Thank God, He's Not Here: An Easter Tale

Mutually composed by the SOULTRUST collective, which includes Melva Sampson, David Anderson Hooker, Ronnie Galvin, Stephen Lewis, Michael Wright, and Melvin Bray

"I [tell you a] beautiful mystery, my friends. Trees become seeds, that then become trees, that bear their own fruit, and others get to feast off the fruit of their spirits."

The elderly woman made her way painstakingly down the path through the dark wood.  The sun had not yet risen, teetering on the edge of now and infinite past and future.  All three seemed to meet in this moment so pregnant with promise.

She had labored this way many times before, each step as familiar as the dew that moisturized her bronze leathery feet along her path.  "How beautiful on the hills are the feet of her who brings good news," Oya whispered to me in the softness of a breeze.

In her Easter best.

The elder leaned hard on the knobbly walking stick that steadied her gate.  Lean, step-step.  Or was it step-step, lean.  Every so often she would pause, catch her breath, gather her strength, and continue.  Or maybe she was waiting for us to catch up—I wouldn't be surprised.

There's so much I don't know.  Like, I was never quite certain whether the story she told us each year on that day was her story or the story of one of her ancestors.  Perhaps those are one in the same, so it may not much matter.  Yet I was curious.

To guide those of us less familiar with the way through the darkness she would sing, first softly, as if trying to remember a melody twice forgotten, but with each new tree, more boldly as if her very continuance depended on getting it out, "Death could not hold you down... You are the risen king!"

We broke past the last row of what were at this point sparse trees into not a clearing, but rather the most barren assemblage of dry rock face one ever did see—crags and boulders which caught the rays of daylight and threw them like spears at our eyes.  We could taste the aridness even before it came into view, a chalky film in the mouth.  Coughs and sneezes filled the air.  Those who had scarfs and handkerchiefs covered our mouths and noses.  Our disparate band congealed and journeyed on together.


Though the ground was now more uneven, her steps were far more sure.  She led us along the edge of a ravine, down to a particular ledge in front of the gaping mouth of a cave.  There she invited each of us to peer into the darkness.

“Mind of My Mind” by John Jude Palencar,
a visual allusion to the novel by Octavia Butler 
of the same name

"What did you see?" she asked.

"Nothing," we agreed.

"Then see again," she cajoled. "Don't just look—SEE!  Give your eyes time to adjust to that which enlightenment, illumination, our very sun often obscures."

There she goes again, speaking in riddles.  How does light obscure?  I loved it.

We all moved back to the opening.  This time taking time.

"What did you SEEEEEEEE?  What did you smell, taste, hear, feel?"

"Emptiness," "Loneliness," "Mustiness,"  "Wailing," "Loss," "Void," "Conjuring," "Promise,"  we rattled off in succession.

"Better!  That's right.  That's exactly what we saw that day, long ago, when we stopped looking at what wasn't and bothered to see what is.

"At first look, all we knew was that 'He is not here.'  That's all we could say to one another.

"We had gotten up early, oh so early, wanting to arrive with the sun to do right by our dearly departed.  He had been taken from us at the moment we had just started to really believe that the new world of which he spoke was possible.  We—those whom society and tradition had put on the outside of all good possibilities—had surged into Jerusalem that year in celebration of a Passover that for the first time in a long time felt like it could include us.  We were an Ubuntu uprising—"I am because we are; we are because I am."  Then it was all stolen from us, in an instant.  The wind was snatched from our lungs!  We lay paralyzed, gasping for air, as they threw him in detention, beat him within an inch of life, and then hung him high enough for all to see him take his last breath, writhing in pain.  'And thus ends the world you thought possible,' the cruelest of them said, mocking us.

"So that Sunday morning when we got here, where our friend Joseph said he had laid him, and Jesus was not there—." For a moment her words failed.

Gathering herself, she continued, "I cannot tell you how much we had already grieved.  How I myself had nearly drowned in a churning sea of hopelessness.  How many times I had prayed Yemaya, servant of the Eternal, would take me in my grief.  When she would not respond, I cried out to her darker twin, Olokun, from the depths of my despair.  Neither would offer me the release for which I begged.  All creation simply stood vigil, ever present with me, but leaving me to feel every bit of the pain of separation that had swallowed me.

"What would become of this kingdom... kindom... other world Jesus had called us into, without him here?

"'Why do you look for the living among the dead?' The query crashed into our collective consciousness like a battering-ram finally breaching the gates of our understanding.

Endarkenment

"'He's not here,' one of my newfound kin mutter to herself.  'He's not here,' another echoed.  'Why would we expect him to be?' I asked of no one in particular.  And it was then-and-there that we began to see the life teeming in the darkness of that tomb.  'O, can't you see it?  Can't you see it?'

"Chile," one of the aunties in crowd commiserated, "that's like when the doctors looked at my test results and saw a womb that held only death.  My spouse and I took a chance on a healer who was willing to see from a future teeming with life a child yearning to be born free!"  She winked at her daughter, whom they had named Frii, and smiled in deep satisfaction.

