First Communion

He stroked his beard absently, and looked around the room.  It was small, and dimly lit, but full with people and warm with light.  Several sat at the table with him, several more were seated about the floor, others gathered against the walls.  Conversations were quiet, with some muted bursts of amiable laughter.  There was some sniffling, too.  A crooked smile, a hand on a shoulder, an embrace.  He felt the ease of camaraderie and companionship playing in tension with a feeling of expectation.  This was not just a casual gathering of friends.  The future was waiting outside their door, and no one was sure how to greet him.  Great pain had come, had taught them to expect more of it, but great hope had been born, too, and the future was a captivating and shivering thought.  He thought of Moses, and of Joshua.  Like the second great leader of the People of God, these people were waiting for his first charge of leadership.  He sighed at the thought.

He knew almost everyone there by name, and as he scanned the room a hundred stories came to mind.  Simon, the leper, or rather, the former leper, stood locked in an embrace with a former blind man; laughing or crying, he couldn’t tell.  Either way, it was a good hug.  He could see in his memory Jesus kissing the blind man’s eyes, holding the leper’s hands.  He recalled the way they looked at him, the way they held on to him.  He prayed for so pure a devotion as theirs.

In the corner stood one of several Marys.  She smiled casually, incidentally, with the person with whom she was conversing, and he felt a sweet stab of joy in his throat.  Her eyes were so clear, so full to the brim with life.  He remembered those eyes when he had first seen them, shadowed with demons and shame.  That the woman he first met, such a short time ago, was the same woman he saw now was an overwhelming and joyous incongruity.  She still bore her scars, still walked with a metaphorical limp — but she walked, and sometimes danced.

She was speaking with a round, stout man who looked thoughtfully at the lady standing above him.  Peter tended to forget just how short Zacchaeus really was.  The little man they had found tree climbing had become a close friend of the band of disciples, offering food, lodging, and an exuberant hospitality.  Of course, there were times when that zeal was quite tiring to the people around him.  Earlier that very evening, Peter had sent him on an errand for bread just to have a moment of peace.  But it was good and right that the tax collector stood with them now.  He seemed taller than the man they’d seen in the tree.

Another tax collector sat two places down from him, on his left.  When Matthew asked him to pass the salt, Peter felt a tide rise in his eyes.  He laughed inside at the memory of the drunk he’d first met.  He remembered the tax collector, desperately lonely and physically sick, leaving his booth, dribbling vomit down his beard, crying in the arms of Jesus.  This, of course, brought to mind his own tearful, blubbering, first encounter with his friend and saviour, and as tears fell, he passed the salt.  Matthew smiled.  He knew what Peter's eyes said.

He felt a familiar hand on his shoulder.  Andrew sat by his left side.  Andrew, the brother who had cared for him and stood by him more closely than anyone.  He had felt that same hand on his shoulder on many a drunken night.  He’d felt it at the death of his wife.  He’d felt it the day he met Jesus.  He’d felt it in four hundred and ninety different moments of unexpected grace.  He placed his own hand on Andrew’s shoulder, and squeezed it tight, for it contained every ‘Thank-you’ he had never spoken.  Andrew returned the squeeze.

Two places to his right sat the poet.  John, so young and tender, had been the bravest of them all.  He, of all the men, had stood with their friend in his darkest hour.  At first, this had served only to remind Peter of his own failure: abandoning his closest friend in his time of greatest need.  But healing, again, had come to him in the embrace of the rabbi, and Peter would forever feel only the deepest admiration for the youngest apostle.  By that same strong grace, John had become the child of a strange adoption to the woman who sat between them.

He watched her eyes.  They, like his own, seemed to be drinking in the sweetness of the room and the memory of grace, and the soft lines of age on the crests of her cheeks were like beams of moonlight.  If anyone there could claim to have deserved Jesus’s grace, it was she, but she never behaved that way.  She never asserted herself on him.  She simply knew him best, as only a mom could, and in that had a curious authority.  Those graceful eyes met Peter’s, and they so looked like her son’s that he felt a strange kind of electricity.  He had never noticed till now how alike their eyes were, and he felt as if his friend’s strength and vigorous grace were flowing to him now.  And grace, for years now, made the fisherman weep.

Our deepest joys are strange things, and they behave much the same as our deepest griefs.  They come upon us unexpectedly, washing over us in unstoppable waves, turning and tossing us until their work is complete, and we are left panting on the sand, the taste of salt on our lips, wondering what just happened.  Peter felt this joy overtake him in this way, and he had much experience in the matters of waves.  He sat now as a man turned up on the shore, and as he looked down he saw with new eyes.  He looked at what lay on the table before him, and smiled at Zacchaeus’s bread.  He remembered when his brother brought a small boy’s lunch to Jesus, and how it fed thousands.  He remembered something his friend had told the crowds about bread after that miracle.  And he knew his first his first charge.  He cleared his throat, and spoke to the room full of friends.

