The Promise

All his life he had been waiting, and sometimes it seemed like the hardest job in the world. He had seen the impatience with which men usually waited: for a betrothed to reach marriageable age, for a baby to be born, for a feast day, for a business transaction to be completed so that they had the money or the goods were in their hands; he had seen and he had marvelled. What did they know of waiting who only had to endure for such a short and measurable season? For him the years grew long, and the weariness immeasurable, but the sweetness of the Promise still held him fast. No other thing could ever be so precious.

It had begun in his youth. He had come to Jerusalem to study the scriptures, and had stayed there ever since, to be near the Temple, where the presence of God was enacted every day, and to wait for the Chosen One while he studied the Holy Writings to learn more. The more he read, the more he understood, the more he knew how desperately Israel needed her Messiah. From the day that the first man and the first woman had eaten of the fruit and been driven from the garden, the promise of restoration had been there. And down through history it had grown more specific: the Servant, the Branch from the stump of Jesse, the Messenger who would suddenly appear in the temple. The Messiah would be a descendant of Abraham, of Judah, of David, as down through the years the Promise became more specific, and his house would be established forever. And as his understanding grew, Simeon had cried out to God for the Consolation of Israel to come.

And his prayer had been heard. It had not been a blinding flash of revelation, but slowly, surely, the Lord had shown him, as the Holy Spirit spoke to his spirit, an amazing promise: that he himself would not die until he had seen the Messiah come. And so he waited; summer and winter, day and night, through the fat years and the lean, as the world seemed to him to grow more dreary and more desperate, he waited for the Chosen One to come. And as he waited, he grew in wisdom, for he saw, more and more clearly, that Israel needed military success far less than she needed to be renewed and transformed. The ‘Consolation of Israel’ was her only hope of salvation.

And finally, when age had so bent him that every bone in his body was crying for release, the day came. Moved by the Spirit, he went to the temple courts, and there he waited, watching the line of pilgrims come to make their sacrifices. And there they were, just another poor couple with their baby boy, and their offering of a pair of pigeons. And yet, when he saw them, the Spirit spoke to him, and a fierce joy and a gentle wonder flooded through him. This was the one! This child, this baby settled quiet against his mother’s shoulder, was not just Israel’s hope, but the Salvation of the world.

Afterwards he never remembered what he said to the young mother, but she willingly passed the child to him, and as he held the most precious thing in the universe, with steady hands and streaming eyes, he whispered his prayer of thanks:

“Lord, now let your servant depart in peace, according to your promise. For my eyes have seen your salvation ...”

It was enough, he was at rest. And if the Lord so faithfully kept His promise to one man, how much more His promise to all mankind?

At The Threshold

The angels poise themselves in expectation. They watch. They wait. They have been watching and waiting for years beyond human knowledge, but now is the fullness of time. It will happen tonight, and everything will be changed forever, because God himself has done the unthinkable. The very atmosphere of earth is pregnant with the Holy Spirit’s power and purpose, and they marvel that human beings can be so unaware of cosmic realities. But some will be players in tonight’s drama, and even now they are taking their places ..

The woman knows, though it will be many years before she understands all the implications. She is tired: the travelling has been rough, and the pains started several hours ago. She leans on the strength of the man, letting him organise things for her, for the hour of her need approaches. It has been a strange nine months, living in two realities at once: the ordinary pregnancy, the extraordinary conception. But now her exhausted mind is stilled upon two realities – the demanding rhythms of her own body, and the still, deep certainty that she and her future are held and carried in the love of God. She does not yet know that because of this night to come, and because of that daring ‘yes’ she said nine months earlier, her obscure, ordinary name will be known and honoured as long as the earth endures.

The man is as anxious as any first time father. Far away from the female relatives who would normally care for her at such a time, he feels an added responsibility to care for her safety, and that of the child. And he knows so little about things. But as he fusses around, trying to make sure that everything possible is provided for her, he is overtaken by a deep sense of peace. This birth has been planned for aeons; he can leave the outcome in the Lord’s hands.

The town is falling asleep, though restively. There are too many people crowded here at the moment; no one is quite at ease. But the laborious day brings its own reward of rest, and, one by one, the lamps are going out.

Out on the hills, it is just another night of sheep-watching. Or is it? The sheep are not settling down in their normal way, like Balaam’s donkey centuries before, they can sense the angelic presence which men are blind to. So the men, tuned into their beasts, if not to spiritual realities, are alert. There is a sense of waiting.

And somewhere, far to the east, a mighty star is shining, directing a bunch of weary travellers on their way. It is hard to travel by night and to try to sleep by day, but when the guiding star is only visible in the darkness, they have no other choice. The miles grow burdensome, but when they look up to the star they are reassured. Somewhere, many days ahead of them, a mighty wonder is waiting, a wonder that is worth all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them.

Night settles more deeply over the little town. Somewhere, a few miles to the north, an unhappy king starts from his sleep with a nightmare sense of foreboding. Why should he feel so threatened in the stillness of the night? The cold, midnight darkness is strangely silent, as if all the non-human creation is holding its breath ..

Then, somewhere in little Bethlehem, the thin cry of a newborn pierces the night, and creation exhales. The angels can restrain themselves no longer, they see the amazing miracle, and marvel. High above the surrounding fields they soar and sing, “Glory to God in the Highest!”

Misunderstanding

I am not sure that I can explain what took me there that night. Fear and shame had been wrestling inside me against burning curiosity, and after days of internal conflict, I simply wanted peace. But it was something else that compelled my feet through the dark streets of Jerusalem that night. As a boy I had watched a fisherman draw in a fish: it didn’t matter which way it thought it was swimming, when the fisherman pulled it would come in regardless. So it was: I was drawn and I came.

And I have never felt more confused in my life! No sooner had we exchanged courtesies (extremely courteous on my part, one does not wish to risk offending a prophet of God), than He launched straight into the most extraordinary statement I had ever heard from rabbinical lips: “No one caqn see the Kingdom of God unless he is born again!”

Unless he is … what? This was no longer the comfortable conversation I had rehearsed in my head. I floundered, what could he possibly mean?  I had imagined us talking elegantly, one learned man to another, while I gently probed to get his measure, but now it felt as if he were doing the probing, and had found a hollow place right in the centre of my being. I knew all the classic arguments, the midrash of the sages, but  …. I shook my head. It was as if we had sat down to play a game together, an old familiar game, and suddenly my opponent was moving his pieces in ways I had not even imagined they could be moved.  I had no response to give.