"That's right, Beloved!  Even as the womb is a portal from the realm of the ancestors to this one, so too the tomb is a portal from this reality to that one.  Their connection creates a continuous resurrection cycle in both realms—although it must be acknowledged some are lost to the cycle prematurely, violently, or because of lack of access to basic dignities.

"Jesus was an ancestor now, reunited with the Eternal Ancestor of us all.  Body or not, whether we were given a chance to clean and dress and perform last rites or not, he was no longer of this realm, and through our entanglement with him, neither were we, not completely.  The day would eventually arrive when we too would become ancestors, and we should celebrate it, even as we celebrate when those from the ancestral realm choose to be born anew back into this realm, as children.  But in the meantime, we had been given a gift: to be able to see on both sides of the veil in every direction.  Time for us was no longer a straight line with all our possibilities wholly contingent yet conveniently detached from what came before.  Time was now a circle, in which our history, our present, and our future are all in the now."

It was then that one of the teens interjected, "But don't most shapes, Ms. Maria, not just circles, ultimately find their way back to their starting point—triangles, squares, infinities, even shapes as elaborate as the adinkra?"

A audible gasp rose up from our adhoc band.  We all held our breath wondering what might happen next.

The elder let out the heartiest of laughs.  "Heeeey, I guess they do, little one.  So let's say, our sense of time, with each new shape it took," she winked, "began to double back on itself, spiral upward, and in so doing reveal infinite possibilities.  Grounded in the realities of the present, we were able to fully acknowledge the past for all its less than idealness—every pain, every ache, every sorrow, every injustice, every opportunity missed, every responsibility now finally taken—and, at the same time, project a future no longer constrained by the limitations of that past."

We all sat dumbfounded.  Every time I had heard it, year after year, I had no earthly idea what to do with it.  This year, for the first time, I decided to ask.

At first, I thought she was going to ignore me, because she started back up the skirt of the ravine.  But as she made her way, she continued talking slowly, between breaths, "I can't tell you what you should do, my dear.  I can, however, tell you what we did.  We told everybody about the future we could now see and got about the business of living it into existence.

"[She] who brings good news."

"First we told our friends.  After the lynching, many of us had drifted back to the home where Jesus and the twelve had celebrated Passover Seder.  We were able to hide out there from temple and Roman law enforcement.  It would become the new unofficial headquarters of the early Jesus Way movement, like Lazarus, Martha, and Mary's house had been before.  We ended up working out of it for nearly two months, until the miracle at Shavuot, the 'Festival of Weeks'.  The owners were such a wonderful family to take us in like that; I wish I could remember their names.

"After our multiple different experiences at the tomb—including the chance I got to be the first one to actually see him again—we decided to just take care of each other, to be chosen family.  Jesus even dropped in on us a few times to tell us how proud of us he was.  Yes, when asked, we would tell those who inquired who had not been a part of Jesus' messiah campaign about the empty tomb, but that wasn't where the real action was.  The real action was in refusing to return to the ways of empire—the self-interest, the rugged individualism, the greed, the exploitation of anyone weaker than ourselves.  No more of that kind of communal self-hatred, that was antithetical to the Jesus Way.  We were committed to his example.  No one went hungry when he was around, so we weren't going to let anyone within arm's reach go hungry around us.  He was our healthcare, so we provided the same level of care for each other.  When, after Jesus had scared away the offering swindlers and loan sharks, the temple priests restarted the temple debtor system that had labeled us perpetual sinners, rather than try to get back in good standing with that system, we worshiped on our own, not only forgiving each others' shortcomings but, together, making up for them.  Everyday, more people came to join us.  Some we had never seen before."

By now we were back within the shade and shadow of the wood we had picked our way through in the dark. "I'm not sure Empire even noticed what was happening at the time.  Crucifixions were a dime a dozen in those days, public entertainment.  Pilate, the governor of Palestine, kept doing what he had always done.  And Caesar, in Rome, could care less about us for the time being.  The temple rulers aligned with empire though, upon hearing about the empty tomb, sought to pay off the guards who had first corroborated the story of Jesus' resurrection with their own telling of an encounter with an Orisha that had appeared just before break of day, flung away the stone that had been placed in front of the tomb with a wave of his hand, and told Jesus to wake up.  True to the way of empire, the Roman guards took the money, of course.  Some reneged on the testimony they had given, but not all.  And as you know, the self-interest, individualism, greed, exploitation, and endless extraction of empire is alive and well.

"However, we never really saw it as our job to pull up all the weeds of empire.  We were more focused on planting and tending the seeds of the kindom of God.  We figured, if we fed and watered them enough, they would grow strong enough to crowd out the weeds and eventually bear fruit."  With that, she waved her free hand at the trees all around. 

The Seed by Jason O'Brien

"We have watched and understood, even allowing for some mystery, how a seed becomes a tree.  Learn now the parable of how a tree becomes a seed.  The Empire’s attempts to cut down and kill our ancestral tree only served to cause that tree to flower and seed this now ancient, multigenerational, transcontinental diverse forest for the Eternal Ancestor of all creation to inhabit."  She paused.  We had made it back to her home in the thick of the wood.

