Matthew (1)

Matthew (1)

5:1 - 2

He found his way over the sharp rocks. His sandals might as well have been his bare feet, they were so shabby and thin. It was a pain that might discourage other men, but He was driven by the words in His heart. The words burned His lips. The pain of His body would not challenge His faith until much later when His arms are hanging from the nails piercing His wrists. The word "forsaken" had no meaning to Him now. It hid in the shadows of His mind and on the other side of this mountain. Today He climbed the bright side, with the sun’s approving brilliance.

The crowd knew He was coming, but He didn’t have to forecast this moment. They knew in their bones that He was coming, and they wanted to hear his sermon even if they didn't believe the talk of the Messiah. He was a new voice for many of them who were starving for a greater power to lift them from their misery. Their hearts were broken by the Roman forces and the corruption of the temple. They were exhausted by doubt and sin and fear that at any moment their lives could slip into a crypt of dead spirits. They came to listen.

He was also followed by his disciples whose hearts had already been given, whose heads were still damp from John’s baptisms, and whose bodies ignored the pain of their long journey with Him. There were no kings or leaders of any kind in this select group. They were now just believers who followed the word of a rabbi in threadbare clothing. The rabbi with a spark in his eye. Eyes that could see through the pain and the fear of any lost spirit. With a look, He could open men’s hearts. HIs words removed the shadows and replaced them with the pure light of love.

Jesus sat, yet to the crowd that had gathered, He seemed to float above them all. The rocks around Him pulled together to make a kind of throne for Him. The disciples filled in the spaces before Him. The crowds grew silent and leaned in to hear every word. Would He change minds today? The truth doesn’t change minds. The "truth" changes hearts. This was his first principle whenever He spoke.

“My friends, look to your left and look to your right. Is there one near you who needs an arm to help them stand? Is there a way you can make your neighbor more comfortable if his legs falter? Offer your body to help ease the pain. I will do my best to ease the pain of your hearts, but see to each other. Help others who might struggle so that they can focus their spirit on what I am about to say.”

There was a shift in the crowd as each listener looked to his brothers. The crowd softened as He spoke. His request calmed their bodies and opened their eyes and ears to each other. His first direction was a lesson in and of itself. Many in the crowd could see it that way, and those who could not see it felt it. His words made the heat and the rugged country around the mountain disappear. There was only one light, and it was coming from the careful way He reached out His hands to them, surrendering Himself. Hands rough with labor like all of the hands in the crowd. These were men who knew work but no peace. He is peace, and they felt the shift inside of themselves and in each other.

And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him: And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying...

5:3

I poured the peroxide down the drain and filled the bottle with water. I recapped it and gave it a good shake. I poured the water out and replaced it with gin. Any container that held a clear liquid was now filled with gin. I hid it this way all over the apartment where I was staying. It was barely habitable, but it was all my sister could afford. She thought she had brokered a deal with me: A place to live in exchange for total sobriety. Unbeknownst to her, I was pie-eyed when we made the deal.

I am a drunk. I know this now. I have made so many promises to others and to myself. The latter are more heartbreaking because they are the most brittle. It takes real self-hatred. There is no shortage of that in me.

I have been in hospitals and sanitariums. I have told false stories to dozens of doctors. I have lied to every living friend or family member, and I have lived shamefully in front of the spirits of anyone who ever loved me before they passed on.

There was no doubt that I knew I had a problem, but I couldn’t manage my life without alcohol. Now I am at the place where getting drunk doesn’t happen. There is no comfort. There is maintenance and blackout. On repeat. It’s a horrible way to live: to live without death.

Tonight, I woke to a tapping on my shoulder from a person sleeping behind me. I live alone. This was likely my addled brain playing tricks or the burning out of the last remnants of reason and sanity.

I remember hearing that many people on the edge of death declare that a lost loved one comes back from beyond to retrieve them. I thought of my mother. I didn’t want to roll over and see her standing over me, smiling, beckoning me. I don’t want to die despite my very best efforts to do exactly that.