“Do you mean that a man, an adult, has to back inside his mother’s womb?” Even putting it into words was ridiculous, but, turn it every which way, it still made no sense. I hadn’t felt so stupid since I was a child.

He started to explain to me about being born of the Spirit, the mysterious Spirit that blows where it will. He seemed to be saying that the Kingdom of God was something different from the Israel that I was part of by virtue of my ancestry, or at least that one only became part of it by a way I could not comprehend.

He teased me gently, and in His smiling voice I heard an invitation  to let go of all my assumptions about my own importance: “You mean that you are a teacher in Israel and you don’t know about this?”

True. He had me there, so I listened as he continued to explain. And as he spoke I began to see, but dimly, as a man sees shapes through a fog, enough to stay on his path, but not enough to see where the path is leading him. I realized that what he said was true, we cannot speak or teach beyond our own experience, and yet we are so quickly dismissive of the testimony of those who know more of God than we do. That is our shame, and our blindness.

And then he spoke of the ways of God, and of a love that could not be confined to Israel, but would reach out to embrace the world (though I could not understand when he spoke of how this was to be done). And I began to grasp the notion that it was not only those who were born of Abraham’s lineage who were his children, but that there were many who would come in, from the east and the west, who would be drawn in. And perhaps (though this was much harder to accept), we Israelites were not truly Abraham’s children either until we became so  by … this other way ..

There was so much I hadn’t begun to realize, that I couldn’t until that dreadful day when I saw what he meant about being lifted up, but my journey had begun, and for many sleepless nights I wrestled with his words, placing them in counterpoint to the Torah until my thoughts began to take new shapes.

The Prisoner

He  languishes in his cell. He has a history, he has a name, yet neither of them seem to matter anymore. He did what he did because it was the only thing he knew how to do, and he is not sure that even now, knowing the consequences, he would be able to do any differently. A man must stand up for himself, or else be sucked down and eaten up. There are no reprieves, no second chances, and, sooner or later, every man’s time is up. He can feel the fear in his stomach, corrosive as acid, but he will hold his bravado to the last (he hopes).

He has never been a thinker, he always prided himself on being a man of action, who didn’t give those paralyzing second thoughts any headspace, but now, in his little, miserable cell, there is nothing to do except think. A man can only rage for so long before his body is too exhausted to keep fighting. So he lets his mind wander across his memories: the swift gladness of success, the contentment of comradeship with other outcast men, the heady knowledge that he was a hero to some and a reviled name to others: the timid law-abiders, the soft cowards he despised. He saw himself as a man who fought for Israel’s freedom; the fact that he also fought for the booty and the spoil, and the hot pleasure of violence – surely that was secondary?

He had not known his own name, growing up as he did on the tattered outskirts of society, so, with rough irony they gave him a name: Barabbas, son of the father. It was a good name to play with and fight with. He tasted its nuances as he sat and waited, wondering how much time he had left.

But something was different this morning. Even here, under the heavy layers of stone, he could hear the noises of a crowd, an angry crowd, shouting out over and over again. He tried to make out the muffled and distorted syllables. “Crucify him!” they seemed to be saying. He shuddered; when it is your own flesh facing the nails and the long, slow agony, such bloodthirstiness seems a lot less appealing. And then he heard a word he could not mistake, they were crying out his own name. What? Why should the Jerusalem mob be crying out for his death? It made no sense, but he felt the bile in his throat and cringed into the corner of his cell.

There was a heavy tramp of footsteps which could only mean a full contingent of Roman guards. Was this the hour of his death? Wordlessly, they opened the door, beckoned to him and led him up the stairs and corridors to daylight. And then they released him!

What was happening? A few sentences from bystanders explained the situation: that man up there on the platform, Jesus of Nazareth,  still and tranquil despite the ropes around him, was going to be crucified in his place. The choice had been made, he would live and Jesus would die. He gazed, and he wondered. To his own surprise, the hard, tough man found himself crying.

The Man in the Pit

A pit is not a good place to be. It is dank, it is dark, and no one ever cleans it. The smell of the beasts was almost overpowering, and the man knew, that, though he had entered it willingly and calmly, eyes wide open and head held high,  his mind composed and his faith at rest, that his body responded to the sensory horror with visceral fear, and the lions could smell the sweat of his ordeal.

There was comfort in remembering how others before him had endured in such a desperate place. The patriarch Joseph had been thrown into a pit (by his own brothers, no less!), sold into slavery, and, because God was with him, later risen to become the second-in-command in mighty Egypt, and saved many lives. Or Jeremiah, who was cast into a pit for speaking faithfully what God had commanded him to say. And then there was Jonah. Wasn’t the insides of the belly of a great fish the worst kind of pit? And, though Jonah’s own folly had brought him to that place, it was the Lord who put him in the pit, and took him out again.

But this was now, not then, and who could predict God’s ways? That a man could pray, faithfully, to the God of his fathers, the Maker of heaven and earth, all the days of his life, and find comfort and sustenance in worship, even though he was far away from Jerusalem and the Temple, and then, when his years were many and his body less, be hauled off to die for the simple act of prayer? But a man does not change his loyalty, his allegiance, when the price tags are changed; if this was the cost of fidelity, so be it, God was still God.

It was the jealousy and malice of men which had put him here, their determination to get rid of a faithful servant whose integrity showed them up; and the king, caught between their cunning and his own weakness, was forced to send his most treasured servant to the pit of the lions. And the lions were hungry.

But they made no move towards him. After a few minutes of silent tension, he turned to face them, and, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he realised that there was another figure standing between the lions and himself, and it was not a mortal man. It was an angel of the most high God, sent for his succour and protection in his hour of need. He was no longer concerned about the lions, but awed into silence by this holy presence. All night long the angel kept guard, all night long the lions remained peacefully in their corner, and the man, with a prayer of thanksgiving lay down to sleep: “For it is You Lord, You, lord, only, who makes me to dwell in safety.”

In the morning the king came, overwhelmed with concern, to find out if his servant had survived. Marvelling, he had him lifted out and checked out to see how his body had borne its terrible incarceration, but he bore no wounds whatsoever. His very body had become a testimony to his God. Yet when his accusers were thrown into the pit in their turn, the lions did not hesitate to destroy them. This was a God to be reverenced and worshipped.