"I leave you with this beautiful mystery, my friends. Trees become seeds, that then become trees, that bear their own fruit, and others get to feast off the fruit of their spirits. In like manner, we become ancestors, who then become children, who themselves take on the responsibility of producing resurrection... and their progeny feast off the futures that we birth into reality.  Asé?"

"Asé," we muttered in response, just as pleasantly perplexed as ever.

With that she started up the walkway toward her cottage, assuring us as she leaned heavy on her walking stick with each step, "In due time, my dears, in due time."

Devils... Pharaohs... Herods... Presidents

"So the dragon was enraged with the woman, 

and went to make war with the rest of her 

children." Revelation 12

"What are our orders, Captain?"

"Keep them out!"

"Who out?"

"That caravan of messengers! Those invading hoards!"

"What kind of weapon is that? The light, it's blinding! I can't see!"


("...For unto you is born this day....")


"DAMN! It's too late."

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't you hear them. He's already made it behind enemy lines. Peace is already with humanity; goodwill is their's for the enacting."

"If they figure it out, they'll never stop #RESISTing our efforts to keep them at odds."

"So you'll have to keep them from figuring it out," interjects a previously unheard more sinister voice behind them. Instantly, the soldiers snap to attention.

"Yes, sir, Gen. Dragon, sir!"

A DACA Christmas

"There arose a king... who knew not Joseph [or his family]." Exodus 1

I

It had happened so many times before. Circumstances had arisen that compelled a father to take unfathomable risks to protect his family. In reference to some, it would innocently be called "migration," "pilgrimage," "fleeing persecution," or even "entrepreneurship". In reference to others, it was villainized as "illegal immigration," "border jumping," "evading the cops," "breaking the law." It all depended who was in charge at the time.

The risk was that there was no path to citizenship for them in either place, the land from which they came or the land to which they were running. No Pax Romana passport to protect them. They were an occupied people, the disinherited, Palestinians without a recognized state, and once they crossed the border into Egypt from their native lands, their future would be deeply uncertain.

Of course, Egypt was Rome too. However, the local powers were different. Herod had no jurisdiction there. Still, Aegyptus (Roman Egypt) presented its own sets of challenges, its own dangers. Joseph had to risk it though, for his children. The message had been clear: baby Jesus' |hay-SOOS-sez| life was in danger. And that put the entire family in danger too.

They didn't have time to go through the proper channels. They had to escape in the middle of the night. All they could hope is that their visiting Persian benefactors, the Magi from the Far East, would keep their word and not return to Herod to tell him where the the baby was. Maybe that would give the family enough time to get away.

II

Today marked seven years since their exile began. Jesus |hay-SOOS| had just turned nine. Tonight they would celebrate, but first Jesus and his brothers had to go register again.

It always felt weird to him to have to reenact the circumstances of his birth year after year. Of course, he didn't remember anything about that day himself, but his mother and father had been telling him the story of it for as long as he could remember. The particulars were a little different in the annual reenactment, but some of the parallels were uncanny. A law passed that they would have to be counted. People trying to make home in a place that would not welcome them. The benign neglect or indifference of many. The shared struggle of others. The palpable hostility of some. Being forced to pay "taxes". Only now there were no messengers from God bearing witness with songs of peace and goodwill, unless you wanted to count the fact that his parents always threw a party that day to mark it as something other than a day for the state to remind them that their lives were not their own.

Jesus went with his siblings to meet their obligation. The kids always had to go alone. Their parents could have been deported on sight. Though he felt much too old to do so under normal circumstances, Jesus clung to his oldest brother's hand as they neared the door. Iago |e-YAH-go| squeezed his hand back reassuringly.

The lady who took their information was nice enough, as if that made a difference. Perhaps it did, but it didn't lessen the injustice of the situation any. There were lots of Jews there. Lots of other people too, anyone who wasn't a Roman, Greek, or Egyptian citizen (in descending order of status). One by one their vitals were taken: name, age, weight, height, hair color, eye color, distinguishing marks, ethnicity, place of origin, current address. Records were updated. Then the point of it all—the fee.

"Why must the poor and working people pay so much so often when they can least afford it? Why are we treated as criminals, when we are not?" Jesus asked his older brother as they headed home.

"I'm not sure," Iago replied. "I guess that's what happens when someone else makes the rules."

"When I grow up, I'm gonna change that, since I'm supposed to be king and all," Jesus prophesied mischievously.

Iago laughed. "I bet you will. We just have to convince Herod to give up the thrown."

Jesus smiled back and began to skip out ahead of his siblings. That was one of the parts of the story he wasn't sure how to make sense of. His parents had told him the reason they had to leave Bethlehem was because Herod, Tetrarch of Galilee, saw him as a threat the way Pharaoh of old had seen baby Moses so many years ago. In fact, irony of ironies, this King Herod, himself a Jew, felt so threatened by Jesus' possible claim to his throne that he stole a play out of the ancient Pharaoh's playbook and set about trying to kill every male child under the age of two in Bethlehem, thus necessitating Jesus' family's escape to the land of Pharaohs. It's so amazing how easily "good guys" and "bad guys" switch places.

