Saturday, June 24, 2017

She opened her door: Madame Trocmé

Because I am very busy organizing a party for a friend this weekend, I'm re-running a piece I wrote when the blog was only three weeks old. I'll be back on my regular schedule next week!
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“The struggle in Le Chambon began and ended in the privacy of people's homes. Decisions that were turning points in that struggle took place in kitchens, and not with male leaders as the only decision-makers, but often with women centrally involved.”

- Philip Hallie, Lest Innocent Blood Be Shed


It was a cold evening in the terrible winter of 1940-1941—the worst winter France had known in a long time—and Magda Trocmé was feeding the fire. In her town up on the Vivarais plateau, where the winters were harsh at the best of times, this one was a time for worries. She was carefully adding bits of dried genêt brush, trying to build up the fire without wasting the precious firewood that would get them through till spring.

She heard a knock on the door.

She opened it to find a woman shawled in snow, fear and hunger in her face, hesitating. She was a German Jew, she said, a refugee. She had heard that here in Le Chambon, someone could help her. Could she come in?

“Of course,” said Magda. “Come in, come in.”

Magda was the wife of André Trocmé, the pastor of the Reformed Church in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon. If you have heard of anyone in this story, you will have heard of him. He was a brilliant scholar and preacher, sent by his denomination to this small rural parish because he refused to stop preaching nonviolence. He was a big fish in a small pond, both a charismatic leader overflowing with ideas and one who warmly loved his people and visited them constantly. Since France's defeat in the spring of 1940, he had preached to his people that they must resist pressure to act against their consciences and against God, and he had himself resisted in politically symbolic ways. When it was decreed that all schoolchildren would now salute the French flag with the same salute used in Nazi Germany, he refused to enforce the order in his church-run school, and the principal of the public school followed suit.

That was the time of symbols. There in the unoccupied zone, the new collaborationist Vichy regime was trying to capture the hearts and minds of the people with their program of National Revolution, its goal quite literally to make France great again. On the Vivarais plateau, people had long memories, and those memories were of government persecution and the brave resistance of their Huguenot ancestors. Their country's greatness wasn't their main concern. André Trocmé helped to focus and embolden the new sense of resistance welling up in their hearts.

But Magda opened the door.

Magda was not always sure just what she believed about God—or if she was, she never said so very definitely. She supported her husband in everything he did, but she was a practical woman, not much taken with words or symbols. She wanted to know what she should do—and do it. “I am not a good Christian at all,” she explained once, “but I have a few things I believe in... I never close my door, never refuse to help somebody who comes to me or asks for something. This I think is my kind of religion.”

The time had come for her kind of religion.

This was the first time a refugee in need had come to the village openly asking for help. When Magda gave it, she ushered in the second time in Le Chambon: the time of helping. Simply helping people who needed help. Within a year and a half, in the summer of 1942 when the round-ups began, the time of hiding would come; by then the village would be full to bursting, the vast majority of households sheltering at least one refugee, with many more in children's homes and dorms of the church-run boarding school. There would be false identity cards, planned hiding places, code-phrases to alert Jews to the presence of police.

But first there was an open door, a place by the fire, a bed for the night.

It was only for the night, that time, because there's another part to this story. Magda made a mistake.

Leaving the woman to warm herself by the fire, she went straight to the town hall, to ask the mayor to help her get a ration card and hopefully a false ID for the woman. There were no round-ups yet, but as a refugee and an illegal alien she could still be deported back to Germany by the French. Magda assumed the mayor would help. It was what she would have done; it was what her neighbors would have done. She was not experienced yet.

The man was shocked. How dare she endanger the French town under his care for the sake of one foreigner? He told Magda to get her out of town the next morning—at the very latest. She looked at him, turned on her heel, and walked back out to comply. She had no choice. She had told the authorities who and where the woman was. She had put her in danger and she would have to get her out if it.

Thankfully, Le Chambon—though it's the one you may have heard of—was not the only town on that plateau where people believed in welcoming the stranger. In the next town over, Magda knew a Catholic family who were willing to take the woman in. But she was ashamed, ashamed for her town and for herself, to be sending this refugee who had come to her back out into the snow. She did not remember that day as a triumph. She learned from it the precautions to take, the next time she opened her door. Not precautions against the person who stood on the other side, but for them.

Her mistake is really interesting to me. It seems so obvious to us in hindsight, and yet she was not a stupid or naïve person. She was a mother, an organizer, the equal partner of a brilliant man. She didn't suppose everyone approached needy refugees in the same way as her; just that everyone in her community did. And the crazy thing is that she was almost right. There were thousands of Jews in Le Chambon during the war, and no informers. Also—though I haven't been able to discover whether this was due to a change of heart or a change of mayor—it's a matter of record that for most of the war years the town's mayor fully supported the rescue efforts. Magda Trocme assumed a moral community that was almost there. And her assumption came true.

Who made it true? Who can say? Every person who opened their door, one by one, made it true. Every person who offered a little help, whatever someone needed. A pair of shoes, a meal, an invitation to hide in their hayloft anytime there was need. And yes, André Trocmé with his preaching helped make it true too. But his words and his symbols would have been nothing without the people willing to make them real. Without farmer after farmer saying (they were surprised after the war that anyone was impressed) “Well, they're in trouble, of course they can stay here.” Without woman after woman, standing in her kitchen, deciding she could stretch the rationed groceries in her pantry enough to feed another mouth.

Without his wife, opening that door.

Friday, June 9, 2017

"I came back. Therefore, I won't complain." Madeleine Dreyfus, Jewish rescuer and deportee

A lot of the rescuer stories I've told so far have been of non-Jews hiding or saving Jews. This one is quite different.

There's an image, sometimes, that Jews were passive during WWII: victimized or rescued, their fate depending solely on others. The truth is otherwise: many, many Jews resisted as they could. Some resisted by force of arms, even in the face of hopeless odds, some by underground activities and rescue, some by--like Daniel--continuing to worship God as Jews when it was terrifyingly forbidden. (Read more on Jewish resistance here.) Madeleine Dreyfus resisted by saving Jewish children.

Saving them, hiding them, and counseling them. Madeleine was a psychologist.

She hadn't felt any particular bond with the Jewish community, growing up; she was raised as an atheist, and had friends of different faiths. Her studies took her into intellectual and artistic circles in Paris, where she met her husband Raymond (whose background was also Jewish.) But as the war encroached on their lives, things changed bit by bit. Her husband, drafted into the French military and then discharged after the defeat, took a job in Paris--then lost it for being Jewish. The new French government had made it illegal for Jews to hold jobs they considered "positions of trust." The Dreyfuses left for Lyon in the Unoccupied Zone, where a friend who was leaving the country asked Madeleine, as a trained psychologist, to take over her job. The job was with the OSE, Oeuvre de Secours aux Enfants--a Jewish organization with a double life and a double name (which still exists today.)