The Road

The beginning of the road called Love is so attractive that many people choose it. Not everyone does, of course, some prefer the golden road of Greed, or the stark, twisting road of Power, and others are drawn to Knowledge, or Pleasure or even choose to go nowhere at all. But it starts in wide meadows of flowers and soft sunshine, and many think that they have arrived when they have barely passed the entry point, and sit around in easy groups making daisy chains. What becomes of them when the storms gather, and the cracking lightning sizzles across the open fields, I do not know, but perhaps they have to make a real choice for the first time in their lives.

But the meadows are only the beginning of the road. It continues. Fairly soon (though sooner for some than for others, but such is the nature of the road) another road branches off, broad and fair, There is a row of fine hotels there, which cost almost nothing to inhabit. Many turn aside there, for surely this is a pleasant place to go, and look what pleasant people are already there. And every hotel is called ‘Nice’. And those that turn off at this point keep straying further, for each hotel seems more agreeable than the one before, and they are so pleased with themselves for becoming ‘nice’ people, that they do not even notice that each hotel is made of thinner and thinner cardboard.

But the road called Love continues, and gradually the travellers notice that three possibilities have developed. On the right hand side the road surface goes harder and smoother. Eventually it veers off from the road called Love, into Moralism. Those who take that exit will find it leads them at last to a stern wilderness strewn with rocks. As fast as they try to build themselves shelters there from the rocks, they pull them off again in order to throw them at one another. On the other edge, the left side, the path gets softer and softer, until your feet start to sink into it like sand. Eventually this veers off into the road called Tolerance, and those who follow it end up in a slow quicksand. Because they are all sinking they cannot pull each other out.

Meanwhile, shed of these diversions, the road named Love continues. It is narrower now, and goes more steeply. Sometimes it is so steep that one has to use both hands and feet to climb it. Sometimes it is so narrow it feels like walking a tightrope. Many turn back or stop when they reach those places. Some even devote themselves to telling others not to go there, “it’s too dangerous”. They do not understand that, though there may be scrapes and bruises, no one can ever fall very far. There is always a safety net: the Everlasting Arms are stretched to catch any who lose their footing, and lift them up once again.

At last, and the road is a different length for every traveller, they reach the summit of the road. It is a stark, bare hill, surmounted with a cross. By this time the journey has changed the traveller, and they rarely hesitate. Willingly they climb up to the cross, willingly they embrace it. And the moment that should be death becomes the moment of transformation, for the road of Love is the road to LOVE, LOVE in all its fullness, and they know themselves truly to be the beloved of the Beloved.

The Warrior

How I longed for the freedom of Israel! I hated the Roman yoke we struggled under, and I was quite convinced that most of the problems I saw around me were the direct result of our nation being under Gentile oppression, and that if only we could be liberated from them, we would truly be the Israel of God that the prophets had described. My friends nick-named me the Zealot for my passionate views.

I was surprised when the Teacher called me to be one of his disciples, but I was entranced by the beauty of his teaching, and impressed by his miraculous powers. Surely he was the one sent by God to deliver us? So I followed, and I sat as his feet and I learned. He knew the scriptures better than any rabbi I had ever heard, but when he explained them, they came together in a different pattern. Truth itself was a different shape to what I had thought. The Kingdom of God, as he described it, was so different to the correct religious observances that the priests taught us. There was freedom there, as well as justice, and something else I couldn’t put a name to. Only later did I learn to call it love.

And the miracles? Truly he had the power of God! He could heal the sick, the blind and the deaf, calm a storm, feed a multitude from almost nothing, and even raise the dead. With such power, how could he not defeat the Romans and bring about a greater Israel than David or Solomon ever knew?

Even when they arrested him, I hoped this would be the moment when he turned the tables and showed his power. But it wasn’t like that. Convinced that something had gone horribly wrong, we fled the scene and cowered in hiding. Wasn’t he going to fight for us at all?

It was only days later that I began to understand. Yes, he was fighting for us in every moment of his suffering. Sometimes the warrior is not the one who beats everyone else up. Sometimes he is the one who gets beaten. It takes so much courage to suffer in silence for another’s sake. I thought the victorious fighter was the one with the shining armor and the blood-smeared sword. I was so wrong.

Our greatest need wasn’t to defeat Rome, our greatest enemies weren’t the Romans, but those who could devour Rome, Israel, and every human being that ever was or will be. Our greatest enemies were Sin, Death and Satan, and in that lonely torment on the cross he overcame them all. Calmly and deliberately, he walked into the ultimate darkness, and made a way. He was life, the very life of God himself, and that life was the light of men. It is easy to be brave when you operate in your strength, and the cheering crowd supports you. But to fight alone, invisibly, under insult and derision, and still stay faithful to the end? Such is my hero, my warrior, my Lord and my God.

The Release

We were so afraid. Slavery teaches you to live by fear, but these cascading events had opened us to levels of terror we had sought our whole lives to avoid.  We had watched with horror, wonder and amazement while the plagues fell on our Egyptian neighbours. Were the old stories true? Did we really belong to a different God, greater than all the gods of Egypt, who, after leaving us alone and enslaved for generations, was suddenly making Himself known by great works of power? It was hard to comprehend, to re-adjust our thinking. Still, being freed from slavery sounded wonderful, even if we couldn’t quite understand what the alternative would be.

Then came the night that was different from all other nights: we went through the preparations like people in a dream, performing a sequence of actions with little understanding. It was all unreal. Then, right at midnight, a great cry of pain went up from the broken land. Egypt had stood firm against hail and darkness, pestilence and destruction, but the death of the firstborn brought a proud nation to her knees. Suddenly, they weren’t only allowing us to leave; they were urging us to be gone as quickly as possible! So at Pharaoh’s command and our neighbours’ encouragement we left, though we had never known any other home.

The next days passed in a haze of unreality: there we were, a huge mass of people, with our flocks and herds and basic belongings, following a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. Who has ever heard of such a thing? And then, while we were still trying to make sense of it all, we learned that Pharaoh was pursuing us. Of course, what else should we expect? This had all been a dream of surpassing strangeness, and we would wake again to harder, harsher labour, if we woke at all, and did not simply die in the desert. We were very much afraid.