But they weren't a royal family, Jesus continued to wonder. Joseph and Mary were peasants. Sure, they were of the line of David, Israel's greatest king, but "Nowadays everybody is," his siblings had told him sarcastically. Plus, with Rome in charge back home as well, with its emperor and senate and elites and varying levels of citizenry, ancient myths of the lines of succession for an occupied people didn't matter. Neither did promises of a Messiah, a deliverer like Moses, who would once again set his people free. "All that matters is one's relationship to Rome," he had heard Iago say. Or is it? What if Rome didn't really matter much—at least not in the way they thought? What if Herod knew it? What if that was the source of his insecurity?

III

It shouldn't come as a surprise. Ancient Egypt had been the land of both enslavement and opportunity for children of Israel (Jews) on more than one occasion. But time and time again, for fear of how their mounting numbers and influence might translate into political power, like clockwork, the powerful of Egypt eventually turned against them.

This time it wasn't outright enslavement and "kill the firstborn males." (That hadn't worked out so well that one time.) This time it was more subtle. Jews could keep their own communities, villages and enclaves. But they would have to follow a set of rules not made for them or by them.

The rules here would be a variation on the place they had left. So many had arrived as children. They were still young and strong. They must register, so we can track them. In fact, make them have to go down to the detention facility to re-up every six months. Educate, colonize, condition their minds in their youth to think like us. Then plunder their young adult immigrant bodies for labor; welcome them to die in our wars with the promise of upward mobility; let them fill menial, agricultural, and entry level positions; "tax" them at a higher rate than those who do little, if anything, to create actual wealth—all the while withholding from them the chance to even file for citizenship for another 15 years, thus missing the right to vote for at least 3 elections, though of voting age. And, ultimately, reserve the right to reject their applications for citizenship just as they come of age (mid-thirties) to demand higher wages. Give them the false choice between this deferred action arrangement and immediate imprisonment for deportation. And for peak irony, call it The SUCCEED Act.

Though those might not have been the particular parameters of the way inequity manifested that time (as it is in America 2017), we can bet it was something. So Jesus |hay-SOOS| and his siblings had to grow up going through whatever humiliations were a part of being second class denizens in Aegyptus, the wealthiest province of the Roman empire outside Italia. They were branded "strangers in a strange land," yet again, though at that point, it was the only country Jesus knew. If given any kind of legal status, they would have had to report to be counted and taxed whenever and wherever the law said to. They would have been singled out by their status. They would have been looked down upon. They would have been denied access to the rights of full citizenship. As those on the bottom of the social order, they would have been exploited multiple times over for their labor. Out of a Palestinian frying pan, into an Egyptian fire.

And if denied or at some point stripped of legal status—it had happened before—then they would live in fear of being deported or, worse, separated from one another, torn asunder like so much trash. They would only be able to be paid under the table. That meant Joseph and his sons' skill as carpenters and Mary's skill as a weaver and seamstress would, more often than not, be undervalued. They would have no protections. They would likely be cheated regularly and threatened should they try to press the issue. Yes, it was nice that Aegyptus had public education and emergency medical care. However, one could never be too careful. Interfacing with any government agent was a potential threat to one's well-being. That meant when the Nile flooded every year beyond the capacity of the levies and aqueducts to manage, as one who was undocumented and relegated to low-lying areas, they might lose everything and have to start over from scratch. Of course, the community of those who were in this predicament would help one another, but it would never be easy.

Whatever the terms of their situation, the inequity of it would be apparent. Social stratification was Rome's thing. As long as they rendered themselves virtually invisible, non-threats to the social order, they would be tolerated, convenient pawns in the hands and mouths of the powerful to shame overtaxed "working class" Egyptians into not complaining.

The way the story has been handed down to us, it's easier to imagine that, having fled for their lives, Joseph and Mary's family lived comfortably secure in this land that was not their own. But with all the history between Egyptians and Jews—with the realities of Roman military domination, exploitation of labor, and infatuation with taxation—that wouldn't have been very likely.

IV

When the siblings got home, their parents were busy preparing for the night's festivities. It would be a potluck. "With everyone bringing their favorite dish, there will be plenty," Mary assured them.

And there was. Guests laughed and danced and ate late into the night. They forgot for the moment the difficulties of occupation. The most delicious smells filled the air. Neighbors took turns sitting in with the band. Kids ran around oblivious to the cautions of elders. Elders shook their heads as they spoke of times past. It was joyous.

Unexpectedly, the tenor of the festivities began to change. Like dye dropped into a bowl of water slowly winding its way throughout, the question began to spread, "Where's Joseph? Has anyone seen José and Maria?"

A messenger had arrived with urgent news. He came yelling up the street, "Please, tell me where Joseph and Mary are!"

"I think I saw them over there," came one reply.

"They must have gone back to the house," came another.

