We turned off the television. The show we tried to watch looked interesting, and advertised intertwining church and British history. Instead it highlighted the illicit intertwining of human bodies, centering on incest, rape, and premarital sex. The respite from these scenes included torture, murder, plots for murder, dismemberment, brutality, self-flagellation, the exposing of infants and the execution of fathers. Politicians were rife with evil, churchmen bartered with the name of God, and peasants were as selfish as they were stupid.
The fact that this is “entertainment” gives me extra reason to despair for the human condition.
Why couldn’t the show have one good character? Someone who refused political plots and resisted depravity? I had no one to admire in the show, and thus felt lost. Where were all the good people?
There is a Chinese proverb intended to depress single women: “There are two good men: one dead, the other unborn.” Neither were in my television show.
In church, our pastor preached on John 3, where Nicodemus went to Jesus at night. Why were people so attracted to Jesus that they followed him en masse and sneaked around gardens to find him? Why does he fascinate us now? It is because he fulfilled the Chinese proverb, as well as the Hebrew prophesies. He was the perfect man who died (for others), he is yet to come again to earth, and, one-upping the proverb, he still is alive.
In Jesus we find a rebel against sin, a vice-less hero, a good king, a prophet, a savior, a doctor, a priest, a humble man in a sea of the selfish. He should be in every story.
P.S. I thought this was appropriate: Holding Out for a Hero
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
The Manhood of Object A
This is an old story which I had posted here once, so I thought I would put it up again.
- - - - - - - -
I shivered, my back up against the back of the observation box. I pulled my knees up to try to cover my naked body, but it did not matter, for everyone looked at the judge. The men who had been near me quieted their talk and found seats as the judge’s hammer demanded their attention.
“Here!” the judge called out in his baritone. “This case is brought up by Lawyer Raymond against Lawyer Carey Madison, claiming that he committed a crime against Object A.” The eyes slid from the judge and over to my glass cage. I hid my face. “The crime,” continued the Judge, “is one known in some cultures as rape. Mr. Madison, how do you plead?”
Madison stood, his arms relaxed against the sides of his flawless suit. “Not guilty, your Honor,” he said clearly, then sat again. Hardly anyone murmured – in fact, when I peeked out from behind my knees, I saw them nodding and rolling their eyes. I knew then that this trial was futile; they had decided the judgment before the judge had lifted his hammer. I hid my face again, resolving to observe without looking at anyone’s eyes.
“Mr. Raymond, it is your floor.” The judge swept a black sleeve toward the area my defender was to occupy.
Mr. Raymond fidgeted with his jacket and stood in front of the judge’s podium. No, a dull protest came from my head, he is too young, too inexperienced. “Gentlemen,” he began, “it is my belief, and duty, to show you all that the crime in question is a true crime, that Mr. Madison is guilty of this crime and propagating the idea that it is not one, and, most importantly, that the creature in this observation box,” he leaned a hand on my prison without looking at me, “is a man.”
The men, silent before, now roared up, and it took several minutes and threats for the judge to quiet them. Still, Raymond had to raise his voice to be heard over their mutterings. “My first questioning will be of Mr. Madison.”
Madison did not look at me as he entered the witness box. I could not look at him, either, but I knew he had not looked because I would have felt it.
“Mr. Madison,” Raymond began.
“Yes, my young friend?” Madison raised his voice to enunciate the irony.
“Mr. Madison, on the 10th of Thermidor, it is reported that you were walking alone one evening, when you found this Object A sitting alone in an alley. Is this true so far?”
“It is.”
“At which time – I shall use the judge’s word to avoid graphics – you raped Object A, despite it’s struggle against you.”
“I reject the implications your and the judge’s terminology, (pardon me, your Honor), of the word rape, since it indicates a crime occurred when none did. Therefore I request it be stricken from the record. I do admit, however, to having forced the creature despite it’s struggle.”
“Request granted,” said the judge.
“There were witnesses to this event,” pressed Raymond, “who said that once you were finished with the individual, you left it, seemingly with no further intentions for it.”
“That is true,” Raymond acknowledged.
“And is it also true that had those witnesses, (who prefer to remain unnamed), had they not brought the matter before the police, you would not have bothered with the incident ever after? That you had no further care nor thought to this creature whom you had just so ill used?”