But Moses was unperturbed. As we stood there, helpless, between the great waters and the advancing Egyptian army, he stretched out his staff, a strong wind blew, and an impossible path opened before us. We walked across those strange wet sands clinging tightly to one another, watching with a kind of fascinated terror the mighty wall of water that loomed on either side of us.  There was no human reason why it should not fall down on top of us at any moment. By the time we got to the further shore we were aching with tension – and the army of Egypt was still following us, right down onto that terrible path across the bottom of the sea. And we stood there and watched them, blankly and bleakly, too spent with both the travelling and the terror to run any further.

Then, even as we watched, Moses stretched his hand out over the waters once more, and those towering walls came crashing down, and a gasp of wonder rose from our whole people as the Egyptians were swept away in that mighty torrent. Not one of them was left. And, as we watched, that enormous wave threw their bodies, their countless broken bodies, up upon the shore. And we wept and trembled at the marvel.

But as we stood there in shock, Moses led us in a song of praise to the God who had delivered us, and suddenly we were a people released into song, and with the singing came tears, and laughter and understanding, as we spoke out what we had seen and our words gave meaning to the events we had witnessed:

“The Lord is my strength and my song, He has become my salvation..”

All Things New

Can it be? Is it possible? Heads rise, eyes light in unimaginable hope, and hearts ache with their retreating numbness. The air is alive with possibility, and the song of the angels comes closer to human hearing. Can it be?

The old woman looks up. Racked with the pain of her stiffening body, she has struggled for years to turn her labour into prayer. But it has become so hard. She no longer has the strength to do anything for anyone else, it takes all that she is just to tend to her own survival. Her world has grown so small that she can no longer see the glory, and she is overwhelmed by weariness. But now .. can it be?

The child cries. Her parents have died from a cruel disease, and the older children tease her. Once her mother had held her tight and sung tenderly to her, and she had felt safe and loved. Her mother had prayed for her, with gentle tears. But now her mother’s bones are in a hole in the ground, and the hot sun beats remorselessly on her village. There is famine again, and she will be the last to get any food. She longs for someone to care for her and keep her safe. But now .. can it be?

The boy remembers when he used to care for his family’s cattle, it was not an easy life, but it was a happy life. There was listening and sharing and understanding, and the excitement of knowing that one day he would be tall and strong like his father. But then the soldiers came and raided his village, and he and his friends were taken away to be trained in the jungle. They were beaten, and made to march for miles, and forced to do horrible things if they wanted to be fed. Some of his friends have been killed. Soon it will be his turn to die. But now .. can it be?

The man sighs wearily and raises his eyes from the paperwork. The hardest thing he had ever had to do was face his wife and tell her he had lost his job. He has tried everything, and can barely find enough money to put food on the table. Their child is sick, and the medicine expensive. And now they are going to lose their house. For the thousandth time, he prays for a miracle. But now .. can it be?

The young aid worker leans against the doorway, brushing aside a futile tear. So much death, so much waste, so much poverty; so much rage and frustration and helplessness.  With the last drops of emotion she has left, she flings her anguished why towards the dusty clouds. But now .. can it be?

The scientist scowls at the computer read out. The toxicity levels are beyond his worst estimate. How could this fertile valley have become the domain of death? Why must it always be like this: ruin and destruction and horror? Is it not enough that man is always at war with his own soul? Must he always be at war with the world around him as well? But now .. can it be?

Hope stirs again where hope was vanquished.  The deserts burst into flower and the slaves raise songs of redemption. Glory lights up the shadows and the dead return to life. A fresh wind blows, whispering “He is coming!” There are tears of wonder and joy, but now the time is at hand when all tears are wiped away. And a voice speaks from heaven, penetrating as a trumpet, “Behold, I make all things new!”

Humbled

Perhaps it is not strange that the thoughts and feelings of a man in exile should turn towards home, and family, and days of his early life when he was happy and safe. I was going to say loved, but that would not be true; since I left home and embarked on this journey of wonder and terror, here in the midst of blind, hateful persecution, I have found such love that my tears cannot stop falling. The affection a young boy feels in the home of his family, with older brothers who always feel the need to keep him in his place, is a meagre thing compared to this!  Jashobeam, Eleazar and Shammah – may their names be remembered with glory, for in the hour of my darkness and misery, they showed me such love as reflected back to me the very heart of my God. And if man can love, so sacrificially someone as inconstant and unworthy as I am, what does that tell me about my Lord?

But I am getting ahead of myself, and interrupting my own story.  It happened when we were hiding out in the cave of Adullam and the Philistines had possession of Bethlehem. Such is our human perversity, that no sooner is something, however trivial, denied to us, than we suddenly conceive an enormous need for it. It had been a hard, bitter pointless sort of day, when a man feels discouraged by his own uselessness, and the heart and the tongue grow careless. I knew that God had brought me to this point for His own good purposes, I knew that His promises are sure, certain and absolute, but it had become an abstract kind of knowledge, disconnected from my heart. I hungered and thirsted for the touch of God’s presence, the feel of His reassurance in my parched emptiness. And, holed up in that desert cave, I thought of the well at Bethlehem, where the water was always cool and clean, tasting faintly of the growing earth. Somehow the two things became linked and merged in my mind, and speaking from nostalgia and frustration, I voiced my longing to drink from that well once again. Such was my self-pity, that I didn’t even notice that my three mighty men had slipped away until they eventually returned.

Men talk of being humbled by criticism, or by realising their mistakes, and these examples are true; but there is something more than that which humbles a man down to the very marrow of his bones, and prostrates the deepest places of his soul, and that is to be the recipient of crazy, undeserved love. Who am I that someone should risk their very life to gratify my superficial whims? For when my men returned, they brought with them water from the well of Bethlehem. They had broken through the Philistine lines, fought their way through, just so I could have a drink of water from home! It was too much!

I could not drink it. It would be like drinking their blood. Only a tyrant would demand that men risk their lives for something so small and personal, and may God himself forbid that I ever become such a man. There is only one who is worthy of such devotion, and I am not that one. So, totally undone by such a demonstration of love, I poured out their gift to the Lord in wonder and thanksgiving and with many tears. And my prayer is that all my days I may show the Lord such devotion as my mighty men showed me. For he alone is worthy.

The Father

He waits. Leaning from the window, he watches the road with a gaze that pierces through the dust to search the distance. One day, very soon, it will be his child stumbling along there, and he will be the first to see.