He found them in the street in front of their house in the midst of a crowd laughing at one of Joseph's outlandish stories of the circumstances surrounding Jesus' |hay-SOOS-sez| birth. It was funny now, not so much then.

"He has a message for José," someone at the back whispered. Guests hurried to clear the way.

Someone tapped the shoulders of the musicians and the song they sang came to a calamitous halt. Jesus looked up from the game of dreidel he was playing with his friends.

"Shh! Listen."

Staring into José's eyes, Angel |AHN-hel|, the messenger, catching his breath, panted, "H... Heh... Herod is dead!"

 

 

Check out the PREQUEL: "Occupy Bethlehem"

Photos courtesy of Mijente and in celebration of the immigration justice work being done to protect the vulnerable, mobilize the marginalized, and advance our collective humanity.

Story inspired by "Facing Christmas ~ Week 2 ~ Counted," produced by Hannah Bonner

Occupy Bethlehem: A Nativity Story

I

"Move on you good-for-nothings! You cannot occupy this space. This is the marketplace, the seat of commerce. Just because ninety-nine percent of you are lazy and don't want to work, don't blame those of us who do for your woes," the merchant blustered. "Now get out of my way! So I can make the most of all these extra people in Bethlehem today."

"How dare you talk to us that way. POOR LIVES MATTER!" a beleaguered man shot back. "We would gladly work. No one wants to live like this."

"Good for him," I thought to myself and turned my attention back to the man and woman I had been studying before the momentary distraction of the merchant's callous commentary. Such clashes weren't uncommon nowadays.

I had watched this particular couple get turned away by at least three innkeepers whose homes skirted the market square, before the two of them began to note the tenor of what was happening in the marketplace around them. Whether they had money for a room or not didn't matter, the answer was the same, "No room." Had they been wealthy enough to offer the innkeeper more than a guest already inside, perhaps things would have been different. But as it was, all merchants in the city were holding out for the highest bidders.

Caesar Augustus' decree that everyone under Roman rule return to their hometown to be counted and taxed had turned the world as we knew it upside-down. The wealthiest who could pay someone to handle taxes for them and the few others who hadn't had to venture too far from their place of birth to find work were fortunate enough to be able to stay put and capitalize on the opportunity created by the upheaval. But the vast majority were with the stroke of a pen forcibly dislocated.

I don't know why this new couple caught my eye. They were one of so many. Clearly they hadn't been here long. It only took a few rejections to realize the labor class could no longer afford housing on the market square. They would have to take their search further out.

I noticed the tools slung over the back of the animal the woman was riding. Within about a week they would find that the ability to do skilled labor mattered less now too. Having skill didn't guarantee one a place in this economy. My father is a boatbuilder who had run a busy boatyard back home. However, with so many people crowding into Bethlehem, carpenters, cobblers, blacksmiths and other artisans were a dime a dozen, which left many without work and without prospects.

Maybe the couple had caught my attention because the woman was pregnant, and I wanted to be a doula someday.

Looking around, hearing the merchants speak to the peasant farmers and laborers reduced to begging and stealing for their daily bread, perhaps it was sinking in that their return to Bethlehem might prove more difficult than they had initially thought. The man negotiated a price for something to eat. Though I couldn't hear it, he must have also asked about a place to stay, because they began to make their way out of the marketplace. I followed surreptitiously. Staying hidden wasn't hard. There were so many people. I snagged a handful of figs on our way out the square. I hadn't eaten all day. The callous merchant didn't notice me; he was too busy swindling someone else.

The couple made their way a good distance from the city center before beginning to inquire again for a place to stay. The answer remained the same. The sun was beginning to set. I could see the man getting anxious. I watched him move more rapidly now.

It didn't help. While in the midst of yet another attempt at an unsuccessful plea, the man's wife groaned in pain.  Cutting his pitch short, he gave up mid-sentence and ran to be at
her side.

"It's almost time," she murmured weakly.

I felt like Mariam, Moses' sister. I had a secret that could better their situation, but my father and mother had been quite emphatic regarding the need to keep our circumstances confidential. I wanted to do something to help, but I didn't want to endanger the well-being of our family or those who had taken us in.

Black Madonna | katherineskaggs.com

The woman groaned again as her husband sought to help her up off the ground and back up onto the animal from which she had slipped when the first contraction hit. It was no use. The man looked around desperate, trying to be strong for his wife, but wanting to cry out in anguish himself.

"Sir," I said running up to him, "I know someone who can help, but we have to go back through the market."

"That may be too far," he gasped looking at me suspiciously. He looked at his wife for some indication of what she could manage.

"The baby won't likely be born for a while yet, sir," I replied. "Meanwhile, believe it or not, walking might make things progress better."

The woman nodded her agreement, and her husband gave her a strong arm to lean on. I led them back through the marketplace which was by this time nearly deserted. On the other side, we turned left down a particular street on which some of the most wealthy lived. I asked the woman to be as quiet as she possibly could as we made our way in the shadows.

"Where are you taking us?" the man asked unsure now about pinning his hopes on a street urchin.

"I'm taking you to my mother," came my whispered response. "She is a midwife and will be able to help you."