“Quite true,” admitted the man in the witness box. Then he leaned forward so only Raymond to hear, but I overheard as well: “But watch your professionalism, and check your temper. Remember the Doe case?” I heard a huff release from Raymond.
“Gentlemen.”
“My apologies, judge,” offered Madison. “Is the Accuser finished with his questioning?”
“For now.” Raymond retreated to his seat.
Madison swept out from the box and onto his stage. “Gentlemen, I wish to show you how ridiculous this questioning is, based on the participants against this alleged crime. I am a lawyer, and a competent one. I know the law. Our government has provided that with the prohibition of ex post facto law, I cannot be convicted of a crime that was not a crime when I committed it. My relations with Object A were perfectly legal, and Mr. Raymond knows that. It is my inclination, then,” Madison began pacing, and I knew the eyes were following him, “that Mr. Raymond is confused about his own purposes in bringing me to court. He cannot convict me of a crime that is not a crime, and he cannot create a crime out of something that is unworthy of the title. Gentlemen, if this creature is a man, then surely it deserves all of the rights and privileges of one. But who is willing to make a man out of this?”
He looked at me. I felt his gaze burn my skin, and heard the scraping of chairs as the other men in the room leaned forward to inspect me. I hugged my knees so tightly that my legs beginning to lose feeling.
He brought to witness a professor of Biology, who assured the crowd that while I had some basic features shared with men, I was not one of them. I was too soft to be a man, too small, I was deformed, I could not speak, and according to them, I could not feel.
Madison’s next witness was a psychologist. He told them that I was inferior to men in intellect and maturity. Supposedly I would only ever achieve the level of one of their five-year-olds in either.
When the last witness stood, I closed my eyes so tightly that my face distorted, and I tried to hide myself in the corner of my cage. It is silly to try to hide in a glass cage, but I so wished that the trial were already over and my extermination performed that I could did not think clearly. It was the Doctor. I had not seen him since I had escaped the clinic, and I had prayed (to whom I did not know) to never see him again.
He stepped softly passed me, softly into the witness box. Madison asked how long he had run his clinic.
“I have been helping men solve their problems for the last… twenty-five years, I believe.” His voice could not have been gentler, calmer, or more loathsome to me.
“And that helping includes what?”
“I run a safe, clean clinic that provides relief to men, without having them forced to seek back-alley relief. I’m not suggesting your experience wasn’t legal, sir, just that, perhaps you should have come to see me, first?” He was smiling. I could hear it.
“And what are your reasons for keeping such a clinic?” Madison leaned against the witness stand, so close to my box that I cringed.
“I believe the freedom men have to make their own choices, and to do what they wish with their own bodies.”
“Here here!” came a chorus from the audience. Men started clapping and cheering, and I saw Raymond in his chair looking paler than ever. Madison offered the questioning to him, and Raymond took it.
Raymond cleared his throat. “Doctor. You have said that you believe in the rights a man has to his body… but what about the rights this creature should have to it’s body?”
“Mr. Raymond, that creature barely knows it even has a body. If I may ask a question, what are you trying to do? Create laws that protect these creatures, while causing suffering to your fellow man? If the government bans comfort clinics like mine, men will be forced to seek less safe methods, and we will see a rise in disease and death. As I said, my clinic is clean, comfortable, and undergoes a health inspection regularly.”
“Your clinic? You mean your whorehouse!”
More shouting, more banging of the hammer.
“Mr. Raymond, I’ll have no more outbursts from you,” the judge warned. The Doctor was dismissed, and Mr. Madison jumped up to join a very flustered Mr. Raymond. Madison began talking of an initiative to increase education about diseases and risks, especially in schools. The judge was stopping him so that he could go through with his sentence and move on to the next case, when Raymond grew animated again.
“Wait!” he shouted, “I have one more witness!” Grumbles of protest came from the audience, and even the judge sighed. However, he allowed him the last witness. Raymond gulped. “My witness is… Object A.”
Everything stopped. After the initial shock passed, the audience began grumbling again.
“Please?” Raymond begged before the noise grew too loud. I did not hear an answer, but then Raymond was undoing the latch at the side of my prison. He stood there at the opening and began speaking to me – the first words a man had ever spoken to me before. He wanted me to come out. I sat motionless, but I let my eyes meet his. The murmuring faded for the second that he took off his jacket, then it exploded when he handed the clothing to me.