He waits. He bears the unkindness of time and distance, knowing that they are part of the process, part of the story. Some children need to leave home in order to truly come home. It is in the pain of the journey that they learn to see what has always been there for them in their Father’s heart: the love that cannot be measured or contained, the mercy that can never be deserved. It was always there, but only eyes washed with many tears learn to see it clearly.

He waits. All the supplies for the banquet are ready, and the fatted calf is penned apart. The ovens are heated and the table is set. All he is waiting for is the coming child.

He waits. The seasons do not dim his eyes or erode his patience. The time when his child arrives will be the right time, the perfect time. There will be so much joy that the pain of waiting will be forgotten and put aside, like a dream is put aside when you awake. And his joy and his child’s joy will be one and the same.

He waits. He knows that there is muttering in the background, raised eyebrows and dark looks.  His love is a scandal, and the horrified gossip doesn’t go away. Shouldn’t love be only for the deserving? Shouldn’t there be a boundary, a limit, a line drawn in the sand? Shouldn’t the ones who break the rules, who dare to walk away, have to suffer? Shouldn’t the father’s bounty be reserved for those who work in the Father’s house? He shakes his head sadly. Don’t they know that it is sons, not slaves, to whom the inheritance is given? It is the tie of blood that holds his children to his heart, they were born to be his, and his love will never leave them.

He waits. Yes, there are other things he does, for his house must be kept ready and prosperous, but that is only the means to an end. His child is the passion of his heart.

He waits. And one day it happens, a stumbling speck appears in the distance, so hunched and broken that only the eyes of love could hope to recognise the Father’s child. Now, surmises the watching household, it is time for the Father to stand upon his dignity and demonstrate his authority. But the Father cares nothing for that, only for his child. He doesn’t wait for the struggling one to come and humiliate himself.  Instead, caring nothing for his own humiliation, he gathers up his robes and runs! He will wait for nothing more, no apologies or arguments, there is only one thing he wants, one thing he has been waiting for: to gather his lost child in his arms and bring the wanderer home. Nothing else. His wait is over.

Not as it should be

The plan should have worked perfectly, should have silenced once and for all that deep, secret nagging whisper in his heart that he was not as grand and as great as he wanted to be. And after all, was the point of being king, and having the whole bureaucracy of Babylon at your disposal, if you couldn’t get your plans to work out without a hitch? And, what was worse, he couldn’t even blame his bureaucrats for the problem. They had done exactly what he asked.

It had all begun with the idea of the statue, enormously tall, too tall to fit inside the city: the glorified image of himself made of pure gold, that the people might see and marvel at the greatness of their king, and all those officials, so full of their scornful self-importance would have to acknowledge he was greater. And wasn’t a king, such as himself, the mighty ruler of an empire, as great as any god? He had defeated all the surrounding peoples, their gods had surrendered in his favour, so wasn’t he greater than any of them? (Alright, there was the matter of the God of the Hebrews, who they claimed had let them be defeated as a punishment, and was in charge of the whole process, but that made no sense)  So, just as they went to the temple to worship the gods through their images, shouldn’t they give the same devotion to their king?

So, when the day came there they were assembled on that plain -- all the dignitaries of the Babylonian Empire from the satraps to the claptraps. They all knew what was required of them, the herald had proclaimed it: when all the musicians played they were to bow down and worship the glorious image of their king. Ninety feet tall it stood, unbearably bright in the sunshine, wonderful enough to provoke awe and worship in anyone. But to make sure they understood that this was no frivolous request, the fiery furnace had been assembled right at the front where they could not miss it,  and they knew what fate awaited any who disobeyed the command.

It should go perfectly, and he could feel the excitement mounting inside him. If worship did so much for the gods that they constantly demanded it, shouldn’t it do the same for him? The music played, jarringly, majestically, and he quivered with anticipation as he saw the people bowing down. Except .. what was this? In the middle distance three men remained upright.  Infuriated, he ordered them to be brought before him. When they came up, he recognised them – the three brilliant young Hebrews, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. How dare they spoil his special plan, and set such a heinous example of defying his divine majesty!

His fragile honour was endangered, but there was a remedy for that! He would make an example of them, humiliating them with his rage before the whole gathering. But it had no effect. They would rather die than bow down and worship him! Well, let them die! That, at least, should have a salutary effect on all who watched. If any wouldn’t worship him from genuine admiration, then let them worship him from fear. These men were spoiling his day and would be destroyed. Then things would be just as they should!

So the furnace of his wrath was heated way beyond human endurance, and the three men were cast in. And that should have fixed things. But instead it was the final disintegration, for the men did not burn up into nothing, but rather walked freely among the flames, and a fourth one walked with them, and He was utterly glorious, like a son of the gods. Like a spear thrust through his vital organs, the king felt the agony of defeat. Here was a God who made both his statues and his statutes look like puny and ridiculous games. To try and pit himself against such a God was a pathetic absurdity. No wonder nothing had gone  the way that it should!

The Gift

It was the ebb-tide of our faith and hope. The inner landscape of our hearts was formless and void, and darkness lay over it all, though the spring sunshine burned brightly. We thought that we had seen the shape of mercy and redemption, and that the time of the fulfilment of God’s mighty promises was at hand. We had seen, we had marvelled, we had loved; but now the one we had seen and loved lay in the tomb, and all our expectations were buried with him. And from the tomb there is no returning.

Our shared grief should have brought us closer, but somehow sorrow is the most isolating of emotions. We were each locked in our own darkness as we walked along that road, making limp conversation to try and express the throbbing misery that locked us each apart. Then the Stranger joined and asked what we were discussing. He must have been the only person anywhere near Jerusalem who was unaware of the one story everyone was discussing – the crucifixion of Jesus. We told him the story, and it was then that the words burst from me finally expressing the grinding pain within: “We thought He would be the one to redeem Israel!”

For a fleeting moment I thought I saw such a look on his face as if the joyous laughter of heaven were about to spill over; but it was gone so fast that I must have imagined it. Then he proceeded to open the scriptures to us in a way that we had never heard before, showing how the Messiah was one who would come to suffer and to die, and that this would be the way that the Kingdom of God would come in. It was the most amazing exposition of scripture I had ever heard, and we were so engrossed that it was with surprise that we realised we had reached Emmaus. We urged him to come in and dine with us – it was late in the day and besides, there was such comfort in his words and presence that we were loath to see him go.