The young woman bravely swallowed every contraction that came. My own belly ached for every grunt she made. I could see now she wasn't much older than I, maybe two or three years. We moved as quietly as possible. I came to a halt in the shadow of a large Sycamore and listened. I then made the call of the Nightjar three times. After a count of ten, an identical call greeted me.

"I'll return as soon as I can," I said creeping off in the direction of the response, "Please stay here where it is safe."

"Safe?" the man questioned in exasperated undertones. "You can't just leave us. My wife—" But I was gone.

II

I made it back as quickly as I could. I first went to notify Ifa and Reuben, who had responded to my call, that I was bringing newcomers. As the guards on duty that night, I didn't want them to be alarmed. Then I went to alert my mother and father to what I had done.

"What have we said about the need to be so very careful?" my father questioned me. "If the wrong people were to ever find us out, everyone in the network would be in jeopardy."

But my mother understood and patted my father on the arm, diverting his justified concern toward the things she would need to help the couple's child come into the world. That's when I went back to them.

"I'm so sorry I was gone so long. Follow me."

I led the couple pass where Reuben and Ifa sat in the bushes keeping watch on the road. When we got to the stable, my mother greeted the woman, taking her hand away from her husband, and leading her to a freshly hayed stall nearest to the fire. Naomi and Abigail, Reuben and Ifa's wives, came close to ask how they could help, while my father helped the woman's husband unload and feed their animal. It was then I learned their story.

The man's name was Joseph, his wife, Mary. They had lingered for as long as they dared, after Augustus' decree, so Joseph could finish out some jobs he was working on. He was a carpenter. They had come to Bethlehem from Nazareth by way of Jerusalem, where they had tried to stop earlier in the day, but they couldn't find a place. They had debated camping along the way, but Joseph hadn't liked the idea of being out alone with Mary in her condition. He had brought his tools with him, hoping to find work while here in Bethlehem and create a comfortable home for him and Mary over the next few weeks waiting for the child to be born and for at least the first six months after.

Our story wasn't dissimilar, Father told Joseph. We had come a month sooner from Capernaum, on the Sea of Galilee. Whereas Father hadn't planned on boat-making while in Bethlehem (so far from the water), he thought for sure he'd be able to find work as a craftsman somewhere. Not knowing how long the census would take, he had planned to stay put for six months to a year. But by time we got here, there were no jobs to be had. Though frugal by nature, father soon ran out of money. Still, we had to stay until the count was ended, and even then, father wasn't sure we'd have means enough to leave.

We didn't know what to do and had already missed a day of food when one of the women mom had met at the market, Naomi, told us to meet her on the west side of the market at sundown. Under the cover of darkness, she brought us to this stable and told us about the network of squatters who, with nowhere else to go, had occupied the folds and margins of Bethlehem. An "underground vineyard" they call it. They live in the overlook spaces owned by those with more than enough—large stables and wine presses, empty storehouses and in the wild groves of large orchards, wherever they can find a place to lay their heads. They are aided by other working class persons—stable managers, like Ifa—who despised the inequity that created such injustice and understood how easily it could turn on them.

"They simply recognize that playing by the rules of the rich only benefits the rich, no one else," father explained to Joseph.  "Ifa grew up on these lands, like his fathers before him, and after all this time, he still only has a room attached to a stable to call home. No returning of the land back to his family as Torah teaches, no Jubilee.

"Whereas individually—whether working for pay or not—there is seldom enough, we are discovering that together we are able to make things work. We "glean" from the wealthy, as Torah teaches the poor to do, albeit without the wealthy's permission.  I used to call this "stealing," when I remained unacquainted with the struggles of the poor, back in Capernaum. I'm ashamed that I once thought of people like ourselves as lazy and greedy. But 'Thou shalt not steal' is a command given to a people also commanded to maintain enough for all—the rich, the poor, the priest, the orphan, even the alien and the stranger.

Father continued, "We never take more than enough to make it, and we always look for ways to replace or compensate for what we use. We aren't doing this to get wealthy at the expense of another, only to survive until we can do better for the entire community. So we take refuge in a rich man's barn under the cover of darkness, and help Ifa care for the animals while we look for paid work during the day."

Come to find out, Joseph and Mary were only recently married. Anyone could see Joseph wasn't quite comfortable with the implications of that. Perhaps he didn't mean to tell us. He fixed his mouth as if to say more about the matter, but gave up.

Joseph had other children, so he had been through this before. But there had been certain "peculiarities" with this pregnancy, and this being Mary's first child, he was particularly concerned for her. At this point in the conversation, I heard Mary gasping in pain, and I turned my attention to her and Mother.

III

I don't know if I'll ever get used to the amount of blood involved in birthing a baby. It's one thing when one of the animals does it, but when the baby is of a woman, I am reminded of how creaturely people really are. "Of the same dust," Mother often says. There is nothing polite and neat and clean and spiritual about it. Birth is always messy and earthy and deeply physical.