I examined the jacket. The noise did not bother me, but I saw it bothered Raymond, so I tried to hurry. I had never put on a jacket before, but I did it well enough, and crawled out of my box and up to the witness box. I pulled the jacket tight around me, enjoying the covering.
Raymond stared me in the eyes, and I stared back at him.
“Mr. Raymond,” the judge interrupted, “Are you going to question your witness?”
The courtroom was so noisy I could barely hear Raymond’s muttered reply, but the room quieted to hear his question.
“So… yes. You are… are you man?”
I stared at him. He had green eyes, a lively green I had never seen before, so odd a find in a room full of black, white, and gray. Glancing over the crowd, I saw how same they looked, all in their suits, still for that moment only until something else interested them. They might have liked a spectacle, one where I stood and proclaimed my manhood despite my disfigurement, my inferiority. But no, as much as they would have enjoyed a spectacle, that is not what they really wanted. They wanted me to be mute, so they could keep doing what they wanted to do without the trouble of me being a man. People judged based on what they want to believe, and I had no hope as long as they clung to those wants.
Besides, I could not speak.
They soon snatched my opportunity. Shouts arose, and the judge hammered while he looked pityingly on Raymond. Raymond stared me long in the eyes again, then before slumping back to his seat, mouthed the words: “I’m sorry.”
“Quiet! Quiet!” the judge shouted. The room quieted. “Raymond had a good try for such a young lawyer, but the law still holds. Mr. Madison, would you rise? Mr. Madison, the charges against you are faulty. You are hereby cleared by this court, and innocent in the eyes of your country and fellow men. Case closed.”
Innocent, was the last word that crossed my mind before the police came to lead me away. Innocent.
- - - - - - - -
I shivered, my back up against the back of the observation box. I pulled my knees up to try to cover my naked body, but it did not matter, for everyone looked at the judge. The men who had been near me quieted their talk and found seats as the judge’s hammer demanded their attention.
“Here!” the judge called out in his baritone. “This case is brought up by Lawyer Raymond against Lawyer Carey Madison, claiming that he committed a crime against Object A.” The eyes slid from the judge and over to my glass cage. I hid my face. “The crime,” continued the Judge, “is one known in some cultures as rape. Mr. Madison, how do you plead?”
Madison stood, his arms relaxed against the sides of his flawless suit. “Not guilty, your Honor,” he said clearly, then sat again. Hardly anyone murmured – in fact, when I peeked out from behind my knees, I saw them nodding and rolling their eyes. I knew then that this trial was futile; they had decided the judgment before the judge had lifted his hammer. I hid my face again, resolving to observe without looking at anyone’s eyes.
“Mr. Raymond, it is your floor.” The judge swept a black sleeve toward the area my defender was to occupy.
Mr. Raymond fidgeted with his jacket and stood in front of the judge’s podium. No, a dull protest came from my head, he is too young, too inexperienced. “Gentlemen,” he began, “it is my belief, and duty, to show you all that the crime in question is a true crime, that Mr. Madison is guilty of this crime and propagating the idea that it is not one, and, most importantly, that the creature in this observation box,” he leaned a hand on my prison without looking at me, “is a man.”
The men, silent before, now roared up, and it took several minutes and threats for the judge to quiet them. Still, Raymond had to raise his voice to be heard over their mutterings. “My first questioning will be of Mr. Madison.”
Madison did not look at me as he entered the witness box. I could not look at him, either, but I knew he had not looked because I would have felt it.
“Mr. Madison,” Raymond began.
“Yes, my young friend?” Madison raised his voice to enunciate the irony.
“Mr. Madison, on the 10th of Thermidor, it is reported that you were walking alone one evening, when you found this Object A sitting alone in an alley. Is this true so far?”
“It is.”
“At which time – I shall use the judge’s word to avoid graphics – you raped Object A, despite it’s struggle against you.”
“I reject the implications your and the judge’s terminology, (pardon me, your Honor), of the word rape, since it indicates a crime occurred when none did. Therefore I request it be stricken from the record. I do admit, however, to having forced the creature despite it’s struggle.”
“Request granted,” said the judge.
“There were witnesses to this event,” pressed Raymond, “who said that once you were finished with the individual, you left it, seemingly with no further intentions for it.”
