Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Vicar of Another Man's Life: I


Vincent was seen as a wise man by those around him, he was easy to talk to, quick to listen, slow to judge, he cared, was witty and loved a good play on words. He could easily carry on a conversation with folks in the check out lane at the grocery store or he might try to engage another while waiting for the spin cycle at the laundry. There was really only one word that would describe Vincent, if a person was called upon to offer a one word description, Vincent was shy.

Vincent felt uncomfortable in crowds, often he found himself being pulled toward the walls of the room as if he were in one of those amusement park rides that spun at high speeds and held the thrill seeker tight against its walls. Vincent was never sure exactly why he felt the way he did. He did know that while he believed he understood people, he was confident that they didn't understand him.

The third floor apartment that he lived in was lined with bookshelves and they were packed to overflowing with all kinds of books. Cookbooks, though he rarely used them, history, classics, mysteries, fiction and even children's books. It was not uncommon for Vincent to climb the six flights to his apartment, slip into the simple room, draw the curtains closed, sit on the sofa and read for hours on end. He often forgot to cook dinner, he would wash his face, brush his teeth and climb into bed with his book, promising himself he would eat a bigger and better breakfast in the morning.

Imagination was not a shortfall for Vincent. He had an abundance of it, he could read and through the words paint vivid pictures in his mind; the location the story was set in, what the characters wore, how they sounded when they spoke, the dialog that was printed and lying in his lap was what made the people in the story real to him, his imagination made them alive. Through words on a page Vincent could easily smell the stench of boiling cabbage in the New York tenement house. He could see the green valley in Steinbeck's East of Eden, he could laugh as Quentin Crisp spoke of life in England. Vincent could see himself in the background, in the crowd, near by as an innocent observer overhearing the conversations or he might find himself as one of the characters if he thought they were a lot like him.

On a warm and sunny Sunday afternoon Vincent changed from his church clothes to a pair of khaki shorts and a grey polo shirt. (He wore these colors often hoping they would help him to be less obvious in his environment.) He ate his lunch of dark brown bread with strong Stilton cheese and a smear of brown spicy mustard, while sitting at his kitchen table he looked down on the people in the neighborhood going about their lives, a woman walking a dog, a young couple lifting grocery bags from the trunk of a car, the prostitute standing on the corner tired of the world, there was the jogger who seemed to circle the block for hours. Vincent wondered how the jogger kept from being a statistic since he couldn't hear the traffic with the wires of his iPod stuffed into his ears, but then it dawned on him, he ran in circles, he never crossed streets. Vincent took the last bite of his lunch and decided that it was time to go outside and enjoy what his neighbors were enjoying, even the drug dealer that walked tirelessly up and down the street seemed to be enjoying the sunshine and the spring day.

Vincent put on his walking shoes, took his keys and headed for the park where he could walk or he could sit on one of the benches along the promenade in the shade. Being such a beautiful day the park seemed to be filled to bursting with people. Families with children in strollers, one upwardly mobile couple in appropriate costume pushed a vintage pram with a newborn inside. The promenade felt like it was wall to wall people and suddenly Vincent began to feel panicked. There were no walls to gravitate to, only more, “great outdoors.” He knew that to quell this feeling he would need a wall behind him so that he felt less exposed, his breath came in pants while he looked about to find a place where he wouldn't feel so obvious. Finally, he sat on a grassy spot and laid back so that it looked like he was cloud counting. He took deep breaths and worked to calm himself, it was working, each deep breath a reminder to himself that he was fine that there was nothing to be concerned about.

After a few moments he began to feel more peaceful, more at ease with the surroundings and he had convinced himself that there was nothing to be concerned about, nothing to worry about. He sat up and looked around and became more comfortable with what was going on around him, he began to breath more evenly and was finally at ease. He saw a pair of park benches back to back, one of them empty he picked himself up from the grass and went to the empty bench. When he did he noticed that there were many children who had been lying around him actually counting clouds and identifying their myriad shapes. He sat on the bench alone, the one that backed up to him had a young couple seated there, stealing kisses and holding hands .immediately Vincent felt embarrassed by their public display of affection. He wondered why he felt that way, it was spring after all, and wasn't it the time that a young man's heart was supposed to turn to fancy? Vincent fidgeted with the elastic cord that ran through a channel around the bottom of his lightweight jacket.

“I really enjoyed last night,” said the young man, “it was wonderful to eat outside and the music was awesome. I'm so glad that we found that place, we'll have to go again.”

