Romans and Rumors

The Romans have been all over the place, canvassing the city in full force. And while it sometimes feels a bit like paranoia, the fear also seems justified. Word is out. About what happened last week. The empty tomb, the stone rolled away. Some are saying that he, his body, was resurrected from the dead. Others are saying that we did it--that we moved his dead corpse just to anger the Romans. Still others are saying that the whole thing is just a farce, a story being made up. I've even heard rumors that he didn't actually die and that it was all a ruse, that we've hidden him away somewhere. Whatever they believe, none of the Romans are happy about it. From the government down to the guards, there is trouble for all of them. And that means there's trouble for us.

Logically it is foolish, but today I'm going out of the house, out into what may be the dangerous Roman streets. I want, I need to get out and tell the story. Peter, Levi, James, John and all the rest--they all say they are going to come with me, that they too will tell of the miracle, but they won't leave the house, except to run out for food, to fish if it's necessary. They are hiding like scared little children. And I understand that. My instinct says to stay safe and tucked away. Except I'm restless. And my fear grows weaker, or maybe my resolve grows stronger, as each account of Joshua (Jesus) appearing comes back to us.

Thomas is struggling too. He wants to believe Peter, believe Cleopas, believe me, what we saw, what we say. He nods his head. He listens intently. He's even said he believes. But he doesn't. The sadness in his eyes is too great, too deep. He doesn't yet believe. And my restlessness is nothing compared to his. So we're going out today. Thomas can preach. And he can preach, I think, an authentic message, even though I can tell he doubts. He, of course, won't tell of this resurrection. He'll tell of the miracles, the healings, the new relationship with God. And I'm not sure just what I'll say. Something about death being defeated. Something about life growing where before only fear and despair had lived. Because as much as I miss Joshua (and believe me, I do), I now I have life that is new and hopeful. I long to tell of this strangeness, this power, this God-made-human truth that I don't fully understand. I don't know who we'll preach to. More to the point, I don't know who will listen. But I can't stay here any longer. Between the fear and those who don't fully believe, it's too sad and too anxious here and frankly it's starting to smell bad. I need clean air and fresh faces, people who need to hear the peculiar and terrible and wonderful news of the past week, the past years.

Yet in the midst of my hope and my joy, I have a heart that longs and yearns for what I can not have, save in dreams. Last night, while I slept, in a vision or in a dream, I don't know which, we were walking, across the shore at Galilee, the water lapping against my ankles, the sand and pebbles kicking between my toes. In my dream it was only us. He laughed and I felt myself breathe, the air filling my lungs, stinging from its freshness. And I felt myself smile and finally laugh. And then it was over. I awoke. And I'm left to wonder what is dream and what is reality and where they are their own and where they become one.