Secours means more than one thing. The OSE's name can be translated as Children's Aid Network--or Children's Rescue Network. This was exactly right. Officially, they were about aid--food, shelter, social services. But as the threat rose, a shadow side of the OSE rose to meet it, with rescue.

Madeleine started on the social services end, plying her trade, counseling troubled young people whose parents had taken refuge in Lyon. Then disaster struck--the first great round-up of foreign Jews in the Unoccupied Zone, August 1942. She was called on to help in an incredible illegal rescue performed by the OSE and a network of Christian aid organizations, the Venissieux rescue I wrote about last year, in which over 100 children--almost all the children arrested in the Lyon area--were spirited away and hidden from the authorities who had intended to deport them. Madeleine's work was to make the children disappear before the police could find them.

 This was her entry into the new underground side of the OSE, and she plunged into it fully from then on, understanding that the children's lives were at stake, and willing to risk her own for them. She organized the making of false papers and ration cards, did the risky work of feeling out local institutions to find places to hide Jewish children. She made a contact that led her to Le Chambon, and found the town a godsend: a place where not just a few, but dozens or hundreds of children might be welcomed.

Soon she was traveling regularly from Lyon to Le Chambon, to find places for Jewish children and to deliver them to their new homes. She was put in charge of that section of the Garel network, a highly organized secret network in which Jewish children were transported anonymously, each worker not knowing the name of the fellow worker she passed them to. It was much like the work my mother and I described in Defy the Night, but far more terrifying: if the children slipped up and spoke the wrong language or called each other by their real names, they might be arrested and immediately deported, and the worker too. Madeleine personally transported over 100 children--some of them given to her by their parents, some of them escapees from their parents' arrest. She cared for them, helping them to adjust, bringing letters from their parents (who weren't told their addresses, for safety) if she could. She valued her local allies in Le Chambon very much, and told stories about them after the war--one of her favorites was about how a dear friend of hers, when asked about Jews by the police, used to say "Jews? What does that mean, 'Jews?'"

Madeleine had two children, and during this time became pregnant with a third. After her daughter's birth she resumed her traveling. It was 1943, and French Jews like Madeleine and her family were under threat of arrest now. Her husband, whose sister-in-law had just been deported with her children, begged Madeleine (who didn't have false papers of her own) to stop risking her life. She asked him to wait till she could find someone to replace her in the work.

In November 1943, Madeleine walked into a trap.

She called a boarding school that turned out to be in the midst of a Gestapo raid, to ask after some children she'd placed there. The woman who answered the phone asked her--being ordered to do so at gunpoint--to come to the school immediately. She was arrested when she walked in. The trap had been set for a major local Resistance organizer, but she was swept up in it too.

She asked to be allowed to go home briefly to breastfeed her baby, or at least to call home and arrange for her care. When they allowed the phone call, she called the National Jewish Council instead and slipped a warning into the message. Her family fled their home immediately, and the OSE was warned as well.

Incredibly, although Madeleine was interrogated by the Gestapo under Klaus Barbie, the infamous Butcher of Lyon, they did not find out about her clandestine activities. But her papers revealed she was Jewish, so they didn't let her go. She was sent to Drancy, a French internment camp from which people were regularly deported to Auschwitz, and barely saved from that fate by a lawyer friend who was a fellow prisoner there and was able to falsify her legal status enough to exempt her. Even from the internment camp, she was once able to get a warning to a Jewish children's home she had heard was in danger. She also sent off a coded message asking her husband to have their own older children smuggled to Switzerland, and they made it safely there.

But in May 1944 she was deported to Germany.

She was sent to Bergen-Belsen, a concentration camp without gas chambers. It was a terrible place, where forty thousand inmates died of starvation and disease, but Madeleine said very little after the war about her experiences there. Once she wrote: "I came back. Therefore, I won't complain."

She worked hard to keep her dignity in the camp, and uphold others' as well. She helped others as she could, and they trusted her. One of the few stories she told out of her time there: she was once chosen to divide a hard-boiled egg among fifteen people. "I still have the taste of that fifteenth of the hard-boiled egg in my mouth," she wrote many years later. The effects of profound hunger, the way it made human beings feel like animals in their longing for even a handful of rutabaga peelings or a bone, haunted her then and later.

In the spring of 1945 she was liberated with the other camp survivors, so starved that they combed the fields for dandelion leaves to eat, and feasted on boiled soup-bones they found in a railroad workers' shack. She finally made it back to France and to her family. They had all survived. There would be much to rebuild; her 21-month-old daughter barely knew her. But they had time.

She came back. And she did not complain.

She worked with and counseled the children the OSE still cared for after the war, children who had survived terrible trauma, many of them now orphans. Later she went into private practice as a psychotherapist, especially skilled with families and children. She kept deep friendships from her work during the war. Her husband summed up her life, in a memoir, with the word "Ecoute": listening.

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There's one other thing I would like to talk about today. Speaking of bones, leaves, and one-fifteenth of a hard-boiled egg. The worst famine since World War II is happening in Africa this year. And like the hunger during World War II, it is not caused by nature but by war, by people willing to shoot and dehumanize others. In South Sudan people are being forced to flee for their lives into wilderness where they can hide from soldiers, knowing that there is no food there. They go knowing that their children may starve. And that if they stay they'll be murdered.

When the survivors of this terror make it to the other side, to places that are, or should be, safe, they are desperate for food. Especially for their children. Young bodies are resilient; they can bounce back from starvation--if they get enough food, and fast. And there is food aid coming in, being made available to these people. But not enough. Nowhere near enough.

We can change that.

We can't change all of it. We can never change all of it. We're too few. Our government could, but it won't at this point. And that makes it hard to think about; that article I linked was hard to read, for me, the pictures hard to look at. But: I can only imagine how hard it was for Madeleine, knowing how many she could not save. There were so many. But she saved the ones she could. There are women like her out there, doing everything they can, carefully dividing the handfuls of food they have. Let's add what we can.

I've set up a fundraising page for fighting this famine, through Oxfam. They're a reputable, thoroughly experienced organization, and I feel they're the best choice to get as much food to these people as quickly as possible. (But if they are not the organization you'd choose, please--find one that is.) I'll be donating when my book advance comes in.

Would you donate too?

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Pandering

I have a confession. I like to read terrible reviews of other people's books.