Vincent closed his eyes and saw a bistro along a quiet street in one of the smaller neighborhoods in the city. On one side of the cafe there was an area covered by a black canopy that held small copper lamps hanging from it in measured distances apart from the next. On each table there were low copper bowls filled with black smooth river rocks, water in each bowl supported large vibrant dahlias, most of them some shade of red.

Vincent reached across the table and took her hand. Soft and delicate yet warm and rich, everything about her skin made him want to touch her. Her dress was the perfect compliment to her, it made the highlights in her black glistening hair shimmer all the more even in the subdued light of the cafe patio. The dress made her eyes sparkle, probably because she tended to move about gracefully in the glow of the lanterns their light danced on her eyes. Vincent didn't know the name of he perfume, but it was perfect with just a whisper of tuberose and it made him want her close to him.

His gazing upon her was interrupted by the waiter wanting their drink order, they both ordered glasses of white wine just as they heard guitar music. The flavor of the music was Spanish and yet it didn't have the spice that led to complicated dancing, Vincent wanted to move with her on the dance floor.

He stood and smoothed his ivory linen shirt over his black trousers. He pulled her chair away from the table and they walked to the small wooden dance floor. Vincent took her hand in his and placed his other on the small of her back as she placed her hand on his shoulder, then she rested her cheek on his chest where she could smell his cologne, rich with sandalwood and tobacco and maybe a touch of rum.

Alone on the dance floor they moved to the music, the guitar player appreciated their dancing and played music that made them move in well choreographed circles around the small dance floor where they were so entranced by one another they never realized that they continued to be the only ones there, they didn't know they were the envy of those around them. Vincent broke their embrace and led them back to the table where the wine glasses sat in puddles of condensation that had run down their chilled sides while the two of them danced.

After dinner they shared desert, a meringue cloud toasted to a perfect rose tone that floated on a mixture of sliced peaches, blue berries and there were small delicate glasses that held just a splash of almond liquor.

Vincent's eyes popped open when the young woman at his back said, “The crust on that pizza was to die for, was that fresh basil on there? And jazz, that cat knew how to wail on that sax, it screamed baby!”

Vincent stood, tied the cord at the hem of his jacket and ambled out of the park, it seemed that he lived in an imaginary world much more graceful than the one the young lovers lived in.

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Paper, Pen and a Stamp, the Romance of the Letter.



In 1969 I learned something in elementary school that has stayed with me over these nearly 36 years. I learned a lesson in what was newly named in “language arts”, (no longer known as English,) a lesson invaluable , it was known as, “friendly letter,” writing. I have enjoyed the lessons that I have learned about this craft and I've found great pleasure over the years in letter writing.

Letter writing, be it my hand or by machine is a truly lost art. With the dawn of the telephone, the popularity of letter writing began to ebb and now with the cell phone, e mail and text messaging, letter writing has gone the way of all flesh and has been replaced with methods of communication that even has its own secret code.

In 1969, I was a fourth grader and as part of our grammar and penmanship lessons we were assigned an exercise; write a letter to a relative or friend that could not be handed to them, it had to be mailed because addressing the envelope properly was part of the lesson. I wrote a letter to my grandparents in Florida and explained that it was a school assignment and that a response would improve my grade.

I mentioned penmanship, contrary to the thoughts of contemporary elementary school children, penmanship is not a funny named floating vessel. We had books that had writing assignments in in them, the books instructed how to sit, where the paper should be placed and even went to the extreme of saying where one's feet should be placed. For some reason I took the lessons more seriously than many of my classmates. I've been told that I have the handwriting of a third grade school teacher. When I received this compliment I simply said, “Thank you, what a nice thing to say, I take pride in it.” I really don't know for sure that they meant it as a compliment or not. Through the years my handwriting has remained clear and crisp, like the lessons taught in school, but it has also taken on elements of my personality as well.

Several years ago my cousin, Grace, passed away at age 102. We called her Aunt Grace as an honor more befitting her age. She was reared before the age of the commonality of the telephone, letter writing was the means of communication that was the means of the day. While sorting through the residue of her life I learned that the art of letter writing was something she practiced her entire life. I found post cards that were a penny, postage included; these cards contained more information on a small space than many people put on greeting cards three times the size today. Some of the post cards I found had recipes, cooking instructions and the latest news...all on the same card. The cards were mailed from the county seat, geographically in the center to the western edge what could easily be a twenty minute drive now. There were all kinds of letters in her collection, along with greeting cards that held lengthy notes and photographs and there were regular “friendly letters,” as well.