“That is true,” Raymond acknowledged.
“And is it also true that had those witnesses, (who prefer to remain unnamed), had they not brought the matter before the police, you would not have bothered with the incident ever after? That you had no further care nor thought to this creature whom you had just so ill used?”
“Quite true,” admitted the man in the witness box. Then he leaned forward so only Raymond to hear, but I overheard as well: “But watch your professionalism, and check your temper. Remember the Doe case?” I heard a huff release from Raymond.
“Gentlemen.”
“My apologies, judge,” offered Madison. “Is the Accuser finished with his questioning?”
“For now.” Raymond retreated to his seat.
Madison swept out from the box and onto his stage. “Gentlemen, I wish to show you how ridiculous this questioning is, based on the participants against this alleged crime. I am a lawyer, and a competent one. I know the law. Our government has provided that with the prohibition of ex post facto law, I cannot be convicted of a crime that was not a crime when I committed it. My relations with Object A were perfectly legal, and Mr. Raymond knows that. It is my inclination, then,” Madison began pacing, and I knew the eyes were following him, “that Mr. Raymond is confused about his own purposes in bringing me to court. He cannot convict me of a crime that is not a crime, and he cannot create a crime out of something that is unworthy of the title. Gentlemen, if this creature is a man, then surely it deserves all of the rights and privileges of one. But who is willing to make a man out of this?”
He looked at me. I felt his gaze burn my skin, and heard the scraping of chairs as the other men in the room leaned forward to inspect me. I hugged my knees so tightly that my legs beginning to lose feeling.
He brought to witness a professor of Biology, who assured the crowd that while I had some basic features shared with men, I was not one of them. I was too soft to be a man, too small, I was deformed, I could not speak, and according to them, I could not feel.
Madison’s next witness was a psychologist. He told them that I was inferior to men in intellect and maturity. Supposedly I would only ever achieve the level of one of their five-year-olds in either.
When the last witness stood, I closed my eyes so tightly that my face distorted, and I tried to hide myself in the corner of my cage. It is silly to try to hide in a glass cage, but I so wished that the trial were already over and my extermination performed that I could did not think clearly. It was the Doctor. I had not seen him since I had escaped the clinic, and I had prayed (to whom I did not know) to never see him again.
He stepped softly passed me, softly into the witness box. Madison asked how long he had run his clinic.
“I have been helping men solve their problems for the last… twenty-five years, I believe.” His voice could not have been gentler, calmer, or more loathsome to me.
“And that helping includes what?”
“I run a safe, clean clinic that provides relief to men, without having them forced to seek back-alley relief. I’m not suggesting your experience wasn’t legal, sir, just that, perhaps you should have come to see me, first?” He was smiling. I could hear it.
“And what are your reasons for keeping such a clinic?” Madison leaned against the witness stand, so close to my box that I cringed.
“I believe the freedom men have to make their own choices, and to do what they wish with their own bodies.”
“Here here!” came a chorus from the audience. Men started clapping and cheering, and I saw Raymond in his chair looking paler than ever. Madison offered the questioning to him, and Raymond took it.
Raymond cleared his throat. “Doctor. You have said that you believe in the rights a man has to his body… but what about the rights this creature should have to it’s body?”
“Mr. Raymond, that creature barely knows it even has a body. If I may ask a question, what are you trying to do? Create laws that protect these creatures, while causing suffering to your fellow man? If the government bans comfort clinics like mine, men will be forced to seek less safe methods, and we will see a rise in disease and death. As I said, my clinic is clean, comfortable, and undergoes a health inspection regularly.”
“Your clinic? You mean your whorehouse!”
More shouting, more banging of the hammer.
“Mr. Raymond, I’ll have no more outbursts from you,” the judge warned. The Doctor was dismissed, and Mr. Madison jumped up to join a very flustered Mr. Raymond. Madison began talking of an initiative to increase education about diseases and risks, especially in schools. The judge was stopping him so that he could go through with his sentence and move on to the next case, when Raymond grew animated again.
“Wait!” he shouted, “I have one more witness!” Grumbles of protest came from the audience, and even the judge sighed. However, he allowed him the last witness. Raymond gulped. “My witness is… Object A.”
Everything stopped. After the initial shock passed, the audience began grumbling again.