Only books that genuinely deserve them. (Twilight, anyone?) But I don't know that that makes it any better. I could try to spin it, but the fact is that this is a trait of mine that is genuinely not very nice. I can tell, when I do it, that I am satisfying a low impulse in myself by reading: even if I'm feeling low, I can feel a little better by telling myself at least I do it better than that person.

Another version of this that many people go for (and, again, so do I) is stories of people behaving badly. Some people watch daytime talk shows and reality TV. I read Not Always Right. We come out feeling better: I would never act like that.

(I still do it. I try--keyword: try--to do it only as a stress valve. That might be the one redeeming part: if I can bleed off some irritation and be calmer for the people around me.)

Over the years as I've written and read fiction, I've come to understand better some of the ways in which fiction can cater to low impulses in us as well.

After writing that sentence, I realized sex might come to mind, but it's not actually what I'm thinking of. I'm thinking of books that pander to our pride.

For an example I'll pick an author famous enough not to suffer from anything I might say: Anne McCaffrey. I've enjoyed her Dragonriders of Pern series very much, read almost all of them and many of her other works. After awhile, though, I started to notice a pattern that grew more pronounced with time: Our Heroes had their flaws, sure, they weren't always nice, but there was one thing they always were--they were Right. And the people who opposed them were Wrong--and selfish and jealous and had no actual good reasons for opposing them, nary a one. This is an exaggeration, most likely, but read it all and you'll start to notice it too.

There are many other writers who do this, to different degrees. Very many. And it isn't exactly a writing flaw, even though it does sometimes annoy us as readers if we pick up on it. I feel pretty sure that it's sometimes, as programmers say, a feature rather than a bug. Deliberate pandering rather than a mistake. Because, when we don't notice it consciously, we tend to like it.

We like it because it gives us a similar feeling to the things I started this post with. Vindication. A sense that we aren't so bad, that we are better than other people, or other people are worse than us. Fiction is even more powerful at giving us this sense of vindication, because it doesn't just give us Bad People to look down on, but also Good People to identify with.

In any fictional story, except for the most detached literary fiction, we're given a character that we don't just watch from the outside--someone into whose skin we can slip, someone we can identify with. Sometimes it's a hero, sometimes it's an anti-hero, sometimes it's an "Everyman," but whoever it is, whether we admire him or not, this is the person we suffer and rejoice with; what happens to him happens to us. (I'm going to go with a "him" on this for now. It's more often a "him," even nowadays--and almost always a "him" the color of the majority. I almost opened that can of worms here, but it's too big; I'll have to do a separate post.) We hope that he finds what he is seeking. If he does, we feel deeply gratified.

And if the author overinflates this hero's ego--makes him Right, shows him off to the world vindicated beyond his real deserving--we walk away inflated too. Either that or we see through it, and detach, and walk away unsatisfied.

It's not just a matter of the hero doing no wrong. Almost every hero makes mistakes, even bad choices; otherwise there's very little story. But when the hero goes up against other people, is he ever wrong? Does he ever have to admit that someone else saw the situation more clearly than him, that he should have listened? Does he ever have to admit that someone he dismissed or looked down on or even hated had a point? If the answer is no, never, no hint of any such thing, I think there's something wrong.

This definitely happens in Christian fiction. (I won't name names--none come to mind, it's probably been years since I read the books that started this impression forming. And indeed that may be an indication that it's getting better. I have hope that it is.) It's particularly insidious in Christian fiction, at least in the form it often takes: you see, the Christian is right. The non-Christians are wrong. Why? Is it because we believe that our beliefs are right? Or is it because we like to see someone like us vindicated?

What I know is, I am always and will always be refreshed when I see an author do, even briefly, the opposite: the Christian sees the non-Christian's point. Says I'm sorry. You're right. I've been a jerk. When the character we identify with is forced to swallow his pride, to widen his view of the world through the eyes of the other.

So, there they are, my thoughts on pandering. I've been thinking them a long time, telling myself Don't do this, never do this. (And on occasion the voice in my ear, my own voice: You could sell more books! Of course there's always the other voice saying drily: Sure you could.) There isn't a bright line that you cross or don't cross--it's one long, smooth continuum from Give them everything they want to Give them nothing they want. Where do you draw that line? How do you judge? So murky.

Until you step away from playing some cynical version of God, from thinking you know "what the reader wants"--from thinking you know everything about people just because you know something bad that they want. Until you choose to trust the reader, and say: The reader wants the truth. The truth of the love and the selfishness inside each person, the high courage, hungry need and angry pride, the yearning for the good and true; the journey through the tangled wood after the light. It's been my principle, my bright light to follow in all my writing: Tell the truth. And there are readers who want it. I'd rather sell a thousand books to them, friends--to you--than fifty thousand to people who want pandering.

Let me trust that. Let me trust you.

And if I ever start pandering--please let me know.

Saturday, May 27, 2017

A postscript, and some flowers

I've been reflecting since last week that I left something out of my post on Christian involvement in the Holocaust. It's this:

This is the reason I write about rescuers. This is the reason I write about Le Chambon.

It's not the original reason, as I've said here before. The original reason was that my Mom was writing about it and I wanted to help with her project. But it is the reason I write about it now.

Because there were Christians who did the right thing. There were Christians who actually loved their neighbors during that time. And what I really want is not to whitewash the behavior of Christians in general during that time, but to ask myself and everybody: what was it about the ones who actually acted the way Christians are supposed to act? What kind of Christians were they? How were they different? How can we be more like them, so that we will act like them?

That's what I want to know. That's what I want to find out.

So. That's my coda to last week's post.

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And now for something completely different!

(I mean it's about time I write something positive, right?)

Spring is in full swing here, the growing part of spring: everything green and wet and warm. Peonies opening, their white ruffled petals weighed down with clear raindrops. Such an ephemeral beauty--the wetter a peony gets, the faster it fades into brown, I've seen it before. In the first stage of spring, the tree-blossom stage, the wildflowers-on-the-forest-floor stage, I used to take the quilt outside on warm evenings and lay it out under the flowering crabapple tree and sit on it with the Boy. Sometimes we'd just lie down and look up at the white blossoms and the blue sky. He learned about bees and pollination from that tree, I remember standing near it with him in the carrier on my back, and showing him all the bees... Anyway, there was one windy day near the end of the blooms' life--they were still pure-white and lovely, but every gust of wind sent them flying till they filled the air. There's no ephemeral beauty like the beauty of petals swept away by the wind. Just looking at it hurts in that lovely way, like you're reminded of death and the sweetness of life at one and the same time.

Well. Um. I was just going to share some photos, actually. Of that earlier stage of spring, since I don't yet have photos of this one.