A letter is a simple gift on paper. It usually contains information from the heart that might not be included in a telephone conversation. I had a long love affair shared on paper with my father's eldest sister, my Aunt Lucretta. In fact, I have each of the letters she sent, many years worth. They are stacked and tied with a satin ribbon, just like the letters that secret lovers have in the old black and white movies that I love so. My Grandma Bryant would write from Florida many years I wrote letters to my Uncle Gaylord. None of these letters will end up in a museum, but they are precious to me. I have a stack of cards and notes that my friend Alice wrote, she lived in Olympia, Washington until her death several years ago. For a long time the letters between us were tucked into cards with sunflowers on them, a tribute to the way that we met and the discussion we had that they always had their face to the sun. Aunt Lucretta and Alice are gone now, they live on in my mind each time I pick up a pen to write a letter.

When Aunt Grace passed away I informed her niece by marriage, Page, by letter. We have written occasionally now over a period of several years. We share news, memories of the one we held in common, tales of our family and what is going on in our lives at present. There has been announcements of new arrivals in our families and unfortunately Aunt Grace's passing is not the only one that we have spoken of. I love to receive a letter from Page, her life in New York City seems so much more exciting than mine here in Indianapolis. She travels abroad, attends the opera and visits her friends abroad. I so enjoy hearing of her latest read and have been known to ask what book is on the table next to her favorite chair. It's fun to hear what she's been reading, where she's been going, what she's been doing. In her letters, I would enjoy reading about a trip to the market because I know that it is different there than here.

In her most recent letter she spoke of seeing the spring flowers ablaze in Central Park as she walked through the park to attend the opera. A life so different than mine that it seems more like news from a foreign country or a few leaves from a wonderfully written novel, not the story of life four states to the east.

When I would correspond with Alice in Olympia I heard about trips to the ballet and little winter jaunts to Hawaii, mentioned with the casualness that a Hoosier would mention driving to Florida for a week. For them, it was the same, only the drive, well, you know. I heard about the cacophony of colorful baskets of Cosmos and Statice that was carried in by the farmers at the open air markets in summer. I heard how the farmers would set bushel baskets of peaches and green beans next to the flowers, food for body and soul. She always mentioned that no tomato on that market there tasted like the ones grown in her home state of Indiana. She spoke of weekend trips to Seattle where she and her husband would tuck away in a hotel and take in the ballet or a play, dine somewhere different than the places at home. Her life with Bob sounded as different than on the west coast as Page's does on the east. All so very different than the life I live in the Midwest.

Surely a letter is a gift on paper that may well be the most inexpensive one that can be given. It is a gift of the heart, it is often just a report of what is simply going on in one's life, but it is sharing experience and history and often the love of family and friends. It's great to know what someone is reading these days, what the latest dish is being served elsewhere, the part that touches my heart is the sitting down in a bit of quietness and putting ink on paper and being a part of one another's life be it like Aunt Grace writing to Aunt Minnie half way across the county or how Page and Alice have shared with me the excitement of their lives though it may seem very every day to them, it's literature to me.

Where is my paper, my pen and my address book? I've worked myself up to writing a letter.

Saturday, April 07, 2007

And a Little Child Shall Lead Us...Christ is Risen

My dear friend Beth sent me the most wonderful Easter card! I've always said that if I could do it I would send as many Easter cards as I do Christmas cards. But the truth be told, one cannot buy boxes of Easter cards like one buys Christmas cards. Why is that? Both are considered the high holy days of the church? And without one, there is no need for the other, no birth, no resurrection. Really a circular thought, but one not always pondered on in that light by a good many of us.

The card was chosen she said because it made her think of her grandson Jonah, who is a young lad. She said she liked it because it is the kind of humor that her grandson is into right now. In fact the joy of this card is the fact that it is so child like and yet so profound. As I've said before, a child like faith is the faith that we should have, making all of the “steps” of Christianity difficult has led to the over stating of what God made so simple. Yet, I have to agree, faith is a tough idea to get one's mind around. (Just walk out onto a frozen pond if you are a big guy like me, now that's faith on ice if you know what I mean). The card is perfect for Easter. On the outside of the card in large blocky letters it says, Knock Knock, then lower in smaller letters Who's there? Inside it says, “He is not here: He has risen just as he said!”