So he entered the house with us, and changed our lives forever. His words had touched our hearts, but now his actions were transformative.  And yet they were such normal, everyday actions: he took the bread, he gave thanks, and then he broke the bread to pass to us. And in the breaking of the bread the Saviour was revealed. He handed us the bread, and in that moment we saw, really saw, who he was, and were struck dumb with commingled love, joy and worship. And even as we struggled to respond to the unthinkable, the outcome we had never considered, he vanished from our sight and we were left gaping at each other.

               It was Jesus!

               He isn’t dead any more! He’s risen

               What has He done? What has God done?

               How could we have been so blind, so stupid, so slow to believe?

               How could we have doubted him?

               Didn’t our hearts burn within us while he spoke to us along the road?

I looked at the piece of bread in my hand, and absorbed the fact that I had just been given the greatest gift of all. God himself had come, and sat down at my very ordinary table, to show me in person,  (why me? Oh my Precious Lord, why me?), that death had been overcome, the ransom had been paid, and the temple curtain had ripped for a very specific reason. He was the one whom God had sent to redeem Israel, but not just Israel,  the whole world was his. With one accord we rose from the table and ran back to Jerusalem again, and did not feel the weariness of the journey. There was one word in our mouths and one song on our lips: ‘The Lord has risen!’

Seeking Wisdom

All I had ever wanted to do was learn. I wanted with all my heart to understand God and his ways. Wasn’t studying the Law of God a fitting occupation for His people? Not if you’re a woman. I learned that very early, from my family, from my village. My older sister, Martha, only ever wanted to learn the things that women were supposed to want to learn – how to cook and clean and spin and weave and all the other responsibilities that belong to running a home properly. And it’s not as if I could disagree. Of course those things mattered; without them we would have no food or clothing, and our homes would soon be unfit to live in. Without those skills we could not live! Patiently, and possibly patronisingly as well, she would explain it to my frustrated tears, and I would seethe with my confused desires. How could I deny that we needed food and clothing? But ... but ... how could she not see that there was something even more important? All I wanted to do was Know God, to understand the mystery of who He was and why we alone, out of all the peoples on earth, were entrusted with His truth. Apparently that was very wrong of me.

Years passed. Yes, in spite of myself I learned to cook and sweep and do all the things every woman had to learn, and because I was my mother’s daughter, I learned to do them properly. But my heart remained insatiable.

And then we met the Master, and it was as if He was, in Himself, the very Word of God I had been longing to learn. He spoke wisdom, but it was more than that, He spoke life; and I felt something long desiccated inside me start reaching out tendrils of hope. He did not have a contempt for women, like so many rabbis do; I felt included in His words and His regard from the very start.  Was it any wonder if, whenever He was near, I hung around within hearing of His words whenever I possibly could?

And so He came, with His disciples, and stayed as a guest in our home. And, when I hung around on the fringes of the group, straining to hear, to learn, to fill my soul with wonder and freedom, He looked over at me, straight into my yearning eyes, and beckoned to a place right at his feet. I could hardly believe it, but I wasn’t going to disobey. Eagerly I took my place, noticing the reactions of some of his disciples as I did so. They were shocked that a woman should join them in the posture of a disciple, but how could they say anything when it was the Master Himself who had decided?

It was my sister who was scandalised and said so. When she came looking for me to help in the Kitchen, and saw me sitting amongst the men, her immediate response was to send me back to the kitchen – a woman’s proper place with the pots and pans and no unwomanly ideas. It was then that the Master spoke, and His words healed a dark wound inside me and opened a door I had thought was eternally shut. “Martha,” He said, in that way which managed to be so understanding and yet so firmly directive,  “you’re worrying about so many things, but only one thing really matters, and that’s the one which your sister Mary has chosen. It is the better thing, and it will not be taken away from her.”

Somehow it doesn’t matter so much anymore when people regard me as being unwomanly. I now know that God Himself delights in my learning everything I can about Him, and how does anyone else’s opinion matter compared to that? 

The Boundary

She had always lived right on the edge, both literally and figuratively: literally, because her house was right on the city wall; figuratively because she inhabited the outskirts of society, in a kind of no-man’s-land (or, more accurately, no-woman’s-land). Living on the wall had never bothered her, after all, she had to live somewhere, and this was a position that gave her (and her customers) some privacy to come and go as they needed. Living at the edge of society was not so pleasant. A woman alone had to make a living as best she could, and she was fortunate to have a property. But a woman innkeeper was always suspect; for different reasons both men and women assumed that she was only too happy to give her customers (who, after all, were almost always men) whatever else their lustful hearts desired of her. It was very wearying to have to steer her days through the buffeting currents of male lust and female disdain. And now, if rumour was true, her property was about to become totally worthless. It was time to rethink everything.

When the men came, she knew who they were, and willingly gave them shelter. There was something about them she liked – a kind of cleanness and honesty. They looked at her as if she were a person, and not just a chattel for their use. And besides, if she were to have any future at all, she would need them. She had much to consider.

Rationally, it seemed an easy choice. If even half of what was whispered about them was true, there was no future at all unless she cast her lot in with them. They were not a large people in numbers or military strength, but the trail of victories and miracles that accompanied their march indicated that something remarkable was happening. They claimed (this was well-known) that it was the favour of their God which had enabled their success, and she saw no reason to doubt it. Besides, she had long since lost faith with the Baals of her people. However, it was a huge step. She had crossed many boundaries in her time, losing her respectability in order to live in relative freedom and comfort, but this boundary was much harder. It meant giving up her own people, her own city, and becoming one of an alien people with an alien god. It meant starting from the bottom all over again, knowing that she would come among them as one of a despised and conquered race. But wasn’t the alternative death? She found herself praying to this God she did not know.

For hours she struggled and it was only when she heard the approaching footsteps on the street outside, and rushed to hide her guests under the flax spread out on her rooftop, that she realised that her mind was already made up. The very act of hiding the spies was a betrayal of her people – at least they would certainly see it as such! Somewhere, at some deep place inside herself, she had already made her mind up. She had crossed an unthinkable boundary, the only thing that remained was make it actual. She didn’t think it would be a problem, after all, her quick thinking had already saved their lives. By every custom of human decency they owed her a life ...

It was only much later, when Jericho had fallen and she was safely in the Israelite camp and betrothed to a wonderful man that she looked back and marvelled. It had been a boundary as deep as a mighty chasm, between life and death, between the false, mean gods of her people and the God of loving-kindness, yet, by some miracle, she had crossed it with such a little step!