“Please?” Raymond begged before the noise grew too loud. I did not hear an answer, but then Raymond was undoing the latch at the side of my prison. He stood there at the opening and began speaking to me – the first words a man had ever spoken to me before. He wanted me to come out. I sat motionless, but I let my eyes meet his. The murmuring faded for the second that he took off his jacket, then it exploded when he handed the clothing to me.
I examined the jacket. The noise did not bother me, but I saw it bothered Raymond, so I tried to hurry. I had never put on a jacket before, but I did it well enough, and crawled out of my box and up to the witness box. I pulled the jacket tight around me, enjoying the covering.
Raymond stared me in the eyes, and I stared back at him.
“Mr. Raymond,” the judge interrupted, “Are you going to question your witness?”
The courtroom was so noisy I could barely hear Raymond’s muttered reply, but the room quieted to hear his question.
“So… yes. You are… are you man?”
I stared at him. He had green eyes, a lively green I had never seen before, so odd a find in a room full of black, white, and gray. Glancing over the crowd, I saw how same they looked, all in their suits, still for that moment only until something else interested them. They might have liked a spectacle, one where I stood and proclaimed my manhood despite my disfigurement, my inferiority. But no, as much as they would have enjoyed a spectacle, that is not what they really wanted. They wanted me to be mute, so they could keep doing what they wanted to do without the trouble of me being a man. People judged based on what they want to believe, and I had no hope as long as they clung to those wants.
Besides, I could not speak.
They soon snatched my opportunity. Shouts arose, and the judge hammered while he looked pityingly on Raymond. Raymond stared me long in the eyes again, then before slumping back to his seat, mouthed the words: “I’m sorry.”
“Quiet! Quiet!” the judge shouted. The room quieted. “Raymond had a good try for such a young lawyer, but the law still holds. Mr. Madison, would you rise? Mr. Madison, the charges against you are faulty. You are hereby cleared by this court, and innocent in the eyes of your country and fellow men. Case closed.”
Innocent, was the last word that crossed my mind before the police came to lead me away. Innocent.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
The Stonemason
I haven't written anything in a long, looong time. And it shows. After deciding to and writing a story again, I compared it to my old works and was devastated at the comparison. Well, my old stories weren't great either, so you see how terrible this one is. The point is that I want to start writing again, and this is my feeble first step.
The Stonemason
John dropped his carving tools with an angry clatter. He turned around and kicked the side of his last letter, “H,” scuffing purposely. “Of all the worthless…” He set his jaw, and a vein bulged in the creases on his forehead. As he passed the beginning of his work - a youthful attempt at a “T” - he steeled his eyes away from it. He walked with the determination that he would either calm himself with walking, or march over the edge of the page.
“ Good morning, John!” called out a woman who considered herself friendly. “How are you today?”
John kept walking. Why were people so spitefully cheerful? What does “how are you?” mean anyway? Did his neighbors truly want to know the state of his physical, mental, and spiritual wellbeing?
“I’m doing well, too!” the lady called after him. “Have a nice day!” The social rite of greeting must make some people feel accomplished.
John wandered in between some old letters where he thought no one else would bother him. Stumbling over a loose stone enraged John, and he picked up a rock and threw it in the direction he had come. John sat against the side of a “G” and place his head on his knees. In an instant his head felt clearer, and he noticed his heart pounding fiercely.
Was he really that bad of a stone mason? Why did God relegate him to such a miniscule task? John had previously prided himself on not thinking of himself too loftily, but perhaps he had still overestimated.
He picked up a rock the size of his fist and ground it on the stone floor. The stones growled satisfyingly. John threw that rock away as well. As he raised his face again, John blinked against the brightness and found a twig nearby. John traced out his life’s work in the sand at his left. “T-H-E.” He stared at it discontentedly. As a young man he had been excited to receive a commission, carving a great “T” out of stone, masonry tools, and ambition. That first letter took the longest, for he wanted it to be perfect – a good start to a solid career. The day he ended the “T” he received his next letter: “H.” John neared middle-aged by the time he received this, and though he finished the “H” in half the time he spent on the “T,” he realized that his life’s purpose could not be very long.
“But maybe it could be.” Unnatural optimism sparked in him. “There are lots of words that start with “THE” that have great meaning… such as… theology. And…theo…well, I don’t even have to know the word, as I’m given the letters. I’m just a stone mason.”