These are dogtooth violets, also known as trout lilies. The flowers only last two or three days. Right where our walking path enters the woods, there's a thick patch of the shiny mottled leaves. It makes maybe five or six flowers each year. They're not even that pretty, I suppose. But they're so shy, and rare, and they have a kind of grace.

Here's one in fuller bloom, though blurrier focus.














Bluebells. They grow in our backyard. Such a short life. They're annuals: they live and die and make seed, all in the short time before the trees above their forest floor leaf out and shade them. Just that short sweet time in the sun.
















This is jack-in-the-pulpit. As a kid I knew it as a houseplant. I figured it was tropical. Nope! Turns out it's a North American wildflower. (For all I know it lives in the tropics too.) It makes bright orange berries in a little cluster in the fall.





















A patch of ramps (wild onions, like the ones Rapunzel's mother craved!) see through a fallen log.


Bloodroot leaf with the sun shining in it. Below is what the flowers look like. They last three days at the most. We value things we can't keep.


















 And, last, those white blossoms and that blue sky. They come out every spring, unfolding out of brown-grey branches we could have sworn were dead. They are ready, they know their time. There is such strength in roots and seeds, biding their time through the winter, waiting to pass out of death and into life.


Saturday, May 20, 2017

Yes, Christians did commit the Holocaust

Just a note in case anyone shows up who hasn't read here before: I'm a Christian. I say all this as a Christian. Additional note for anyone who just had the phrase "but is she a real Christian" pop into their head: I believe Jesus died for my sins.

Good, we've got that out of the way.

So this is a debate you run into on the internet over and over. Atheist: religion is terrible, Christians committed the Crusades and the Inquisition and the Holocaust, Hitler was a Christian. Christian: Those people were not real Christians especially Hitler.

The problem with this debate is that both sides are wrong.

First off, Hitler wasn't a Christian. He pretended to be one sometimes at politically convenient moments, but in private he explicitly despised Christianity, calling it meek and flabby, a deliberate lie, and the heaviest blow that ever struck humanity. The Nazis in general, though--that's a more complicated question. There was a lot of strange spiritual stuff going on with the Nazis, from Neo-Paganism to new Christian-themed movements which I absolutely consider (and so would any traditional Christian) to be heretical. I mean, as a sample, there was the movement they called Positive Christianity, encouraged by Hitler and embraced by some Nazis as a sort of reboot of the faith, which up till now had been way too "negative." (For context to that notion--humility was negative. Triumphant arrogance was positive. And Jesus was a Nordic hero who fought against Judaism. Yeah. It was a heresy all right. But its people thought of themselves as Christians. I made my Gestapo villain one of them, in my upcoming novel.) If you had to pin down Nazi religion as a whole, the best description might be a cult with both Christian and pagan elements, and the paganism was probably stronger at the higher levels--especially in the SS. And yet--some leading Nazis self-identified as Christians, and are we positive that they were all provably astray from the most basic orthodoxy? Well, I hope they were (and even if they weren't I consider their Christianity perverted in spirit) but I certainly can't prove it.

But even if I could, the atheist is right about this: Christians did it.

The Nazis didn't commit the Holocaust alone. They led and organized it. It was a huge endeavor requiring the participation of many, many people--ordinary soldiers, ordinary police, ordinary citizens. There is simply no question, historically, that masses of these participating people were Protestants and Catholics; they made up the vast majority of the population. And further masses turned a blind eye, out of terror or plain fear or self-interest or indifference, or outright anti-Semitism. Europe was full of Christians at the time, much fuller than it is now--and let's not kid ourselves, Europe had an old tradition of anti-Semitism that defined itself as Christians versus Jews. It's not something that feels at all familiar to American Protestants, and it's easy for us to dismiss it as the Catholics' fault, but it's part of our roots too--and most ordinary Protestants don't come off looking too good in this story either. Bonhoeffer and his friends were amazing people, but they were in the minority.

Europe was full of Protestants and Catholics, and many of them participated, some willingly, some not. And really--by what measure can we define those people as "not Christians"?

Well, I know of two measures. I've seen them used, and they're both wrong.

One is theology: these were people from "dead" churches who had this and this and this wrong with their theology, and if I wouldn't consider them real Christians if I met them today, why do I have to claim them as Christians after they've committed this heinous crime? If you find yourself agreeing with this--and believe me I get it--please stop and consider just how hollow this claim sounds to an outsider. We're talking about people who claimed the name of Jesus, called themselves Christian, whose religious roots and history were all in Christianity--excuse me, what on earth is a Jew supposed to identify them as? Atheists? Imagine if a Muslim friend said to you, No, Muslims didn't carry out those terrorist attacks. No, the Islamic State, see, they're not real Muslims, they're absolutely not, because there's this and this and this wrong with their theology, I can detail to you how they've departed from the true and original faith of Islam...

What would we say to that guy? What would we expect from him? We would want him to say: Yes, Muslims did that. They are bad Muslims. They are doing it wrong. I oppose them and all their works.

I'll come back to this.

And then there's the second argument, the basic, instinctive reaction--and I have it too--that people who turned in their neighbors, or participated in arrests, or stood by and sang patriotic songs as these things happened, were acting so completely against the spirit of Jesus that they can't have possibly known him.

Is this true? Is it? Have you ever ignored the voice of Jesus? I have.

Deep inside this instinctive reaction is the belief that what you do defines you. Does it? It's a profound question. There are two answers.

The atheist's response to this reaction is simple: No True Scotsman. For those who don't know, it's a logical fallacy by which you can "prove" no Scotsman would ever do X, because if he did he's not a true Scotsman. No true Christian would turn his neighbor in to the Gestapo; thus we "prove" Christians never did so. That's not right, of course.

And yet, so close, just on the other side of the fine line, is the saying of Jesus: By their fruits you shall know them. Here's the thing, though: wasn't talking about who was out and who was in--who was a true Christian or Jew or disciple or Scotsman--he wasn't talking about group membership or who claims who. He was talking about something much more urgent: who is a true prophet? In other words--a question as urgent today, in our internet world of rumors, as it was then among the competing messiahs--who do I listen to? A tree is known by its fruit, he says. Look at their actions; look at their effects.

Does the good or evil a person does define him? It doesn't define his membership in a group. Whether he's a Christian, a Muslim, an Arab or a Jew. It doesn't define whether he's linked to us, whether he claims the same name and holds the same traditions. But it defines, urgently, the response we must make to him. Follow. Or flee. Or fight.

Hitler understood this. He didn't persecute Christians for being Christians. That would have been a suicidal move. He persecuted only those Christians who acted like Jesus.