A Painful Memory

It is sweet to sit again on the branch of a tree, to breathe the clean, wide-open air, and lift my wings into the sunshine. Day by day I watch the waters recede, and I know that very soon my mate will join me, we will start a family and joy together in this precious freedom. We will watch together as the scars heal in this broken world, as all green and growing things rush to eradicate the sodden, empty places, and as our fellow creatures go forth, two by two, to fill this remade landscape with their future. We will watch and we will wonder, for strange and marvellous are the ways of the Almighty, and His dealings with humankind are a mystery that hurts our feathered minds.

For pain lies just behind us: pain and terror and calamity as the whole world was unmade and reborn while we sheltered in our storm tossed boat knowing the very heights of the mountains lay far beneath us. We sheltered, in the mighty boat, eight human beings and creatures beyond count, creatures of every kind; and all the rest, kin, acquaintance and strangers, perished beneath the torment of the waters. We were glad of the pounding rain, so that we could neither see nor hear the world beyond our walls, we knew there was horror out there, even while there was safety and noise and bustle inside.

It took generations of our kind for that boat to be built; my parents, and my parents’ parents, and who knows how many more parents of parents before that watched from their nest tree as the man Noah and his sons toiled at their monstrous boat, the frame and the decks and the outsides – and all the insides had to be fitted out to accommodate the various creatures, and all the outsides had to be coated in pitch – a most unpleasant smell to have near your nest, but at this point the story had become our family legend, so we couldn’t leave now! And then the food – all the different kinds of fodder that had to be brought on board, and something for the humans as well!

But in all that time, not one of the neighbours took them seriously, they would laugh and jeer, even make up rude songs about it, and sometimes sneak up under cover of darkness and throw all kinds of filth on it, till, eventually, Noah and his sons had to take turns guarding it at night. And all the time we doves sat hidden in the foliage and watched and listened to everything, and resolved that, whatever it was really all about, we wanted to be part of whatever Noah was doing.

For Noah was a good man, kind to everyone and rarely provoked, no matter what his neighbours said and did. When his neighbours mocked him, he would plead with them, sometimes with tears, to take God seriously, warning them of a great destruction to come. But the more he pleaded, the wilder and rougher they became, and the more they did evil in front of him, defiantly aiming to shock him. And on the day that God brought the animals to the ark, they laughed louder than ever. But on the day that the rains began, their laughter was silenced. If God Himself had not shut the door, Noah would have opened to their pleading, but it was too late. And as Noah wept for them we perched above him and wept also, for we love the things that make for peace and we mourned for the pain of such a broken world.

And now we have a new beginning, and we will rejoice at the sun as it rises each morning. But we will not forget the terror of the waters, or the great loss that the world endured, and we will pray that such a thing need never happen again

Paschal Moon

I see your bright fullness lighting up the April sky, and I remember that Easter is coming.

I see the stars dim and fade against your light and I remember that you were made to reflect the greater glory of the sun with a gentle light that is kinder to our eyes. We cannot see all things by your light, but nor do we stumble in the darkness. We too were made to be reflectors of the light of God, each in our small capacity, into the darkness of this world. But there was One whose light was the life of men.

I watch the dark clouds race across your tranquil face. They cannot change you, they only affect us. This is the nature of clouds, and the nature of the changeable currents of this world. We are a vulnerable and fickle people, and we project that fickleness onto you – yet you ever keep your face fixed toward the greater light, where your true allegiance lies, it is only towards us that you change. And I think of the Unchanging God with worship wonder and joy.

And I wonder what you have seen, riding high above the centuries as the spinning spheres mark out the passage of time. Do you remember that first Passover? Were they still painting the blood on the doors when you rose, or were they finished by then, and inside eating that feast with its promise of redemption? I am not sure if you could see the angel of death pass over the land, but you would have heard the mighty cry of grief that rose up from every household where the firstborn were destroyed. And you would have seen a nation of slaves march out of Egypt into a miracle they could barely understand.

And then, so many years later, you saw Him there, while you cast strange, twisted shadows from the olives. You saw Him there, praying in anguish, and you marveled that those who loved Him best could sleep through His pain. You saw the weight of His torment bearing down upon Him, till His sweat fell like mighty drops of blood, and you saw the love which held Him steadfast to his agonizing purpose. You could not turn your face away. Your light glinted on their armor as the soldiers came to arrest Him. You saw the traitor’s kiss and the despair of His friends.

By the time you rose the next night they had cut Him down from the cross and put Him in the tomb, so that His body would not hang there to desecrate the Sabbath. And all the world was dark and sad – for it seemed their only hope had died.

But then, Sunday morning, while it was yet dark and you still lingered in the sky, you saw the miracle take place that no human eyes beheld. You saw the very angels of God roll away the stone that sealed His tomb and the Risen Lord walk forth. You saw the women, who set out while it was still dark, turn their sorrow-burdened steps towards His burial place, and no doubt you smiled to yourself in anticipation of the wonderful surprise that awaited them there. And, as your light faded into the dawning of day, you knew that a new morning had begun for the whole creation; for death, the last enemy, had been defeated, and all the promises were beginning to come true. And you shine down on us still, watching our folly and our desperate prayers, as you wait with us for the consummation of all things.

Journey's End

In terms of distance, it was probably the shortest journey he had ever taken since the time he first learned how to walk. But the distance was the least important part, except as a cause to marvel that he ever covered any distance at all. Nor was it so very life-changing at the time, though later, when he looked back, it assumed tremendous significance, because then he understood both the big picture and the intimate wonder of it all. Of course there had been emotion at the time – how could there not be? – but life was full of peril, accident and adventure, and living in the emotions of each moment he had not stopped to ponder the meaning. Passive reflection had never been his style, anyway. He knew, from one of those odd, momentary vignettes that take hold of the memory, that he had been wiping his wet face afterwards, but he could not have said whether it was the rain, or his tears, or just the wild spray of the storm-tossed lake. But there was emotion enough now, in the recollection ..

By any normal reckoning, the whole scenario was preposterous. There they were, out in the boat in a raging storm, in the exhausting pre-dawn darkness, where they would never have gone at all without the Master’s express orders. They had no idea what was going on, and no energy to speculate, it was taking all their strength to row against the strong pull of the waves. And then … In the confusion of the moment he had never been sure who had been the first to see .. there was that figure, oddly luminous in the fitful storm-light, walking across the top of the water. There wasn’t much that could distract a bunch of experienced fishermen in the middle of a storm, but this succeeded:

‘Are my eyes playing ticks?’ Look – over there ..’ ‘What is it?’ ‘I can’t see .. oh, yes, now I can.’ It’s coming closer!’ ‘Is it .. a ghost?’

