The Gentleman from Gadara

They said I had a demon--but I knew better.
A thousand of the dirty things were screaming through my mind,
and, when I counted echoes in the caves, I heard a million.
They compelled me.
They controlled me.
They consumed me.
Until I--like a tortured breath of smoke--quivered, crying while they stormed, broke chains, snapped locks, and raged.
I was a mad, mad man in a world of shrouded, swine-smelling darkness.
Until the morning--the morning after that big storm.

It had raged all night.
They had too, dragging me along for the frenzy.
I was so tired at dawn's approach,
so collapsed and curled-up in the cave,
that I almost missed the sound of His light footsteps.
a foreign flame that kindled my last longing...

Could my little smoke escape them?
Could I run blazing through that pandemonium palisade,
a spewed chunk of tinder trembling through the sky in a feeble arc of fire?
 No pause before I sprang; no time for second guessing,
just a savage leaping toward the man ascending from the dock.
I charged, shaking and I ran straight to him...
Then I crumpled at his feet--
for they had caught me.
All awake and stomping, they were roaring in my throat.
I couldn't talk. I couldn't beg. The nasty things were crowding, stifling the scream of my so-desperate soul with their incessant, endless babbling, leaving me no voice...no voice at all.
Then, merciful Heaven above! The things were leaving!
I felt the pain of thunderous clawing as they trampled in their haste to slam the door.
In the faint and far off distance I could hear them--squealing, snorting--
as they dove off jagged cliffs that lined the shore.

Quiet.
The most beautiful nothing I'd ever felt.
Quiet.
They brought me clothes. I ate some bread.
And then we talked. No noisy interruptions.

My whole voice was mine again.
So I offered it to follow Him.
And I told my story...like I'm telling it now,
over and over in my own still voice.
What a difference a day made!

The Story Turns into a Poem

For many weeks I scrubbed it, that spot so white, so dead.
I told myself it couldn't be, but then the patches spread.
The doctors gasped; I found myself alone outside the city;
I wept as people watched in fear, their loathing mixed with pity.
Alone I begged beside the path where once I'd proudly walked; They threw me little scraps of bread, but no one stayed to talk.
I missed their touch, my son's small hand, my father on my arm, my wife--If she should get it too--
"Unclean! Stand Back!" "Alarm!"

I waited...and I wearied...I'd forgotten how to pray.
I grew cynical and surly, and I dreaded every day
One evening brought two hurried men; I heard their tattered speech: "He's meddlesome...he'd better leave...he angers all the priests. He breaks the sabbath, quotes the scripture as if it were his own,
Talks to sinners...and touches things that were better left alone."

At a distance in the evening gray, I saw them all outlined,
a dozen rushing far ahead, and a weary one behind.
I dared not think. I only ran, with a burst of speed that drained me,
feet tearing on the jagged rocks; but nothing would restrain me.
Then in the dust beside the road I crumpled overcome,
I bled unclean upon the path. To what depths had I plunged?
I heard my own heart throbbing, then footsteps on the path.
I covered my head to shield it from the traveler's certain wrath.

Footsteps tired...slowing....stopping. I dared not face the man.
I just cried "If you are willing....Sir I know, I know you can."
Then I felt it. His hand upon me. "I am willing. You are clean."
He had touched me. I was human. I was not a thing obscene.

He had touched me! The untouchable!
"Show the priests that you are well."
"Don't tell anyone who healed you."
But of course....I had to tell.

Super-hero

"Such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere."

This quote from Elrond in Tolkien's The Fellowship of the Ring is one of my favorite quotes about heroes. No, they weren't super heroes. In fact, when the most difficult time came, they would have faltered but for a grasping enemy who expedited their task. And yet they were heroic-- persisting, assuming certain death at the end of the journey, yet plodding on. They had no special powers, no mighty, earth-shattering abilities, no extraordinary mental acuity. Nothing, really, to qualify them for adulation and fanfare. That's the kind of hero I admire.

There are many such heroes in the world today; we just don't know their names.



Our Sunday Scribblings prompt was super-hero

Fearsome Dragons

Fearsome Dragons

This evening I fought the thirteen fearsome dragons once again. All of them. I entered the circle to announce my presence and caught the little black one asleep. Jumping up onto his flat belly, I blared out my intentions to the others, who snorted and pawed at the edge of the ring:

"Alright. Here's the rules! I'll fight only one at a time. Line up, you scumbags. No fire breathing. No attacking from behind...absolutely no ganging up and no running away until it's all over and I've won. Because I WILL win, and you know it."