“Hello, John.”
John flinched. His old friend, Faithful, edged along the curve of the “G” as he approached him.
“May I sit with you, friend?” Faithful asked.
John shrugged. Faithful leaned against the “G” and slid his body partway down, frequently adjusting his cane for balance, one time planting it on John’s let.
“Sorry, my boy.” Faithful’s knees creaked as he lowered himself the rest of the way to the ground. “I hear you have received your last letter,” he said when he was finally settled.
John nodded again. “Yes. I had hoped for more, but… it’s my last. I’m getting old, Faithful.”
Faithful laughed. “You’re not near my age, and you still have much hewing to do. I’ve finished my word, or so I thought. Apparently God wants me to keep chipping at it to make the edges clearer. I’m not sure, exactly.”
The friends sat in silence.
“I have thought, too, about the words others were given,” Faithful commented between the silence.
John blinked.
“…Well, there were the names, those are important. And then there are some great words, ‘BELIEVE,’ for example, or ‘JUDGE.’ They give a mason something to think about while he is carving. But you can’t choose your word, John. It’s a honor that you’re given one, really. The point may be that it’s not the word that is important, but the way you’ve done it. With a joyful spirit, see.”
“Joyful spirit…” John muttered.
“Why, yes, joyful spirit! Even if your task is meaningless, it’s always good to throw in a little joyful spirit to make the whole process better!”
“Thank you, Faithful.” John stood and shook the dust off his trousers. “I think I’ll go back to my letters now.”
“It’s always my pleasure to talk to you, my boy.” Faithful tried to pick himself off the ground. John helped him, to save himself the exertion of watching Faithful strain.
John began walking away.
“John!” Faithful called after him. John stopped. Faithful hobbled near. “John. You don’t know how your work influences the bigger poem of life. See? One day we’ll get to heaven, and we’ll say ‘Oh, look! How nicely that “THE” is formed from up here. Look at that one thing I did, and how it impacts everything else.’ Then the Lord may even thank you for your work. You just have to have faith, my boy, that God works things out like that.”
John thought. “Thank you, Faithful.”
Faithful smiled. “You’re welcome, my boy, always.”
John walked away slowly, picking his way through the letters as he contemplated. When he got back to his “TH,” he gathered his tools back into his work bag, and took out his marker. He turned it in his hand. Slowly, carefully, he began to measure the length of his “E.”
~ ~ ~
Years later, when John was almost as old as Faithful (though Faithful had been gone long since), John chipped off the final imperfections on his “E.” He thought about the beginning of his last letter, and how foolish he had been over it. “Troubling over the glory of his letters, how sensitive,” he thought. John felt satisfied with them now, and even grateful that he wasn’t given those long words such as “ASCENDED,” “FORGIVENESS,” or “EVERLASTING,” which usually took a whole family to build. Instead, he was satisfied with what God had given him, and at peace with the outcome.
After eating a plain meal, John lay himself on his cot and fell asleep.
“Wake up, John.”
John opened his eyes. He saw a man he knew, and was filled with joy. “Hello, Lord.”
“John, I have something to show you.”
They went to the edge of Heaven and peered down to the page below. There, John saw the whole poem:
“I BELIEVE IN GOD THE FATHER ALMIGHTY,
MAKER OF HEAVEN AND EARTH,
AND IN JESUS CHRIST
HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON OUR LORD.
HE WAS CONCEIVED OF THE HOLY SPIRIT,
BORN OF THE VIRGIN MARY,
SUFFERED UNDER PONTIOUS PILATE,
WAS CRUCIFIED, DEAD, AND BURIED.
HE DECENDED INTO THE GRAVE,
AND ON THE THIRD DAY,
HE ROSE AGAIN, ACCORDING TO THE SCRIPTURES.
HE ASCENDED INTO HEAVEN,
WHERE HE SITS AT THE RIGHT HAND OF GOD THE FATHER ALMIGHTY.
FROM THERE HE SHALL COME TO JUDGE THE QUICK AND THE DEAD.
I BELIEVE IN THE HOLY SPIRIT,
THE HOLY CATHOLIC CHURCH,
THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS,
THE FORGIVENESS OF SINS,
THE RESURRECTION OF THE BODY,
AND THE LIFE EVERLASTING,
AMEN.
