there anything we need to know about this phone before we buy a new one?" Mom asked. I picked up the receiver and punched a number just to test it again. The number made its little "beep" into my ear as if nothing had ever been wrong. I handed the phone to Mom. It worked perfectly fine for her too.
Huh.
"Thanks for helping me move the dumpster and get a new phone!" she said to me cheerily.
I guess this means I really should do some writing today.
Stream and Sun at Glendalough
Through intricate motions ran
Stream and gliding sun
And all my heart seemed gay:
Some stupid thing that I had done
Made my attention stray.
Repentance keeps my heart impure;
But what am I that dare
Fancy that I can
Better conduct myself or have more
Sense than a common man?
What motion of the sun or stream
Or eyelid shot the gleam
That pierced my body through?
What made me live like these that seem
Self-born, born anew?
--W.B. Yeats
Here he housed a poem.
I found it on my return.
Did I trace his steps
Near stream and stone,
Near sacred pines, in slanting light?
I did not feel him,
Nor did he write
What I would say--
The place was the poem.
I learned its verse
Standing in that wonder, turning slow,
Believing a tree hollow holy.
Your sun and your stream,
Your light blessing green:
You are what I want my verse to be.
I build my pieced-together dreams
On the sprawl of your ancient majesty.