We get it backwards. Exactly backwards. We read the story of the past, the account of evil done by someone claiming to be one of us, and we disown him. No. Not my people. But in the midst of the now, when we are choosing who to listen to--when actions are present, unfolding, confusing, not yet pinned on pages by historians--when we are searching for the "good guys" amidst the flood of competing prophets--now, we give weight, too much weight, to "is he one of us?" Is he? Does it matter? Is that what Jesus would have us ask?

By their fruits you shall know them.

There's a reason for our wish to deny that real Christians had anything to do with the Holocaust. Fundamentally, it is very simple: my community cannot commit atrocities. My community is righteous. We are the good guys.

This is not true.

We are not the good guys; Jesus is the good guy. We do not acquire goodness simply by saying his name; only Christianity. They are not the same thing. Assuming they are is a trap, an open grave: many Germans fell into it when they heard Hitler claim Jesus' name. He promised an era of spiritual renewal for Germany, and many believed him. He sounded like one of us. People just like us followed him, and every one that did made it possible for the next one to assume he was not so bad.

Friends, let us not judge people's goodness by whether they are one of us. Jesus has told us not to. Let us judge by whether they love their neighbors, whether they do them good or harm. When we fail to do that, when we assume that this prophet or that leader must be good because he is one of us, and all of us are good--then we raise the specter of evil. Then we should not be surprised if we see fear in our neighbor's eyes.

What do we say as Christians to our neighbor, our atheist neighbor or our Jewish neighbor, about the specter of the past? The same thing we want our Muslim neighbor to say to us. Yes, my people did those things. My people participated. They were bad Christians. They were doing it wrong. I oppose them and all their works. It must never happen again. I never forget.

_______________________________


That's what I have to say on the matter. If you have something to say, I will gladly listen and discuss.

Sunday, May 14, 2017

All is held in trust

In the spring of 2010, a house burned down in the Christian intentional community I live in. Nobody was hurt, but the house was wholly lost. It was the most beautiful house on the place, beautifully crafted with old-fashioned beams, and a living space for quite a few people. There were people still in the community whose sweat and skill and hope had gone into that house, and I knew they felt it. I wrote a poem from those thoughts.

Yesterday a meeting was held here about the final closing of the intentional community, with decisions made about the disposal of the land. It's the end of an era, and an outcome many people did not imagine as they put their sweat and skill and hope into the place.

So I thought I'd share that poem today.
_____________________


Us:
Dawn opens silent as a bloom
Above the gutted house, its dark
Bones crisscrossed in the lucent air;
The phoebe sings. Which of our hearts
Could drink this young wind sweet as wine
And not taste bitter ashes? See:
All that our hands have built is tinder
For the flame. So it must be.

You:
The phoebe sings, and flicks her tail.
Her eggs will hatch this year. Seeds wake
Beneath the blackened ground; the grass
Will rise, the fireweed and the creeper take
The ruin, wrap it close with life.
Know this: though all may burn, each day
Beneath the faithful sun ten thousand
Trees are born. The earth returns.

Us:
No. What is lost, is lost. The black
Beams wrapped in their green vines will fall,
And will not rise, though spring should wake
The dead. Some only sleep; not all.
The green heart will not beat again
In brittle branches winter-cracked;
Dead limbs that hang like bones from broken
Trees. Don't tell us it comes back.

You
You do not know what lies behind
My door. Where sings the fallen bird,
Where stand the shattered, crafted beams,
No eye has seen, no ear has heard.
The world's tale runs through the years:
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
But all your tears are kept within
My bottle; all is held in trust.

Saturday, May 6, 2017

Eden

I remember the cooing of the doves, in the town in France where I grew up. They were collared doves, and they roosted up among the rooftops of the town, like pigeons do in other towns. I had forgotten about them, the way they used to coo when the sky started to grow soft with evening. I remembered it the other night and almost cried.

I don't know if I can explain how it is. How you can see one thing like that, those doves, and for a moment that is everything. It fills your vision like God's final word. Doves among the rooftops.

I almost cried because I wanted the cooing of the collared doves to be the gentle meaning of everything.

Sometimes I can't be rational about all of this. The world is so terrible. There has always, always--almost always--been so much death. There is so much scorn, so much loneliness, so much hatred. We are told God gave us a garden, made us fresh out of earth in the light of a young world no evil had touched. The world is old now, and we have invented tortures not fit to be written of. We have invented elaborate reasons why everyone unlike us is lesser than us. We have invented machine upon machine designed brilliantly to destroy.

We are told God gave us a garden. In it was the tree of Life. I believe it. Its seeds are still everywhere, tiny leaves unfurling slowly into the light. I don't know where the seedlings go after that, what happens to them, what blight strikes them down. I only know that I only see them young. But so real.

They are real. The cooing of doves in a window. The sun's light through a perfect young oak leaf, the color green come alive. The light that can rest on a face, come from no lamp or sun--you've seen it, I've seen it, the light in the eyes is real light. In the eyes of a laughing child or an old woman touched with joy. The light lies on the water. The swallows come in spring. Again and again they come, in spite of all our sins. The apple trees forgive us, and bloom.

And I can't take it sometimes, with the wanting, the wanting for these to be the meaning of things, the light that fills your vision, God's final word.

I don't want the world to end in a burst of light. God's final word is God's first word too. I want Eden. I want it painfully, the end of the road, the promise, the day the seed becomes the tree. I want the terrors we have made wiped away. I want the earth we have trodden down and paved over made fresh and new as in the first spring sunrise, and us all there looking at each other wide-eyed in the new light. I want it. I want it sometimes till it hurts.

I have seen the seeds. I have heard the promise. Now is the waiting. I can cry if I choose. But I must go to bed, and get up, and try my best to love my neighbor. Ask God for the strength to treat my neighbor, in the meantime, as if we stood in that new light. As if, if I look again, I'll see the uncreated light resting on his face and shining like a glory in his eyes.

Stay with us, O Lord Jesus Christ
Night will soon fall
Then stay with us, O Lord Jesus Christ,
Light in our darkness.

____________

The grass is still singing
The words I will say
When I walk with You barefoot
In the cool of the day

Saturday, April 29, 2017

Loyalty

I keep remembering my childhood these days. Partly because my three-year-old asks about it every night as I put him to bed. Things are coming back to me that I haven't thought of in years.

Today I remembered how I used to feel about the Pledge of Allegiance.

For an American who grew up in the U.S., it's probably impossible to quite visualize with just how alien it felt to me when I first encountered it. I was six--which I suppose is the same age you were (if you're American) unless they do it in kindergarten. But I just had never seen such a thing before. And all the flags hung from suburban houses, as if the owners wanted to remind everyone what country we were in. In France I'd see flags on government buildings, maybe a handful extra on the 14 of July. (Which, by the way, I've never heard called Bastille Day in France, just the 14th of July.) And I had never, never pledged or saluted a flag--or seen anyone do so--in France. Not in school, certainly not in church (as in the U.S. we did at AWANA), not anywhere. My French schoolmates--who were plenty patriotic, I might add--would have found it very weird.