“What do you think, John?” the Lord asked.
John stared. On the page he had thought that Heaven would loosen his tongue, but instead it staggered it further. “I think… of how beautiful and large everything is. Look at everything you did, and how it works together like that.” John smiled. “Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”
The Stonemason
John dropped his carving tools with an angry clatter. He turned around and kicked the side of his last letter, “H,” scuffing purposely. “Of all the worthless…” He set his jaw, and a vein bulged in the creases on his forehead. As he passed the beginning of his work - a youthful attempt at a “T” - he steeled his eyes away from it. He walked with the determination that he would either calm himself with walking, or march over the edge of the page.
“ Good morning, John!” called out a woman who considered herself friendly. “How are you today?”
John kept walking. Why were people so spitefully cheerful? What does “how are you?” mean anyway? Did his neighbors truly want to know the state of his physical, mental, and spiritual wellbeing?
“I’m doing well, too!” the lady called after him. “Have a nice day!” The social rite of greeting must make some people feel accomplished.
John wandered in between some old letters where he thought no one else would bother him. Stumbling over a loose stone enraged John, and he picked up a rock and threw it in the direction he had come. John sat against the side of a “G” and place his head on his knees. In an instant his head felt clearer, and he noticed his heart pounding fiercely.
Was he really that bad of a stone mason? Why did God relegate him to such a miniscule task? John had previously prided himself on not thinking of himself too loftily, but perhaps he had still overestimated.
He picked up a rock the size of his fist and ground it on the stone floor. The stones growled satisfyingly. John threw that rock away as well. As he raised his face again, John blinked against the brightness and found a twig nearby. John traced out his life’s work in the sand at his left. “T-H-E.” He stared at it discontentedly. As a young man he had been excited to receive a commission, carving a great “T” out of stone, masonry tools, and ambition. That first letter took the longest, for he wanted it to be perfect – a good start to a solid career. The day he ended the “T” he received his next letter: “H.” John neared middle-aged by the time he received this, and though he finished the “H” in half the time he spent on the “T,” he realized that his life’s purpose could not be very long.
“But maybe it could be.” Unnatural optimism sparked in him. “There are lots of words that start with “THE” that have great meaning… such as… theology. And…theo…well, I don’t even have to know the word, as I’m given the letters. I’m just a stone mason.”
“Hello, John.”
John flinched. His old friend, Faithful, edged along the curve of the “G” as he approached him.
“May I sit with you, friend?” Faithful asked.
John shrugged. Faithful leaned against the “G” and slid his body partway down, frequently adjusting his cane for balance, one time planting it on John’s let.
“Sorry, my boy.” Faithful’s knees creaked as he lowered himself the rest of the way to the ground. “I hear you have received your last letter,” he said when he was finally settled.
John nodded again. “Yes. I had hoped for more, but… it’s my last. I’m getting old, Faithful.”
Faithful laughed. “You’re not near my age, and you still have much hewing to do. I’ve finished my word, or so I thought. Apparently God wants me to keep chipping at it to make the edges clearer. I’m not sure, exactly.”
The friends sat in silence.
“I have thought, too, about the words others were given,” Faithful commented between the silence.
John blinked.
“…Well, there were the names, those are important. And then there are some great words, ‘BELIEVE,’ for example, or ‘JUDGE.’ They give a mason something to think about while he is carving. But you can’t choose your word, John. It’s a honor that you’re given one, really. The point may be that it’s not the word that is important, but the way you’ve done it. With a joyful spirit, see.”
“Joyful spirit…” John muttered.
“Why, yes, joyful spirit! Even if your task is meaningless, it’s always good to throw in a little joyful spirit to make the whole process better!”
“Thank you, Faithful.” John stood and shook the dust off his trousers. “I think I’ll go back to my letters now.”
“It’s always my pleasure to talk to you, my boy.” Faithful tried to pick himself off the ground. John helped him, to save himself the exertion of watching Faithful strain.
John began walking away.
“John!” Faithful called after him. John stopped. Faithful hobbled near. “John. You don’t know how your work influences the bigger poem of life. See? One day we’ll get to heaven, and we’ll say ‘Oh, look! How nicely that “THE” is formed from up here. Look at that one thing I did, and how it impacts everything else.’ Then the Lord may even thank you for your work. You just have to have faith, my boy, that God works things out like that.”