I hope the American Greetings company will accept my tip of the hat for their masterpiece, but it truly is a masterpiece of Resurrection Joy. As we say in my family, “this one is a keeper.”

Easter, the high feast day of the church, the lesson that all of the prophecy, all of the “warnings” of “I'm gonna do it,” by Jesus has come to glorious light, even to the point that it amazed his followers, the men who followed along with the women who became his, well, what might be called his care-giving groupies. Mary and Martha, cooking and caring, yep, they were right there, they heard every word that he said and they were surprised by what they found at the grave, but I have to give them credit, they were the first ones in line for an introduction to an entirely new concept, salvation through sacrifice and resurrection. It may have been a touch of weak faith, but I think that it was also a matter of fear and simply not understanding what seemed like an abstract idea that they had never really heard before.

But as we shout Christ is Risen! Christ is Risen Indeed! We know that it's true, they proved it by finding an empty grave and a visit from Jesus there confirming it in their seeing and hearing. And now we see the joy and introduction to faith in that story well told by simple statements enjoyed by Jonah...the truth told in a Knock Knock joke.

Friday, April 06, 2007

"He is despised and rejected of men..." Good Friday, April 6



When I was a kid and well into my teens I attended a small white framed church, somewhat like one sees on calendars surrounded by autumn leaves in New England. The church wasn't quite as quaint as the calendar and post card pictures, but it had its charm and it was small and everyone there seemed to be related, but a few, I was among the few. It amazes me really when I look back on those days in that church, but they had a great deal of respect for the youth in the church, and for a church of its size, (we broke 100 a few times a year and then near 120 on C & E as the pastor called it.) there were a lot of kids and we were very active.

It was the custom in that Independent Christian Church that on Good Friday the youth of the church held a candlelight communion. It was well rehearsed, at many youth group meetings before hand, assignments were made, readings were rehearsed over and over with one on one mentoring on what was being read meant and it was done in hopes that the reader would take the words to heart and would read their part or say their part with passion and heartfelt meaning. Because it was an Independent Christian church there were elders and deacons that served the communion. Older teens were put in the places of the two elders who served the table and then there were four younger teens that served the congregation. This was a plate passing church with real unleavened bread cut into tiny squares and the, “wine” was served in teeny shot glasses, though they were never called that.

In 1975 I was one of the older teens who was passed over for serving the table, though the other guys were the same age. The person who gave me my assignment said, “I want you to read this,” handing me her black, well worn, King James Version, (the only real Bible they thought at the time,). “I want you to read this right here,” she said pointing to Isaiah 53:3-8, and I was taken off to the pastor's study for my first reading of the Old Testament lesson for Good Friday.

When I saw that today's Lectionary readings for Good Friday included this passage if flooded my mind with memories of that Friday night, dressed in my better than Sunday clothes I stood behind a blond wooden pulpit that was right behind the communion stable, set with white lines, staked trays of the bread and grape juice, (Welch's, no other!) After several weeks of reading the passage over and over for one of the youth leaders I was ready to read it to the full house of the Lord. To this day, while I cannot recite the entire thing, I get a chill when I hear the 2nd verse because I know the following words better than the Pledge of Allegiance.

“He is despised and rejected by men,
A Man of sorrows and well acquainted with grief.
And we hid, as it were, our faces from Him;
He was despised, and we did not esteem him.
Surely He has borne our griefs
And carried our sorrows;
Yet we esteemed Him stricken,
Smitten by God, and afflicted.
But He was wounded for our transgressions,
He was bruised for our iniquities...”

Between Helen and Marilyn these words were all translated to me, though many of them I was already familiar with. Come to think of it, it wasn't so much that the words were translated as much as the words were taught to me in phrases, making them very real to me.

Good Friday night with those white candelabra behind me dripping wax from purple candles, windows of the church open because it was warm outside, the dogwood tree just outside the window where I could see it from the pulpit, I began to read the words of Isaiah 53. I was told to read it slowly, so that everyone could understand and to remember what it meant. In those better than Sunday clothes I began to read the words, “He was despised and rejected of men, A man of sorrows and well acquainted with grief.”

It was there that I choked. A tear welled in my eye, just as it is doing know as I think of that time, and those words. I could see the picture of Jesus painted by El Greco that I had seen the Indianapolis Museum of Art just a few weeks earlier. The elongated figure, hands nailed to the cross, pulling because of the weight of his body. “He was despised and rejected of men...”