We all sat around smiling and cooing at the new baby boy. Mary had been a loud one. Naomi had to cover her mouth, and eventually just gave her the rag to bite on. "Labor is never easy," Mother also says, "But some labor is more difficult than others. Still, once they are holding their babies, mothers begin to forget almost immediately all the work it took to bring them into the world."

That may be true of everyone involved, because now we were all grinning at nothing in particular. Even the animals seemed happy. Mother had told us to give Mary room to rest so everyone but Joseph left the stall she was in and started piddling about with nothing in particular to accomplish.

The tranquility of the moment was broken with a yelp and a howl. Fear gripped my insides. That call was the signal that someone uninvited was headed our way. Immediately my dad ran over to the fire pit and doused it with the bucket of water we always kept there. The instant blackness made it impossible to see. I crept in the direction of what i thought was the back wall and some hay, stumbling over this and that as I went. I had been told that, if ever this were to happen, I should find some hay and hide in it.

Joseph, who had been lying with Mary and the baby, roused abruptly and wanted to question what was happening, but Father shushed him so loudly it startled the baby, and he cried out. Mary tried to suckle him, but it wasn't before he had made enough noise to be clearly recognizable to anyone close-by.

We heard foot steps running and getting closer. We didn't know if they belonged to Ifa and Reuben or someone else, and we didn't dare inquire. I, who had yet to find the back wall, stopped dead in my tracks and crouched down as low as I could.

Then we heard voices. "I know I heard a baby's cry come from this direction, and this stable would have plenty mangers about. Let's light a torch. They're probably hid—"

Suddenly there was the sound of struggle. My eyes having adjusted to the darkness, I could see the shadow of what I assumed was my dad jump up and run toward our hot coal bin. Eventually a torch was lit, and we all lifted our heads to see that Reuben and Ifa had made their way to us, snuck up on the two men and succeeded in subduing them face-down in the dirt. The men were trying to speak.

"You don't understand," one of them managed to get out, between mouthfuls of dust. "We aren't here to threaten you. We're part of the network. As shepherds, we carry messages back and forth between clusters," the other added. "That's why we knew where to look."

"Look for what?" Reuben interrogated, unconvinced.

"For the baby."

"What baby?" Ifa jerked his man.

"The baby the angels told us about."

"Let them up," Father suggested, holding up the only light for miles. "Let's see their faces."

Mother, Abigail, Naomi and I oozed from the stables to get a better view. The imminent danger had seemingly passed. Reuben and Ifa loosened their grips just enough to let the men make it to their knees.

"As fantastic as it may sound," one of the men began, "Angels appeared to us out in the fields while we watched the sheep. They told us peace had come to earth this night, goodwill to all in the form of a baby. They said we would find the baby lying in a manger, and with there only being four stables located in this cluster, we figured we'd check them all. You are the third we've come to. The others told us to bring news when we found the baby.

"We came running. Sorry if we frightened you. We were looking for your guards to pass clearance when we heard what sounded like a baby's cry, and I guess our excitement got the better of us."

"Angels? You expect us to believe you saw angels tonight?"

"He's telling the truth," came a sober reply from just inside the shadow of the stable. It was Joseph, who walked into the light of the doorway.

"How on earth would you know?" Ifa puzzled.

"Because the same thing happened to me."

IV

Then the rest of the story came out: the fact that Joseph wasn't the father of the baby. Mary and his betrothal had yet to be consummated. Still he would raise this child as his own. The angel who had appeared to him told him that the baby was conceived of Elohim, a gift to the world."

"This is too much," Father said, glancing from face to face, wondering if anyone else found it all as unbelievable as he.

"Why?" Mother asked. "The prophets told of one who would come to right the earth's wrongs. Don't we look for glimpses of that promise in all our children? Is it our destiny only to seek, never to find?"

Black Madonna and Child | tamaradouglasart.com

"That said," one of the shepherds spoke, "May we see them, the mother and child?"

Everyone went inside. Father got the fire going again. Mother asked Reuben and Ifa to bring a manger into Mary's stall. Then she dressed it with some hay, took the baby from Mary and lay the baby in it, while Naomi offered Mary some food. I remembered the figs in my pocket and added them to the meal for the evening....

"What will you call him?"

Joseph and Mary looked at each other, lost in the solemnity of the moment.

"Whatever you call him," Abigail interrupted, "On this night, light makes a liar out of the darkness yet again, if only we have eyes to see."




Check out the SEQUEL: "A DACA Christmas"

How to Tell Better Sacred Myths

Here's a quote from Faith Forward: A Dialogue on Children Youth & A New Kind of Christianity that offers 6 steps in telling more beautiful, more just, more virtuous sacred myths.

"Russell [Rathbun] and I took people through a reading of a common scripture narrative, giving them these directions:

1. Read the passage for what it says and doesn’t say.
2. Think about how you have traditionally heard this story told.
3. List three things you love about the passage as you are now reading it.
4. List three things that have bothered you in the past about the story itself or the way the story is typically recounted.
5. Articulate three questions that come to mind when you think of this story.
6. Select one thing from each of the three preceding categories and use them to re-imagine the story.

