Mary's Place
Nazareth did not fit. An independent-minded community, considered with some scorn by stricter Jews, Nazareth annoyed the religious climate. Residents took perverse pride in being different. This irritated the religious leadership as far away as Jerusalem. Nazareth was a creature to itself, a rogue community. It lay outside the mainstream of Israelite life. Except for several trade routes that ran near the town, it stood to itself, alone and outcast. Located midway between the Sea of Galilee and Mt. Carmel and just south of both, the village lay along the slopes of the lower hills of the Lebanon range quietly overlooking a spreading plain.
A short walk from Nazareth, a clear, cold spring seeped through a precipitous embankment and formed a small pool. Surrounded by trees that gave shade; moss, fern and lilies flourished. Here, morning wetness and gentle mists greet awakening dawn. Here, dew mantles the meadow with glistening drops of crystal. Here, sunlight dances in innumerable droplets of condensation. In evening hours, familiar, unbroken sounds of small creatures announce the creeping softness of approaching silence. Here, in the afternoons, she came.
This was Mary's place; a solitary place where she came when she felt the need for quiet meditation, for closeness with God.
The Storm
"Strike the sails," Peter clipped in a tone that indicated he meant business.
"Why, Simon?" said another of the fishermen among us. "The night has not yet fallen. The skies are clear. The stars are only beginning to show themselves."
"I smell it," said Peter quietly.
The wind hit us like a rolling boulder from the north. The sail could not be reefed quickly enough to avoid heeling over sharply. Torrents of cool air tore at the water's surface, which undulated and splashed small whitecaps back, as if angry at the wind for disturbing them. Time arrested itself while these small whitecaps heaved into threatening waves. Another mountainside of wind. Our boat kicked, heaved and heeled as the lake vomited into our boat like a sick sow. Water swirled around our feet, and I could see fear on the faces of those who were not fishermen.
"Bail!" screamed Peter.
I looked for something -- anything that would allow me to move water out of the boat. Nothing. No container of any sort. I cupped my hands and began to toss water back into the sea as fast as I could.
"Bail!"
All of us madly began to slap at the water in the boat as it heeled again and a massive amount of water sloshed into it. It was at once obvious: it was impossible to fight this. We were going to sink! Already our boat was wallowing. The bow dipped into a trough between the waves. Looking up, I saw a wall of water descending on us. Had it hit us full force we would clearly perish.
I heard Peter scream, "Master!" Then the wave hit. The boat filled with water and began to sink. Again, Peter's voice screamed against the wind, "Steady the tiller! Bail! Merciful God Almighty! Bail!" With the sea legs of a cat, he made his way aft where, incredibly, Jesus still lay asleep. How could he sleep through this? Mad thoughts went through my mind. Had he taken some kind of medicinal potion? Another wave hit. The boat continued to fill. He slept on, undisturbed, his clothing soaked to the skin.
It is Finished!
Six hours, moment by excruciating moment, droned through the day. It was not a particularly long time as crucifixions go, but for the heart longing for it to be over, for whom each second seemed to be an hour -- like slogging through muck, it was agony unsurpassed.
Resignation to death crept into the face of the Son of God. His bruised, sunken eyes focusing, turning to one of the soldiers he said, "Please, I am thirsty." The touch of cool water on his parched lips would have been wondrous rescue. A sip of such crystal liquid would have comforted his dry tongue, and however small, assuaged his pain.
Instead, the heartless Roman soaked a stalk of hyssop in a jar of bitter, vinegared wine and lifted it to Jesus' lips. "Now, you miserable bastard," his laugh dripping with sarcasm, "where is your Jew prophet? Where is your Elijah? Let him come now and pluck you from the cross!"
Jesus received this bitter drink. The foul-tasting liquid had an effect the soldier had not thought about -- it numbed the edge of pain ever how slightly. Enough to clear a throat turned to sand, enabling Jesus to say clearly and loudly,
"It . . . is . . . finished!"
Darkness. But for the soft whistle of wind around the crosses, silence. Not so much as a whisper. All who witnessed this terrible scene heard it. His voice, like a clap of thunder, echoed across the valley, penetrating the hearts of both the faithful and the curious, reaching through the corridors of eternity, into the very Soul of Almighty God. His head fell to his breast in final whisper meant for only One, "Father," he spoke, "I give my spirit into your hands." His body emptied itself of its final breath, and his spirit was gone. Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews, was dead.
Mary choked back her agonized scream with eyes of desperate horror.
"Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law. I came, instead, to fulfill it."
Beyond the lowering clouds, beyond the moon and sun, beyond the stars our eyes could see and beyond the stars we could not see, there came an unbearable moan from the deep abode of El Shaddai.
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