As did I.

I don't quite remember asking my parents what "pledge" and "allegiance" meant, but I know that I would have, and that they would have taken the time to fully explain. I do remember the sense of strangeness I felt when I grasped the concept: Really? To a flag? I remember the sense of dislocation I had when, a few years later, I was taught about flag protocol and learned how symbolic the height at which a flag was flown was--and remembered the dozens of churches I had been in which put an American flag and a Christian flag onstage at identical heights. And the flagpoles, where the Christian flag was flown below.

I was a Christian kid. It had been made abundantly clear to me that God is the most important thing. It really didn't take a lot of logic, from there, to the conclusion that something was wrong.

I mean, you could argue about what allegiance means. When Jesus said you can't serve two masters he didn't mention your nation as one of them, so, you could argue the point. People have a lot of reasons for what they feel about a nation, and I didn't have the same reasons a lot of people do. I was born in Northern Ireland as an American citizen, raised in France, occasionally spent a year in Texas; my father spent most of his childhood and youth in Europe, my mother a lot of hers in Brazil. I guess I was a little detached, and I suppose you could argue about whether this was a good thing. That argument's a little beyond the scope of this blog post; I'm tired and sick, and my kid will wake up soon, so maybe another day.

By my next couple sojourns in the U.S.--ages 10 and 13--I'd grown pretty uncomfortable with the pledge. While many Americans argued fiercely for or against the "under God" part, my problem was squarely with "I pledge allegiance to the flag." Allegiance sounded awfully serious to me; it sounded like the kind of thing you should only give to God.

Well, I wasn't a particularly brave kid. I never stood up and proclaimed myself a conscientious objector. I tended to mouth vague sounds instead of reciting. I remember working on a pledge to God that was supposed to have the same cadences as the flag pledge, so you could just recite that one instead and no-one would notice. (I quit halfway through, as I did with many things at that age.) I spent so much time in school feeling uncomfortable or embarrassed or different, it really just felt like part of the general trend.

It's been so long, now, since I've been expected to recite it, but I know just how I would feel. It's so hard to explain it, because I know it's so normal here. What if I simply said: please imagine a classroom of kids in Russia with their hands on their hearts pledging their flag. OK, now China. Now Pakistan. Now Iran.

Does it feel strange at all?

Years after all this, I learned that there was a time when French school kids did salute and pledge their flag. I learned it when researching How Huge the Night with my mother. There's a scene in the book where the young protagonist learns that he and his classmates are now expected to salute the French flag every morning with the same stiff-armed salute the Nazis used. This was a real order from Marshal Petain, head of the collaborationist--and self-proclaimedly fascist--Vichy government. The village I write about, which later saved Jews, quietly defied it.

When I learned that, I wondered if it might not be the reason they don't do flag-salutes in France now.

I believe in doing right by your country. I believe in doing right by others, period. But I am leery of patriotic pageantry, and treating the flag as a holy object. I am leery of loud demands for shows of loyalty, and the louder they are, the more I worry.

Saturday, April 22, 2017

How my unschooled kid taught me Slow Video

Watch this. (Or, you know, if you want to watch it in a decent size, click on the Youtube symbol at the bottom of it. I have no idea why Blogger thinks we want to watch videos in a three-inch box, but I can't convince it otherwise, sorry.)



Or, well, maybe you don't want to. It's a little long and moves a little slow. I won't blame you if you don't. I would probably have a hard time with it myself, out of context like this on someone's blog. It's so rewarding if you do watch it, but it is hard--without a 2- or 3-year-old kid.

It's only because I have one that I discovered it.

The whole thing happened kind of by accident. I remember exactly how it happened. He was actually one year old at the time, and according to the experts (well, some experts I heard quoted one time) I shouldn't have been giving him "screen time" at all. But we had just come back from his first road trip (to my brother's wedding) and we had seen migrating geese. I had pointed them out in the sky but hadn't been sure if he understood what I was pointing at. So when we were home I put my computer on the table and told him I was going to show him geese. Youtube was just the easiest way to show him anything. There they were--geese flying, geese honking, geese splashing down in a pond. I picked videos that were mostly raw footage, because the flashy stuff labeled "for kids" had so much talking and cutting between this and that that I just wasn't sure he could follow it. He loved it. "Geese! Geese!" It was a few days of him asking for more before I figured out he thought "geese" meant "video." Ha ha.

I was just the usual harassed parent of a toddler, and breakfast was one of the times I could relax a little because at least his mouth was full and his hands were busy. (We've never spoon-fed him anything. He has to do the work his own self, darnit.) Showing him videos extended that a little. From geese we went on to other birds, and pretty soon we started making our way in stages through "Winged Migration." Then I noticed it. I glanced over at him, and there was something about his eyes I hadn't noticed before. That slightly glazed, TV-watching look. Now I'm not saying anything bad about that look in itself--there's nothing wrong with relaxed immersion for Pete's sake, it's just a matter of how much of your life that is--it's just that I realized something really surprising. The other videos--his previous "screen time"--hadn't made him look like that.

I looked back at the screen and watched for why, and I saw it. It's an incredibly well-made documentary, beautifully cut and scored and voiced. It's meant to be immersive--that's why they cut it. Just like you read in the old arguments against TV, they don't show you the same thing for too many seconds--less than ten usually--then they cut to something new, and that's how they keep your attention. And that's how they get that look.

And raw footage doesn't have that.

Well, he was a toddler. I figured he didn't need relaxed immersion, he needed to see things he hadn't seen before. And there was lots I wanted to show him.  We're unschooling him--learning by doing, learning by seeing, all day every day--so I tend to be on the lookout for what he's interested in, what's at his level just now to learn. I'd told him where eggs and milk come from, for instance, and with Youtube I could prove it. We watched eggs being laid. He pretended to lay eggs. We watched the same hand-milking video for weeks. Some of the videos had audio commentary, but I liked the ones that didn't even better; it gave me space to explain to him what was going on. Just lots of home-made videos, "this is what we do on our farm." When I ran dry of ideas for those I went with his interests: heavy equipment, of course. Breakfast became time to watch tractors plow, or excavators dump earth into dump trucks, over and over. (There's a surprising amount of that out there, usually titled with complete specs of the equipment.) Not so fun for me, but he loved it, and I could open a blog in a separate, narrow little window and read.