I remember that I was disappointed in the beginning that I was not selected to read the New Testament lesson, but I realize now, looking back that this passage has become so meaningful for me in the Holy Week liturgy that I think that in April of 1975 God was preparing me for this Holy Week, that he is reminding me that, “..He was wounded for my transgressions, He was bruised for my iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him, and by His stripes, I am healed.”

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

The Guest at Dinner Gets Uninvited Holy Wednesday, April 4


The Lectionary text for Holy Wednesday is the story of Jesus introducing his betrayer at the dinner table. The story reads as a simple one, the disciples gathered about at dinner; Jesus warns them that he must fulfill another prophecy and he in turn tells them that someone is going to betray him, the prophecy even goes so far as to say how this person will be introduced, through the sharing of bread. While each of the disciples wonders who it is and then prompted by Peter, John asks, “who is it Lord?” Then the bread is dipped and Jesus hands it to Judas.

When I was reading this text and thinking about writing on it, John 13:21-32 was a story that I had heard and read many times, I knew the way that the story played out and where it was leading. Not exactly the same feeling that I've had when watching a movie and having that feeling that it was predictable. This morning, for some reason, the story sounded completely new and the part that seems most new to me is where after Jesus gives Judas the freshly dipped bread he says, “Do what you must do.” Judas leaves the group and they think that he is off to make preparations for the Passover feast.

It seems so often that when Jesus is telling people around him that he is revealing prophecy they seem to miss that part all together, this situation is no different. Jesus just gave the disciples the, “heads up,” that someone at the table was going to betray him, he tells them the method of identification and they see it fulfilled before their very eyes. They go so far as to say, “Who is it?” They never seem to catch on that when Jesus passed the crust of bread to Judas, that he had just pointed to the one. They don't even seem to grasp the notion when Judas picks up and leaves.
We don't hear much about Judas in the gospels, we know that he was the treasurer, (most likely a crooked one,) and that he was annoyed that Mary's expensive perfumed oil was not sold and was in his book wasted on Jesus. We know that he was at dinner with the disciples when he was, “fingered” by Jesus. We find out later that he was paid off for, “fingering” Jesus and fulfilling his end of the deal, making the prophecy come to complete fruition. We know too from scripture that remorse caused Judas to end his own life after having received his pay for pointing Jesus out to the soldiers who came to take Jesus away.

I don't watch a lot of contemporary television. I cannot deal with the stories anymore. Hospital rooms with heart monitors remind me of my father's last days in Methodist hospital, and it reminds me of his longing to die. I don't like to watch stories where there is drug dealing and prostitution, I can look out my front window and see that coming into my neighborhood in vivid living color. I don't like to see car chases, bombings, or any of the so called action films. I know, when it comes to TV, what do I watch? My answer, not much. (Just to make sure people don't think that I read all the time, I do love the movies and TV shows of the past when there was a moral lesson, a happy ending or when there was rejoicing in some manner for the goodness of life. I do sit in front of the, “tube.”) This story of betrayal and how it finishes sounds like a plot to a mob film to me, surely the Sopranos have an episode built on this very story line sans the salvation and resurrection at the end.

This narrative in the gospels is the gateway to where the story of Jesus' impending death begins to become really dark, the intense agony is not far away. The heartache that Jesus was feeling becomes more apparent, he is making steps through the feelings that we so often have, reminding us again that he has experienced our every pain and sorrow. At this point it doesn't feel like there is going to be any more miracles, he knows that even the Passover festival is not going to be what others are having, that it won't be a meal of friends being solemnly taught at the beginning, and then a fellowship filled with the warmth of family. Jesus knows that it is going to be different, after all, he's expelled a member of his family of choice. He knows what is ahead for him, he knows his hour is coming,

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Duracell? Are you kidding? Tuesday April 3 Another Holy Week Observation

My grandparents had a thing for night-lights. There was hardly a room in their home that didn't have one. I used to tease my granddad that if a storm ever blew the roof from the house pilots would think they had found the airstrip. It seemed to me that there was never darkness in their home. Yet, in my own home in kidhood, I was raised with The Mole People, as I called my mom and dad. I knew that you turned the lights out when you left the room, Pop reminded us that we could turn them back on when we returned...if we returned, (he knew kids.) It wasn't a matter of economy that lights were not left on, it was really more about comfort as my mother tends to be pretty light sensitive. Yet, between these two homes I never felt like I was over or under exposed to the light.