John thought. “Thank you, Faithful.”
Faithful smiled. “You’re welcome, my boy, always.”
John walked away slowly, picking his way through the letters as he contemplated. When he got back to his “TH,” he gathered his tools back into his work bag, and took out his marker. He turned it in his hand. Slowly, carefully, he began to measure the length of his “E.”
~ ~ ~
Years later, when John was almost as old as Faithful (though Faithful had been gone long since), John chipped off the final imperfections on his “E.” He thought about the beginning of his last letter, and how foolish he had been over it. “Troubling over the glory of his letters, how sensitive,” he thought. John felt satisfied with them now, and even grateful that he wasn’t given those long words such as “ASCENDED,” “FORGIVENESS,” or “EVERLASTING,” which usually took a whole family to build. Instead, he was satisfied with what God had given him, and at peace with the outcome.
After eating a plain meal, John lay himself on his cot and fell asleep.
“Wake up, John.”
John opened his eyes. He saw a man he knew, and was filled with joy. “Hello, Lord.”
“John, I have something to show you.”
They went to the edge of Heaven and peered down to the page below. There, John saw the whole poem:
“I BELIEVE IN GOD THE FATHER ALMIGHTY,
MAKER OF HEAVEN AND EARTH,
AND IN JESUS CHRIST
HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON OUR LORD.
HE WAS CONCEIVED OF THE HOLY SPIRIT,
BORN OF THE VIRGIN MARY,
SUFFERED UNDER PONTIOUS PILATE,
WAS CRUCIFIED, DEAD, AND BURIED.
HE DECENDED INTO THE GRAVE,
AND ON THE THIRD DAY,
HE ROSE AGAIN, ACCORDING TO THE SCRIPTURES.
HE ASCENDED INTO HEAVEN,
WHERE HE SITS AT THE RIGHT HAND OF GOD THE FATHER ALMIGHTY.
FROM THERE HE SHALL COME TO JUDGE THE QUICK AND THE DEAD.
I BELIEVE IN THE HOLY SPIRIT,
THE HOLY CATHOLIC CHURCH,
THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS,
THE FORGIVENESS OF SINS,
THE RESURRECTION OF THE BODY,
AND THE LIFE EVERLASTING,
AMEN.
“What do you think, John?” the Lord asked.
John stared. On the page he had thought that Heaven would loosen his tongue, but instead it staggered it further. “I think… of how beautiful and large everything is. Look at everything you did, and how it works together like that.” John smiled. “Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Bierochs
I'm trying to post brilliant things here, and Garrett said these were brilliant. These are German hamburger rolls, and/or, hamburgers disguised as rolls. The point is, they are good, and freeze well, and Garrett loves them, so I end up making them semi-frequently. Recipe follows.
Bieroch Recipe
Dough portion:
2 C Scalded Milk
1 C warm water
2 tsp sugar
2 tsp salt
1 C Shortening
2 eggs
2 Tbs yeast
8-10 C flour
(This recipe was given to me by my grandmother and doesn't have instructions, but this is how I made them).
Scald milk while proofing yeast in the warm water and sugar. Mix the flour, salt, and shortening in a separate bowl; add the scalded milk to the flour mixture. Mix. Add eggs and yeast mixture to floury goo, mix until incorporated, then knead. Knead until dough is elastic, then cover and let rise until doubled. Prepare meat filling.
Meat Filling:
1 lb ground beef
1 onion (chopped)
4 oz shredded cheese (we prefer swiss)
Brown meat with chopped onion in frying pan. Let cool until it wouldn't burn you if you accidentally touched it.
When dough has risen, you can punch it down and let it rise again, or you can start pinching off tennis-ball sized lumps. Flatten the lumps with a rolling pin. Make a small pile of shredded cheese in the middle of the flattened dough, and put ground beef/onion mixture on top. Bring up the sides of the dough-disk and pinch together, so it makes a roll. Do this until you run out of meat or dough (unless you are lucky or scientific and have exactly the right amount).
Bake bierochs at 350 degrees until browning on top. They should be a nice golden color.
Das ist es! (Garrett translated "Voila!" for me)
I hope you enjoy them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)