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.

Friday Five

The lovely women over at Revgalblogpals have a weekly feature--the Friday Five. I thought, since I'm new to this whole blogging world, I'd give it a go.

1. When was your last, or will be your next, out of town travel?

Not too long ago I came from the Galilee down to Jerusalem, and I'm staying here for the time being. But I'm a traveling preacher, so I expect that I'll hit the road before too long. I hear France is nice and I've never been that far, so maybe after my work gets wrapped up in this region, I'll head there for a bit.

2. Long car trips: love or loathe?

I've not ever done a long car trip, but let me just say--long camel trips--not my thing. Camels are mean and they spit and they're not at all comfortable. That said, they can go for a long time and that comes in handy when you've got to make long distances.

3. Do you prefer to be driver or passenger?

Driver. Always the driver. (Unless Joshua is in charge of the travel arrangements. He's really quite good at keeping the camels happy and on track and getting them to move quickly.)

4. If passenger, would you rather pass the time with handwork, conversing, reading, listening to music, or ???

It depends who's traveling with me. Some of my close friends--Joshua (you all call him Jesus), Peter, Joanna--they're great to chat with. But sometimes music is good too.

5. Are you going, or have you ever gone, on a RevGals BE? Happiest memories of the former, and/or most anticipated pleasures of the latter?

I haven't, but is sure looks like fun. I don't get seasick, which is a plus. I love the water. I come from a fishing village and have been on boats for as long as I can remember.

6. Bonus: a favorite piece of road trip music.

Well, I posted something I found the other day on an earlier blog: the Ballad of Mary Magdalen, which you can find here . But for travel, I really like REM. Here's a favorite:

Thursday

So a bit of back story: The same morning I went to the tomb and found him there in the garden--well that night, Cleopas and a friend headed out towards Emmaus. And Jesus showed up there, on the road with them. They didn't recognize him either, at least not at first. Which tells me I'm not entirely mad. When Cleopas and I chatted, he said that he could physically look at Jesus and see him, but his mind--his mind couldn't grasp that what he was seeing was real. So he just figured it was a random guy walking down the road. Until he broke the bread. And then it was as if clarity broke through the foggy veil of sight. They recognized him over dinner. Something about the familiarity of the meal, coupled with the language. It's hard to explain. I feel a little less alone, knowing that Jesus is appearing to the others, just like he promised he would.

Last night he came by. It was quiet in the house. Everyone asleep, full bellies, excited energy from all the resurrection (that's what he's calling it) commotion. I was asleep and he came in and sat on the edge of my bed. He didn't say a word and I wonder how long he was there. I woke up and we just stared at each other for a bit, neither of us saying anything.

With him it is comfortable and strange and delicious and odd and good all at the same time. He says he has more places to go, more people who need to see this thing for themselves. The marks are there. From last Friday. But they don't weep. I touch them and he doesn't flinch, says they don't hurt. He is real. Flesh and bone and breath--ah that breath that I could breathe all day long, like perfume, like the air for my own lungs.

"Close your eyes," he says. And I do. And he touches my hair and I fall asleep and I dream.

Cry Cry Cry

So I googled myself. Interesting stuff out there. This is among my favorites. The video is cheesy and doesn't, for the most part, present an accurate picture of what I look like. But I like the song. And it has echoes of the truth in it.

Tuesday

Strange days. Everyone is on edge. Thomas thinks we're all imagining things (sometimes I think so too). Peter is barking orders. No one has seen Judas, not that anyone's complaining. James and John are taking turns, wandering out into the city. Everyone is restless, but no one, except James and John, seem to want to leave the house.

It's strange, because despite all that I've seen with my eyes, touched with my hands, held, ever so briefly in my arms, despite all that, there is still so much fear. I know what I saw, what I felt, what I smelled, what I breathed in. And yet, the fear is so strong, so deeply rooted. I overheard one of them calling me "the mad-woman," which pissed me off, but at the same time, I understood the accusation. It was based not in anger or mean-spiritedness, but in disbelief. In the human inability to understand that what he said, what he did--the whole coming back from the dead--what do you call coming back from the dead? Whatever you call it, it seems impossible to believe it. "It's nothing but an idle tale" Peter said. And then he saw.

Before he left me, Jesus promised that he'd come and see me, see us again. I trust that. I just wish he'd hurry up and get here. Everyone seems so restless, and anxiety is taking hold of everyone.

So I'm making hummus and trying to fix my mind on the things he taught, the things he did, the sound of my name as is came flowing out of his mouth, like water in a desert. James is supposed to bring some fish and I'll bake some bread. We'll eat. We'll watch. We'll wait.

Monday

I'm tired. And I know I'm not the one who was up on a cross and died and rose again (and no, I haven't even begun to try to wrap my mind around all of that). But I'm tired. And happy. But tired. Walking to the cross, behind him, watching the horrors of that day, sitting with his mother as she wept, as I wept, as we all wept. And then yesterday, at the garden--the strange joy of finding him there.

And I am so happy--so full of joy--that he is back. "Don't cling to me," he said. He still has work to do. And I get that. Please don't think to harshly on me that I want him to stay. That I want to cling. This is the most bizarre week ever.

So me? Today? Happy, confused and tired. Joyfully waiting. (And going to try and sleep soon).