April 21, 1972, “I saw the light,” as the old Gospel song says. The church that I grew up in would have said that or that I had, “been saved.” I didn't see it as any miraculous event but one that simply made sense. In fact, it would be safe to say that I had a child like faith at that time and I was acting on it. Believing in Jesus seemed simple to me, I never saw it as complicated, I still don't even though there have been many who have come along that have tried to make it so. Faith is simply child like in my book

John 12:35-36, these verses seem at first to be complicated to me, but really they are as simple as daylight and dark. Jesus uses the comparison of light and dark to explain to his followers what the next few days are going to be like for them. If they don't stay close to him they will run the risk of being in increased danger as he knows that there is a darkness in the hearts of the government and religious leaders who want to put an end to his work. He tells his disciples that if they stay close to him while he is there with them, they will have an illuminated path. Jesus is telling them, I'm the light, you're safe here. I won't always be with you to protect you. Yet in typical Jesus style he instructs them if they believe in him, commit to him, he will give them light, his light, and it will be within them; it will shine through their lives. He said they will have the title Children of Light.

While there may have been enough lights, lamps, night-lights and flashlights in my grandparent's home to do surgery by, my childhood home was never really dark. Each one of us made decisions based on child like faith to accept the tittle, Children of Light.

Jesus offers to each of us an opportunity to own the real “Maglight” and he makes it clear that taking his Maglight for our own we will never be searching through kitchen drawers, junk drawers or auto glove boxes looking for AA Duracells.

Monday, April 02, 2007

Angry in Church, Surely Not! Holy Monday, April 2

Reading today's Lectionary from the Gospel of Mark, (this could be the wrong year's reading, my source was a bit fuzzy, the lesson is still poignant for me today.) the lesson is that of the Fig Tree that Jesus cursed on the way back to Jerusalem. Mark11:12-25.

This story speaks to me today because of the things that Jesus is doing and the emotion that he is showing. Seems that Jesus wanted breakfast and he saw a fig tree near by, so he went to the tree to get a fig, when he got there the tree was barren. One of the things that stands out in this reading is that it isn't time for the fig tree to be bearing fruit, but it is leafed out. Jesus shows anger and tells the tree that it will never bear fruit again-ever. He walks away knowing that the disciples have heard him say this.

From the fig tree we see Jesus and his disciples going to the temple in Jerusalem. When Jesus goes into the temple he sees the money changers, (the temple had its own scrip,) and it was good for buying sacrificial animals and probably grain for the offerings in the temple. Enraged, Jesus turns the place over. I can see metal slugs of temple money scattering and bouncing on the floor, pigeons flying out of their cages all over the place, scared, but free. I like to think that Jesus out of breath when he says, “My house was designed as a house of prayer for all people, but you've turned it into a hangout for thieves.”
This story speaks to me in a unique way because it shows Jesus showing an emotion that we haven't seen before in the gospels. ANGER, RAGE and HAD-IT-UP-TO-HERE. It helps me to know that it is true that Jesus felt every thing that I feel.

Rarely have I ever gotten to the point in my anger that I have turned over tables, instead I tend to do other things that aren't nearly as healthy, I tend to internalize it and try to justify it. I don't think that is always the healthiest way to cope with these emotions. It is apparent that even Jesus had his limit and it amazes me even more that Jesus would show his anger at the two places where I think it is easiest for me to experience anger, In line at Mc Donalds trying to get breakfast, and dare I say it? I dare, I dare, I get angry at church.

Jesus shows that there comes a point when enough is enough, and I'm sure that knowing that he was slowly walking toward his death didn't make things easier. I'm sure the anger boiled up after he saw that his teaching had not been taken seriously by the people who only yesterday were lining the streets and treating him like a victorious king, a Super Bowl winner or a visiting, much loved film star.

But there comes a point for all of us when enough is enough, and while it may seem a bit awkward to think of it when we consider Jesus as being the patient teacher, the man with the healing touch, the victorious grand marshal, that he got to the point that he was angered, but I think it was stronger than that, he was enraged to the point to make it clear that he had it up to here with being Mr. Nice Guy. I think he displayed what can only be called more of his holy boldness.

“In the morning, walking along the road, they saw the fig tree, shriveled up to a dry stick. Peter, remembering what had happened the previous day, said to him, “Rabbi, look—the fig tree you cursed is shriveled up!”