There were a dozen more of them, and I'd nothing to do but attack immediately.
The second beast I squeezed to death using just my mighty arms.
The third I easily swept out of the way with a series of vicious side kicks.
That fourth one was a little tricky, but intimidation won at last. With a fierce shake I pulled him toward me and thrust him away, rattling his head until he turned and collapsed in a pile of dragon scales on bone.
Ah, but the fifth one was uncommonly devious. Before I knew what I was about, she pinned my arms above me and I was left defending with only my feet. Kicking and kicking I strained the muscles of my calves against her leathery, relentless hide, until she released me at last and cowered back into her fetal position.
Not taking a moment to rest, I assailed the sixth with a series of upward thrusts to nail his jaw. Over and over I attacked until this treacherous reptilian foe squawked like a wet hen and crumpled to the floor.
Dragon number seven jumped onto my back and doubled me over. I think she thought she could snuffle me into the ground and smear my face on the mat...but no. I sat up...and sat up... and sat back up, until her claws released their grip and she stiffened with a sigh.
I ran for number eight, even as she whirled around behind me. Grabbing her arms I forced them forward, twisting and ripping relentlessly. She was no match for me.
The ninth dragon was an old fellow and much taller than I. He positioned his nasty, scratchy paws on my shoulders and heavy was the weight I felt as he forced my knees to bend.
"No. You shall not conquer!" and I struggled to my feet again and again with iron resolve.
At last he too was forced to quit the battle and I moved to the tenth and final enemy in the circle. Like Moses fighting the Amelek, I flung my arms into the air. Now I was winning. Now the dragon. Back hands to the sky! I was winning. Then the dragon. Then I. It took twenty times, and the last two or three my arms were shaking, trembling with fatigue and pain as again and again I held them high.
The sighing and creaking stopped. So silent they sat. Steel and not so formidable after all. I determined to chase them home. "
Run. Run. You sadistic creatures! I've bested the worst o' ye, I have!"
Alas! It wasn't over yet. Dragon number eleven came charging from the back room and took off running; I gave chase, running on a road that never led to anything, trying my best to catch up to him, but never gaining, never losing. There. With a last feeble peep, he stopped; but scaly beast Twelve took off on skies, and I slogged behind until he, too, fell still and smoldering.
Leviathan Thirteen took a bicycle; I grabbed mine. I pedaled. Again the feeling of inevitable defeat, as the road beneath was the same...same...same...same...
Then I knew...I could not kill them. Tomorrow they would be here again, in their circle of challenge, frothing angry and stronger.

Oh but I will be stronger too.

We meet tomorrow.
The fearsome dragons and I.

Fluency

I remember an old story of a young, stuttering Greek who wanted to become an orator. Every day he put pebbles into his mouth and stood on the stormy seashore screaming at the waves. Oh to be understood!
As a teacher, I sometimes feel the same despairing need for fluency. How can I reach them: Those ears anesthetized by i-pods; those eyes so mesmerized by random image assaults of cool, meaningless bangles of trivia; those senses battered by rushing overloads of excitement in games and rides and toys and human drama on the screen.

Oh for a child who can still be amazed!
For that one, I'll spend hours at the beach, stuffing pebbles into my mouth.

Legal--but not Ethical

My seniors study a bit of philosophy, and we just finished a unit on 'ethics'. One of my students from Indonesia, who aspires to be an honest politician, has latched onto this phrase and uses it in odd moments--at the concession stand, for instance, when someone wants to sell the leftover,overcooked and bursting cheese sticks with the advertisement: "Cheese bursts--an explosion of flavor!"
"Legal, but not ethical", he cautions, happy to have caught me at my own game.

It isn't quite true that we cannot legislate morality; otherwise why would there be laws at all. not driving under the influence, buying someone's goods and services instead of stealing them, nurturing children instead of stringing them up by their thumbs or chaining them in the basement, not slandering your neighbor in court: these are moral behaviors and we legislate them all the time. We prevent anarchy by controlling what people do.

But there is a morality we cannot legislate; it is the morality of the heart: The "ought" in "What ought you to do?" It mimics the character of God and flies contrarily in the face of what is easiest, and what may seem beneficial at the time. Ethics is about others, and our desire to give them the same consideration we want for ourselves. It is about not taking advantage of someone's subservient position, innocence, or ignorance in order to advance our own pleasure at their expense.

Ethics holds true even when the law goes contrary to conscience.

My son has an elderly Russian friend who grew up in Communist Russia. He asked her why her uncles had been arrested and she said: "You ask the wrong question. The question should be "What year were they arrested?" The law had clearly become unethical...as it often does.

Ethics is about what is right. That doesn't always square with what the current law demands.

Germany had a holocaust and murdered over six million Jews: Legal--but not ethical
For years, slaves from Africa were sold around the world: Legal--but not ethical
Many native Americans were driven from their lands because of broken treaties: Legal--but not ethical.
In some countries today women have no basic rights: Legal--but not ethical.
In others, unwanted children are murdered before birth so they "won't be abused" afterward: Legal--but not ethical.

And while I respect the laws of the land, there is a law within me that I have to live with--a higher standard. If I don't, I will have to answer for it, and a poor defense will be: "but it was legal"



Our Sunday Scribblings Prompt was: Ethics/Ethical

Secret Message

Here is a misunderstood message from parents to children:

I asked you to quit hanging out with that kind of group.
Learn to drive sensibly; avoid dangerous road conditions.
Don't prize fame over integrity or success over honor.

The red letters spell one message;
the purple quite another. It's all in how you read it.


Our Sunday Scribblings Prompt was "message"

Yes

Well, you see, Miss Matilda, I finally figured out--seein's how I couldn't get along without ya--or didn't like to anyway, that the only thing to do would be hitch up the horse and head to the train station, just ta see if'n I couldn't persuade you to give up this no count life as a hotel maid, and come help me back on the farm...I mean as my wife, cause we'd do things right, get a parson to marry us--here today even, if you'd consent--and I don't know if you'd consider it speakin' out of turn and all, but I decided I just didn't care for all the conventions if only...I could hear you say yes.

The Good Old Days

Within a few miles of modern,
out on the little dirt roads in the country,
there are houses long abandoned,
their owners dead, and all descendants scattered.


So many were the children used to live here: early morning chores, late night lessons--lots of noise and joys and bustle.
Hard life.
But productive.
They're all gone now.
Someone works the land and keeps the harvests;
Nobody wants the houses anymore.
Just a few small, wild creatures use the shelter.

Last fall, my son Elijah and his girl, Marie, went walking near this old house. They took pictures of the building, the silence, and an old boot on the floor.

I loved their shots.
When I saw the boot it reminded me of a footprint on the moon.

Our Sunday Scribblings prompt was "the good old days".