It was only when Jesus called out reassurance that they knew who it was. Why he was walking across the storm-crazed waters was another matter altogether, but not one Peter was even thinking of at the time. Instead, asking permission, before he even stopped to think about it, he was there, out of the boat and on top of the water, doing the totally impossible. It was the shortest journey he ever walked. Just a few steps, glorious, impossible steps, and then he realized that this could not be happening, and, gazing at the wild waves all about him, he took his eyes off Jesus, his courage failed, and he was sinking in the waves, just like he would have expected to at any normal time.

But the waves did not close over him; that was not his journey’s end. Instead, even as he cried out for help, the strong hand of God took hold of him, and he was held secure by his Master in the midst of the storm. At the time it was a matter for wonder and worship; but now, looking back, he knew it was even more. He had stepped out of the boat and walked into a living parable, and the truth at the heart of it would sustain him all his days. For he knew now, in that heart-deep place where doubt has no penetration, that this is what his ultimate journey’s end would also be. He would step out into the raging chaos of death, and this same Jesus, in love immeasurable, would already have hold of him, and would carry him to safety, and into glory beyond his power to imagine. And that would be the greatest journey of all.

The Healer

He had mercy on them, he had always had mercy on them. From the beginning of all things, he was not only the Maker, but the Healer, for his children were broken and they lived in pain: pain of body, pain of mind, pain of heart and pain of soul. Every one of them was disabled in their deepest places; every one of them needed the restoration that only he could give.

To the man and the woman, naked and afraid in the garden, he offered a covering for the deep wound of their shame and a promise to restore their broken hope.

To those writhing in the agony of poison, desperate and helpless in their pain, expecting to die in the wilderness with no belonging place, he offered the simplest of remedies. All they had to do was turn their heads and open their eyes .. a repentance so very small ..

Their cries continually went up before him.

He offered liberty to slaves, and dignity to women. He saw their pain, and his mercy overflowed. He came to the desperate concubine, and she named him “the God who sees”, because, while everyone else ignored or objectified her, the Lord of all that is acknowledged and responded to her pain.

He came among them, he walked among them: a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. He carried their pain, he carried their brokenness, ultimately he carried his light down into their darkness and his life down into their death, and their sin down into his absolute forgiveness. He was made man, and the pain and shame and degradation of being human assaulted him from every angle.

They came to him and he healed them: the lame, the blind, the deaf, those with strange fevers or withered, useless limbs. But it was never only their bodies, though relief for their physical pain was often the first thing that they sought. The God who had made them knew their nature, he knew how fearfully and wonderfully their flesh and their spirit were intertwined.

And so he spoke to them. He commended their stuttering faith, he pronounced forgiveness to the man who was brought with a paralysed body, he acknowledged his acceptance (not revulsion) for the woman who had bled for twelve shameful years. And for the lepers, the most despised and rejected of people, he offered not only healing of their terrible disfigurement but a reminder of how to be received back into the community of their people.
And the fools, blinded by his familiar humanity, said to him, “Physician heal yourself”. And they could not see that it was their own unbelief that got in the way. That stopped them from receiving from the abundance of their giving. Meanwhile, the helpless and the hopeless, the ones who had nothing, and therefore nothing to lose, received with open-handed wonder. The demonized were there, in all their agony, and he spoke with authority and their tormentors were gone. And for some, death itself was turned backwards, foreshadowing a greater resurrection.

But the deepest healing of all could not be done by words alone. Sin and death must be overcome from the inside. So, open-eyed and fixed of face, he went forward into death and hell, through impossible agony of body and soul, and then returned from the dead to become, in himself, the way by which the terrors of death and judgment could be overcome.

And still he heals, and his children come with their broken prayers and his mercy still pours forth to them. And one day he will come again, in his final act of healing, and all that is shall no longer groan in brokenness, but be made anew; and a new song shall fill the new heavens and new earth, for all creation shall be utterly well.

Alone

He was thrilled at the beauty: the sunlight filtered green as it passed through the leaves, the softness of the grass, the brightness of fruits and flowers. The music of birdsong and running water flowed gently around him, and there were subtle perfumes in the air. And yet, even here in this paradise, something was incomplete. He had everything, and yet there was something more that was needed He did not know what the problem was until the Lord spoke, “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.”

Alone. He rolled the word around his mind, seeking to take hold of the flavor of the thought. What did it mean? That he was missing a .. helper. This was another word to ponder, a strong word, a puissant word. A helper was someone who came to stand beside you, and share their strength with you. Language dropped full-formed into his mind, but making a living meaning of the concept was another matter. He felt the Lord smile gently at his ignorance.

Then the animals came, and they delighted him. As he examined each one, new knowledge flowed into him. They embodied so many things that he needed to take hold of. For how could he rule them unless he understood them? And as he saw these things, and reveled in them, he named the creatures and spoke the meaning of each one. There was Bear: large and round and strong, with long fur and long claws and a love of sweet things. There was Weasel: small and sleek and sharp and swift. There was Antelope: graceful and elegant, running and leaping for the sheer, primal joy of movement. There was Sloth: slow and languorous, content to simply be in each unfolding moment of time. And there was Ant, so tiny he had to bend right down to see it, and so busy that he marveled at its ceaseless activity. Each creature was uniquely itself, yet none of them was .. alone. For the Lord had made a mate for each one of them, an exact counterpart, a she-creature unlike the he-creature, and yet, even more, so very much alike. She-bear was so clearly the match and counterpart for He-Bear; She-Weasel was so clearly the match and counterpart for He-Weasel. But where was his match and counterpart?

“Now you understand,” the Lord smiled. Then He caused a deep sleep to fall upon the man, and took part of the man’s own substance, from his side, near his heart, to make the perfect counterpart, the strong helper, the one who could match with him breath for breath, thought for thought and joy for joy. She was harmony to his melody and lifter to his worship. She was strength to his weakness and weakness to his strength. She was passion to his calmness and calmness to his passion. She was his tears and his laughter, and she would teach him love. She was absolutely equal, and wonderfully different.

The man awoke to wonder. He recognized himself in her, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. He was no longer alone.