She didn’t appear.

But I remember reading something unsettling in a book from long before my vision doubled and reading was no longer a luxury I could afford. The woman writing her story was a drunk as well. She told a tale about being at her lowest point, watching her blood thin and threaten to stop. She was just a mess of delirium and wretched exhaustion. She felt nothing until one late night, a hand patted her shoulder from behind. She wanted to scream, but all she could muster was, “oh, God….” And it was. That’s what she felt. He was in her home, behind her for who knows how long. He wanted her attention, and when she turned to see Him, she saw calla lilies that her sister had bought. And then she knew. She was the flowers blooming. He wanted her to see them. To see their bloom. That there was life in her home. It was her. She was alive.

That’s when the room grew brighter to the point that all I could see was the table just a few feet away. A table adorned with an amazing bouquet of calla lilies that my sister….had brought. Not my mother. I was not ready for death. Death was in every hidden bottle, but here in this foul and wretched apartment, I was loved. It was God and I gave myself to Him. I dropped to my knees and prayed in my language,

"השאר אותי בחיים. אני רוצה לחיות. אלך אחריך, אלוהים. אני מפקיר את עצמי לך."

(“Keep me alive. I want to live. I will follow you, God. I abandon myself to you.”)

I knew it was safe. I did not need to empty the bottles. He did that and filled me with green stalks and long white petals. I closed my eyes and I became the flowers looking back at me. She will sleep, and I will bloom and tomorrow we will start the long walk home together.

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

5:4

When you walk the garden late at night, the flowers might as well be a pile of peanut shells or a chest of drawers. There is no brilliant display of color or life. If you're lucky the moon will show you the lilies, but they only mark the dead. The day is dead. So you walk until you find the places that look familiar even in the dark. You pretend to imagine that the sun is out and the flowers are singing. These are your dreams. They are often the same. They involve wandering and worry and trembling. You often wind up on the ground in your dreams. You stare up at the night sky and wonder how many of the stars are already dead. Because the death of stars is a common theme in your dreams. They are so far away that it's difficult to mourn for them. And you know their death is a convulsion. It is a catastrophic experience. And if there were planets surrounding the star, then they would have died as well. Because when the star dies so many other things go with it. You think of the people in your life who have died. Nothing went with them. They died and everyone mourned but nothing stopped the dreaming. Nothing interrupted the night time garden walks. You continued on being and breathing and watching the stars, wondering…because even in your dreams the dead are still dead. The garden is still dark. And the lilies glow in the moonlight just to remind you that nothing lasts forever.

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

5:5

In very ancient times, sometimes a man or a woman could switch places. Their hands might be a similar size or their muscles might be able to do the same task. It wouldn't have been surprising to see a woman half pregnant standing in a field lining up her arrow on a buffalo. There might be a man somewhere inside with the herbs he had grown in his own garden, cooking near a fire so the smoke would cure the children who were sick. Yes there was a time like this, but I don't live in that time.

I am a woman. I like being a woman. I have the hands and the shoulders and the hips of a woman. I can give birth. I don't touch a slingshot or an arrow. I am happy to travel up and down the aisles of a supermarket with a baby or two hanging from my neck.

I am curved in places that make any man glad to have hands. In fact I make it difficult. I tell him that his eyes are his enemies. That the warmth he feels spinning in his stomach is a poison or a cancer, and the tingling in his fingers is desire. I don't mind being desired. In fact I rather like it. I don't want to have hard palms. I don't want to have muscles in my back. I like to be soft where I'm supposed to be soft.

I only like to be strong enough to carry a child (or two).

This is my reality. This is the time in which I live. It is not a prescription. It is not a command. It is my embrace. It is how I hug the universe. And when I hug the universe, the universe melts. That's what happens when I hug anyone. They feel the spinning, they feel my grace, and then they feel lucky enough to take a deep breath. They squeeze me just a little bit closer to them. They know I’m a woman even if I am not their mother or their wife.

Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.