My mom used to tell people about how he watched construction footage for fun, as a funny story. And I guess it is unusual. But I don't think he does it because he's an unusual kid. I think any kid would be interested in that. Any kid who'd be excited to see a backhoe turn up next door and would happily run out and watch it work, he'd gladly watch it on a screen too. We give them the immersive stuff because that's the programming touted as being "for kids," but it's not necessarily the only thing they'll like. I mean it's incredibly well designed to make kids keep watching, yes, but... that's one of the reasons I stay away from it. (Mostly. Now at 3 years old he gets animated nursery rhymes and a little gently paced CG dino who teaches numbers and colors in Spanish.) I'm not against cartoons, it's just... there's plenty of time for that. Why get him hooked so early? This is simple, it's not overstimulating (and I've seen him overstimulated, when all he ever wants to role-play for days is the same movie scene, he is overstimulated)... it's like waiting a little on giving your kid candy so they'll learn to like fruit first or something.

I just want to say at this point: we don't all have the same life. I don't eat organic. We can't afford it. (We can't afford Netflix either, which come to think of it might be a big reason this post exists.) If you can't afford the time this kind of thing takes, and it does take time, why on earth should I have any comment to make about that? I don't. I just thought this was worth sharing. In case you like it. That's honestly all.

<wipes forehead> OK. Anyway.

But see, the slow videos have made me think. Especially since Paul and I watched the incredible short-ish movie The Fits, about an African-American pre-teen who joins the amazing local dance/drill team only to find that it's being hit by a mysterious epidemic of seizures. It's magical realism, it's a deep exploration of a young girl's life, there is so much genuine emotion and so much respect--please watch it.

And it is slow. Never too slow, but it woos you into slowness. I don't really know that much about acting, but I suppose it must be a brilliant performance by young Royalty Hightower and some brilliant directing too, because it convinces you to sit and watch raptly as a young girl pushes a push-broom around a gym, or pirouettes slowly and aimlessly around it with the unselfconsciousness of a child who is completely alone.

What it reminded me of most was Andrei Tarkovsky. A Russian filmmaker who made these slow, spiritual movies, like Mirror and Stalker (not a stalker in the American sense--more of a wilderness guide--long story) and Solaris. (I tried to watch one of them with my dad, but when the first five minutes were someone getting out of bed and quietly gathering his things in the half-dark, he went off to do something else.) He was also brilliant, of course. It takes brilliance to take adults back to the pace of children, to being immersed in life, not because there's something new every ten seconds, but because it is life and life is new.

But kids don't need that. Kids can watch footage and think wow.

In college I once read an essay, I wish I could remember by whom, which made the point that the Grand Canyon doesn't awe us anymore specifically because it's the Grand Canyon. Because it's called that, because we show up with expectations, because we pull into the visitor center and get out of our cars hoping to be awed. What would it be like (the author asks) to just stumble on it? When you weren't expecting it? This massive gulf laid out before you, the bottom so far away.

Maybe that's why I had to watch the Swiss video above with a child. It is slow video embodied, a day in the Alps that isn't cut, that isn't commented. The title said it was about cows in the Alps, and I had recently told the Boy about them, how they wore bells and all--so I clicked. And we followed a Swiss family on their annual walk with the cows up to the high pastures. The depth of it creeps up on you--the huge bells hung from their ceremonial-looking collars, the young people around the edges, all helping to herd, the preteen girl quietly and expertly milking a goat. But what got me was the row of grizzled men sitting on the porch with glasses of something celebratory in front of them, doing this quiet yodelly singing in harmony. Not for show. They know some friend or relative is filming it on his phone, they don't really care. This is something they do because they love it. Their family has always done this, way back into the depths of the past. There are deep, deep roots here, and they're not being shown off. It's not some folkloric thing with a TV commentator telling us how cool--or quaint--it is. It's life, being lived.

I love that my kid can see this exactly as it is. He doesn't understand he's supposed to have distance from it. He doesn't know what quaint means, nor culture. To him it's just farming, which is something he's interested in; it's cows and bells, and going up to the mountain pastures because spring is here and the grass is long and green now, and a family hanging out together. And that's what it actually is.

And then we turned it off, and it was time for the most fun thing about slow video. "Can we play that?" He wants to play everything he sees. Everything you tell him about, even. So we got out his toy cow & farmers & I made a mountain pasture for him on the couch. His favorite thing was having the farmer go check on the cow because she fell down--sometimes down the mountain--so the bell stopped ringing. He would then help her up again. Y'know. Like you do.

He's played shoeing horses, or having me shoe him. ("I'm a DRAFT HORSE!") He's played laying eggs and racing cars and milking cows and surfing, roping horses and puffins flying off a cliff and an elephant named Ramprasad hauling logs through the jungle. (That was a BBC Earth clip.) It's ridiculously fun. And of course he plays excavators all the time. Kids will imitate anything they see. It's kind of their job--learning how to be and do. I remember the National Geographic video of a snowy owl dive-bombing an arctic wolf to protect her babies, how it fired him up--he wanted to be that mama, guarding little ones felt right in his bones. There are a lot of things I can't give him. We don't have a car, and clubs and lessons will be hard to afford. But I can give him this, and for free. And then play it with him.

There are a lot of different places you can go looking for this, and it's hit or miss (there's no Slow Video category to click on) but in honor of the Youtube poster who made me think all these thoughts, I'll post two more of his videos--the ones the Boy just watched as I was finishing this, since he went and woke up before I was done.





(If you want to know, I thought the second one was a little boring. But the boy really wanted it. And as soon as it was done he began to wave his hands slowly and menacingly in the air and announced, "I'm... a... lobsterrrr!")

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Life Again

For Easter I'd like to share my favorite Easter reading that I've written. We read it aloud in my church the year I wrote it. It's a monologue by an unnamed, humble male disciple, the husband of Salome. He doesn't even have a name, and yet I think he might be my favorite person I ever wrote. I remember what it was like to write this. It was as if he spoke to me.

__________________



The garden was wet that morning, the rich man's garden around his tomb cut into the rock. I remember that. You could still hear the earth drinking the rain.

It had been a dry spring that year. Very dry. Everyone was afraid. The young crops in the fields were beginning to shrink and wither, to hang their heads like weary slaves. Everyone spoke of it, guessing at how soon a rainfall would need to come, to save enough of the crop. Everyone spoke of it, when they weren't speaking of the things that were happening in Jerusalem.

You know, I am sure, what happened in Jerusalem that year. Maybe you have heard that a great prophet came to Jerusalem, and was acclaimed with hosannas and palm branches, and that the Sanhedrin and the Romans conspired against him and killed him. Maybe you have heard that a rabble-rouser came, and all the poor and landless flocked to him and hailed him as king, and something had to be done. Though perhaps it should have been done more quietly. I have heard that some of them thought that, afterwards.

