I am old, though not so much in body as
in spirit . . . I mean that literally, in spirit, en pneuma, as the Greeks say, for that is what
I am, a spirit long plying the air of Galilee. I could be anywhere—again,
literally—but I continue “here,” where my sojourn in space-time begins and ends
. . . I know that you cannot hear the quotes around “here,” but they are there,
because I am outside space-time, where there is no here or there, no has-been or
will-be, but somehow, though I have no problem with the no-time thing, I’m
anchored—by what? Desire? Unmet obligation?—to the place of my embodiment.
Although others disagree, I like to think it is a grace of the divine, a favor
from God to comfort us as we continue our voyage through the infinite.
At any rate, there is no time—no space,
either—and so I see it all bunched together, one action, one scene, really, superimposed
“on top” of one another, and I hope you felt the quotes around “on top” as
well. And I have to hand it to ol’ Einstein, he had it right, everything that
ever happened happens “simultaneously,” and that’s why I think it’s a grace of
God that I retain some sense of the space-time continuum . . . and
memory—actually the now—is
overwhelming, and language is anchored in space-time, sentences have a
beginning and an
end, so there’s no way I can use them to describe how it really is, so I’ll just use
what you call the “present tense”—again with the quotes—to describe our last
journey with the master.
And that day I’m thinking that there are
one too many Bethanys as we trudge up the Wadi out of Jericho. Our trip begins
in Bethany—the one on the Jordan—and passes through
Bethany, the one just two miles from Jerusalem, and Bethphage of course, and
I’m thinking all this at least in part
to keep my mind off my aching bones. Of course I am getting to be an old man, I’m over thirty
after all, and though my arms are strong—all those fishing nets, you understand—my legs, not so
much: I’m here to tell you that sitting in boats does nothing for the quads. So
I struggle a lot
the last couple of days, as we first climb up out of the Jordan valley from
Bethany number one to Jericho perched above the river’s fertile course. For
those of you along the space-time continuum, in it’s on the West Bank, and you
know that that
means . . .
Anyway, if the climb out of the valley
is brutal, at least it’s short, but the one now, between Jericho and Bethany
number two, and on to Bethphage and Jerusalem, is eleven miles of pure,
trudging torture up the Wadi Qilt—in your time, there’s a highway going up,
takes about fifteen minutes—trudging up the Wadi Qilt, sweat adheres the
clothes to our bodies, dust clogs our pores, feet bleed from sandal-strap
blisters, and have you ever been up the Wadi? There’s no shade or water or
anything, just rocks and soil, so it’s a distinct relief to stop in the Bethany
home of the two sisters, friends of the master, where I sink down into the
shade of a date-palm and fall immediately to sleep—one of the talents I
cultivate on the boats, sleeping any “where” any “time.”
And in my sleep, I dream about the few
days before: the master’s final, devastating prediction that we go to Jerusalem
to meet his horrible death. Those idiot Zebedee brothers jockeying for position
before the body’s even a body,
much less cold. Jesus’ final healing: giving Bartimaeus sight, as if to say
that none of us students can see now but we will, in time. Yes, I’m sad to say,
at that “time,” it’s all about us.
My sleep—and dreaming—are short-lived,
because there’s Jesus, standing patiently beside me in the sun, who knows how
long he’s there, and he says to me “Go into the village ahead of you, and just
inside the gate, you’ll find a colt that’s never been ridden. Bring it here.”
And I raise my hand to protest “but what if he’s . . .” and the master knows
what I’m going to say—he does that a lot—and
says “If anyone says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ tell ‘em ‘The Lord needs
it and he’ll send it right back.’ ” So we go, one of the Zebedees and I, and
there’s the colt, and here’s some by-standers who ask us “what in God’s name
are you doing?” And we say “the Lord needs it; we’ll bring it back
straightaway,” and they let us take it. In other words, it’s just as Jesus predicted. And
I think, not for the first time, “how does he do that,” although quote-now-unquote I know it’s all about
space-time—or his being outside of it, that is, or one foot in and one foot
out, whatever . . . it’s all about his perceiving everything all scrunched
together.
Anyway, we get the thing done, and bring
the colt back, and we throw our cloaks on it—by now, it’s obvious he’s going to
ride it—and I think “If it’s gonna be a donkey, instead of a white stallion or
unicorn or something, at least it could have been an adult donkey . . .” I know,
I know, it’s silly, right? His kingdom is outside space-time . . . But at that time—at that point
in space-time, that is—I am just as clueless as everybody else. And up on the
baby donkey he goes—is there anything less
kingly than that?—up on the donkey he goes, and we head into Jerusalem, his
feet almost dragging on the ground, and I and the others are mortally
embarrassed, but our shame turns to amazement as everybody along the way—and
there are a boat-load of there for the holiday—everyone along the way seems to know who he is, his
fame has apparently preceded him, they’re throwing their own cloaks down in homage,
spreading leafy branches they’d cut from nearby fields—I’m glad I’m not a local
farmer—and they’re shouting out “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the
name of the Lord!” And a shiver runs up my spine, because its from that
Psalm—Psalm 118, as your Bibles number it—complete with branches thrown on his
path. Goosebumps rise on my arms runs because the people know it, they have made the same
connection we disciples have, and they’re applying that old Psalm about the
coming of the Davidic king in Glory to Jesus of Nazareth, making it a
fulfillment of prophecy, even though in the end, it’s both less than that and more than that, all at once.
We arrive at the Temple, and Jesus steps
gravely down from the donkey as if from the finest steed on earth, whispers in
the little animal’s ear, and it trots off toward home as if it’s just another
day at work. We proceed into the Temple grounds, where Jesus looks around,
taking everything in as if he’s the world’s greatest tourist, or maybe a
landlord checking up on his property, and sorrow is etched on his features, and
I get the sense he’s somehow saying goodbye . . . It’s grown dark by the time
we leave the Temple, the torch-lights of the city flicker in the night, and
bats swoop through the crowds of insects attracted by them, and the brutal heat
has grown just a tad
cooler. The crowds have dispersed, grown restless waiting for their hero to
leave the Temple grounds, and we leave the city on foot, quietly, returning to
Bethany and the sisters’ extravagant hospitality. Anointing with nard, indeed.
And I know what happens next—I’m there,
remember— but at the time, of course, I didn’t, even though Jesus had warned us, just days before. But our
confidence in a glorious ending blinded us or, I don’t know, maybe we knew deep
down that it was true, but suppressed it, as Sigmund Freud says, because we
just couldn’t face it. We just couldn’t bear to see our excitement turn to dust
and our hope to ashes. Who would? Amen.
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