"The responses to every facilitation of this simple process have been amazing. Once youth [and the adults in their lives] sink their teeth into the text in this way and find out that this is how a living tradition is supposed to function, they seldom want to let go. Russell and I call this kind of reimagining of the biblical narrative “stories that compost.” Our hope is to pass along tellings of the stories of our faith that our children can use for as long as the stories nourish them. But when the stories cease to be of value, they can “psycho-degrade” if you will, and be reconstituted into something more relevant and useful for the specific times in which our children (or grandchildren) live."

In the Stories the COMPOST workshop, not only do we participate as community in the storytelling process outlined above, but we also identify 7 important attributes that more beautiful sharings of the biblical narrative tend to have.

The Books of Ember

We've added The Books of Ember to our recommended reading list (sidebar) for ages 9 & up. It is a series of young adult fiction by Jeanne DuPrau begun shortly after 9-11. Here's a fantastic quote from the second book of the series The People of Sparks:

"'You turned a crazy old guy into an enemy in less than two minutes. You did it. You've done it over and over, I've seen you: you approach people like an enemy and bam!, they turn into one, whether they were to begin with or not' [Maddy accused, after discovering she and her traveling companions had been robbed during the night by a hungry old man Casper had refused to help the day before].

'It's my policy to be ready to defend myself," Caspar said, scoling. 'At any moment.'

"Fine," said Maddy. "So now, because of your policy, we're out four cakes instead of two [we could have easily spared], and we have a lot of dirt on the rest.... If you ask me, making friends is a better defense than making enemies."

Prove There is an Audience!

We have a unique opportunity to prove there is an audience for better--more beautiful, more just, more virtuous--faith stories. Purchase our dramatic reading of the Cain & Abel and Noah sagas. I promise a person doesn't have to be Christian to appreciate these stories--virtue is virtue.

Give them as gifts to random young people... and adults. Guilt your parenting friends into buying it. Insist every youth person at your church each have their own copy. Let's change the world to reflect the real virtues of our faith traditions one sacred myth at a time!

By the way, v.1 can be found here.

Space for the Other

I just love this (taken from Brian McLaren's Why Did Jesus, Moses, the Buddha, and Mohammed Cross the Road? which asks whether we can fashion a Christian identity that is both strong and hospitable to others' core identities):

In stark contrast to many ancient creation myths, Genesis tells us that the universe does not begin in conflict and rivalry among the gods. It begins peacefully, in the creative words “Let there be.” Through these words of permission, space and time open up to make room for the new and the other to exist.  Since all creation is, in this sense, “other than God,” all human beings, together with all created things, have their origin in the same unfolding story of making space for the other. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for the creative hospitality of the God who is host, not hostile, to the other....

We live within a relationship of diversity without division: we are made on the same creation date as the reptiles and cattle, for example, and we are formed from the same dust. All living things are different but related; distinct but united. Similarly male and female are not too warring factions; one is not superior and the other inferior: we are different but related distinct but united.

This creation, then is a garden of harmony, not a war zone of hostility. It comes equipped, not with oppositional religions that divide, but rather with the naked spirituality that includes and unifies all things in one fabric of creation. Trees and rivers, sky and stars declare God's glory for everyone; exclusive temples and membership only cathedrals are unnecessary. And so, according to our doctrine of  creation, we are created by God to live in harmony with God and with all creation in all its wild diversity. We are created for harmony with one another, meaning “one with the other,” and male with female, us with them, and dynamic unity without uniformity.

Children, Youth and a New Kind of Christianity

It was such a pleasure to help host the first (Dave Csinos may crucify me for saying that) Children, Youth and a New Kind of Christianity conference a couple of weeks back. It was so great to meet so many interesting people doing amazing work in the lives of kids. Thanks to all who labored in love to make it possible!  Thanks also to those who attended and presented and introduced yourselves!

As promised on the last day of the conference, audio for the Cain, Abel and Noah stories is finally available free for download to all attendees of the conference. Follow the link and enter the password I shared with you when I made the announcement (email me if you forgot... or left early—confession is good for the soul).

For everyone else, please check back soon.

...Oh, and don't think I've forgotten some of you owe me a story!  ;-)

Makes Me Wanna Holla!

<<Read the sixth episode in the Noah saga.

(based on Genesis 7—a story of creation)

I'd like to think someone, some two or more said yes they would join Noah and his family on the ark. The way the story has been handed down to us leaves just enough room to imagine this possibility, even though the Bible does not explicitly say so. . . . Finish the story!

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner... or Not—Episode 4

<<Read the fifth episode in the Noah saga.

(based on Genesis 7—a story of creation)

There was a lot of back and forth about whether he should, but the decision had already been made. Noah saddled the mare. Though not quite as fast, she was much more sure-footed and not as skittish as her mate.

One of the large heavy doors creaked open, Noah dashed out. Ham move quickly to close it. Watching the water roll back toward the opening, he couldn't help but think that slanting the deck for the first five feet of the entrance was a stroke of genius on his wife's part. . . . Finish the story!