We had followed him there, from Galilee. We were the poor and landless. I had farmed another man's land ever since I was old enough to put my hand to my plow; it was my father who got into debt and had to sell our farm. No fault of his. Three bad harvests, in a row. Three years just like this one was promising to be: thirsty, dusty, empty of the new life we were hoping for so hard.

 And so we lost our land, although we lived on it and farmed it still. I married; my father died; I farmed. Every year struggling hard to meet the rent; every year hoping, trying, working from dawn to sundown with hardly a pause, hoping to keep enough back so that in three years, five years, ten years we could buy it back. Every year the hopes withering a little more, even as our hopes for a child withered also. After the last harvest was all gathered in and the storms began, I would calculate how much we could keep back. And then I would calculate whether we could make the rent at all. And then I would walk out into the field, in the rain, so that my wife would not have to see me crying. I didn't go there to cry; I went to pray; but I couldn't. I could only hear in my mind a line from the prophet Isaiah, over and over again till I wept: “The harvest is over, the summer is gone, and we are not saved.”

So when I heard of this man Jesus, I had very little to lose. Very little. That year my wife fell ill, terribly ill, till it seemed certain she would die. When Jesus came to our town I came out to him and pushed through the crowds that were around him, the people begging him to heal their sick, and when I finally reached him I begged too. He came into my house. I couldn't carry her―she was hot with fever and gasping for breath―and so he walked with me and actually came into my little house, and he put his hand on her head, and for a moment he closed his eyes, and in his face I saw such weariness. It was as if all our hopeless, grinding struggle, all the years we had worked and worked and not been saved, were on his shoulders and in his face, and I felt a stab of fear, and thought: he cannot save her.

He seemed so much like us. Who could save nothing.

And then his eyes opened and his face lit up, like the sun for joy and power. And I heard my wife's breathing slow down, and deepen.

I was so grateful to him I could not speak.

And so we followed him. She stood up from her bed and offered him bread and milk, and he ate with us, till a man came to the door begging him to come heal his son, and he went. And I spoke with my wife, and we were of one mind. So that when he came back to our door, staff in hand, on his way down the road again, and looked at us and said Follow me, we were packed and ready. He walked away from the fields I had worked all my life and we walked away with him. We were done with the struggle. With working till we were stumbling with weariness, and not being saved. God knew what would happen to us, how we would live. But God had sent this man. This Messiah. And he had come into our house, and he had said follow. So let the land go, let the withered hopes go, let God decide what would come. We were done.

We followed him, from town to town, walking in the train of disciples. We lacked nothing. Among the disciples, everyone shared what they had. We listened to his words, wherever he stopped to teach. We loved him. We followed him to Jerusalem, and cried hosanna with all the people, and I threw my threadbare cloak in the road for his donkey to walk on. And yes, I hoped he would be king. I could imagine nothing better.
And less than a week later, he was killed.

I remember that night, the night after he died, as if it were yesterday. We were staying at Lazarus of Bethany's house, a finer house than I had ever slept in, a dozen of us on the floor in each big room. My wife was in the next room with the women; I couldn't bear to be with her. She had seen him die. She tried to tell me what it was like, and I walked away. I couldn't. I was already broken, just from hearing he was dead. I was barely breathing now.

I sat on the floor in silence, with the other men, and the thoughts in my head were like jackals, tearing. He was dead. Hope was dead. My wife had trusted me and I had led her into a trap. Followed after a false messiah. Or a doomed prophet. What difference, in the end? We had nothing, no money; no home. We could not ask Lazarus and his sisters to continue helping us forever, for the sake of a dead man we all had loved. We would have to set out on the road, and somehow make our way back to our village, not knowing if we would be allowed to begin our hopeless farm again. I thought, we will starve, and it's my fault. I thought, this is how people become slaves. And their children after them. I thought of the wheat in the fields, the dusty shoots hanging limp, and I thought of the weary eyes of slaves, which held the truth: work without hope is, in the end, all we have.

And then I heard a sound, from outside; a sweet, soft sound spread wide across the sky and the land, that began very quietly, and grew. It was raining.

I sat on the floor in the dark―we had lit no lamps―and I listened. Put my head back, and listened to the rain. Falling soft on the thirsty earth, laying to rest the dust; I pictured the crops, in the fields, the dust washed off them now, small and green against the dark earth. And I could not help it. Hope came up. Small and green against the darkness in my heart.

A farmer cannot listen without hope to the rain.

Because a farmer knows, though he forget it again and again. He knows where hope comes from, and salvation. He can plant. He can even water, to the best of his strength, and for a time. But it will all come to nothing, unless God sends the rain.

I lay down on my mat, and remembered that day he had healed my wife. I remembered the freedom, the surrender, of walking away behind him. I lay there, and I listened to the rain.

It rained for two days.

On the third day, the women woke early. They had bought spices, they wanted to embalm him. No one thought the rich man would lend his tomb forever; and so he must be fit to be moved. My wife went with them. She was not with them, when they came back.

They came back wild-eyed, shouting that the tomb was empty, that he was alive. We stared at them. Peter and John began to try to talk them out of their fit. I said nothing, and counted them. All of them were there except her. I slipped out the door.

She was in the street outside, waiting. Too shy to come in with the others. She was waiting for us all to come out, to go back to the tomb. Her eyes were shining like a sunrise in spring. The joy in her face almost made me look away, it was so bright.

“It's true?” I whispered.

She nodded. “I saw angels.” She was whispering too. “Two of them. So bright.” There were tears in her eyes. “They say he's alive. That God―God gave him life again.”

“Where is he, Salome?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I don't know.”

I do not remember all that happened. I remember Peter and John rushing past us, and me without the strength to run; still barely breathing, still weak with joy. Alive. I had not led her into a trap. The true Messiah―only the true Messiah could do such a thing. And he had stepped inside my door; he had looked into my eyes, and said Follow. He had not abandoned me. The freedom, the day I walked away from all I had known―that was his gift to me, and his gifts he does not take back. He gives them again and again. This I thought, as I walked. This I knew. God does not take back the rain.

It was true. Since the day we walked away and followed him we have lacked nothing. We are not slaves; nor are our children.

We walked to the tomb. The sun was still rising; the doves were calling, they were flying down and drinking from the puddles in the road. When we got there the place was empty; no one walked in the wet garden, and the cave of the tomb was dark and silent. We stepped into it, my wife and I, and our steps echoed; in the darkness my eyes began to see the head-cloth, neatly folded, and laid aside; the graveclothes, empty, still holding the shape of a man who had no need of them now. It was so quiet. Even from inside the tomb, you could hear the earth drinking the rain.
That is what I remember.