“That last night,” he said, “we shared a meal together, just like we’ve done here.”  The room was quiet, and listening.  “That was the night Judas betrayed him, the night I abandoned him, the night he washed our feet.  It was the night we sang and prayed together, too.  And it was the night he gave himself to us.”

Peter’s fingers hovered over the round, flat loaf that lay before him.  He uttered a silent prayer.  O God, make me clean.  Make me worthy.  He took it up in his calloused hands, and continued.  “I remember him taking bread, breaking it, and giving it to his friends.”

The bread was soft, and it broke apart easily while he spoke.  He began to hand the pieces to his right and to his left.  Each hand took a piece of the bread, and held it in its palm, waiting.  “He took that bread, and lifted it up to heaven, like this.”  His voice became low, and holy.  “He said, ‘Take this, each one of you, and eat it.  This is my body, which will be given up for you.’ “

Peter stared at the piece in his hands, and whispered.  He is with us.  He’s here.  He paused in the silence, and a sea of eyes stared at the Bread which they held in their hands.  He smiled.  “Eat.”

He placed it on his tongue and closed his eyes.  He swallowed hard as tears fell freely.  He opened his eyes and stared for a moment at the cup of wine that sat before him.  He remembered the wedding.  He remembered the water.  He remembered a lamb.  He raised the cup and spoke.  “He gave us wine, too. ‘This is the cup of my blood,’ he said, ‘the blood of the new and eternal covenant.  It will be shed for you, for all, so that sins may be forgiven.  Do this to remember me.’ “

He put the cup to his lips, and drank.  The flavour swirled upon his tongue, and he tasted its full range, its sweetness and bitterness.  He drank deeply, and it warmed his throat as he drank.  He realized a small trail was running from the corner of his mouth into his beard.  He wiped it with the back of his hand, and kissed it away.  He turned to the woman on his right, and held the cup before her.  “This is the blood of Christ,” he said.

“May it be as you say,” she replied, and drank.  She passed the cup to her right.

He looked once more around the room, from Simon to Matthew, from Zacchaeus to John, from Mary to Mary, as each one drank.  He saw stories of sacrifice, of bodies broken, of blood poured out; each story foretelling and remembering and singing of this One Story.   They were the soil, broken and tilled for a harvest of an everlasting friendship.  They were the fruit of this humble and holy vine, crushed and consumed for the warming of the heart and the gladdening of the mind.  They were the offering, poured out on the altar of God.  He prayed in silence the greatest of all prayers:  Thank-you.

—

How good it is, how pleasant, where the people dwell as one!

Like precious ointment on the head, running down the beard,

Upon the beard of Aaron, upon the collar of his robe.

Like the dew of Hermon coming down upon the mountains of Zion.

There the Lord has lavished blessings, 

Life forevermore.

The Mountain

He was dreaming of food when he was awakened by the terrifying and beatific presence of God.  He would remember this detail later, wishing he had been dreaming of something more profound.  But he was dreaming of a delicious cut of lamb, lavishly seasoned and roasted to perfection.

Jesus had asked these three friends to climb a mountain with him. They had come here to pray.  Peter, recently so renamed, understood why the other two had been asked to come.  John, though young, was intelligent and quiet, asking questions and pondering them with furrowed brow.  His brother James was a natural leader, an initiative taker.  He imagined that these two would be the ones at this saviour’s side when the revolution came, when this Christ he had so recently confessed finally became the King.  

Peter, however, only felt awkward when asked to take charge.  He stammered when he spoke in front of people, and usually knew that what he had to say probably wasn’t of much worth.  So confident when in command of a two-man fishing boat, his heart raced like a rabbit at the thought of leading anything beyond a fishing expedition.  He admitted few fears, but this fear was vast and wide, and covered the expanse of his internal landscape.

Even the climb seemed to underscore his unworthiness.  The brothers were always several paces ahead of the lumbering, breathless Peter.  Even James, who was not exactly a thin young man, darted easily up the path.  But Peter indeed was the Boulder, and it was a difficult thing to push a boulder uphill.  The trees lining the trail became crutches as he slowly pulled himself up the ascent.  He was quietly grateful, if more than a little embarrassed, that Jesus chose to walk beside him at his own pace.  

“You can go on ahead,” Peter had said.  “I’ll catch up.”

“I don’t mind,” Jesus smiled.  “I want to walk with you.”

It took a full day to reach the summit, and by the time they had arrived, Peter’s lungs were gulping for life at the thin air.  They had come here to pray, and his first gasping prayer was perhaps his most earnest: “Oh God…  Oh... Lord…  Oh God…”  

He collapsed onto a rock in the shade of a spruce, hands on his knees, trying to catch his illusive breath while the brothers took in the impressive panorama.  Jesus came and stood next to him, then squatted on his haunches beside him.

“How are you?” Jesus asked.

Peter looked at him with kind but sardonic eyes.  “It’s a lovely mountain,” he said.  “Thanks for inviting me.”  He attempted a smile.

Jesus put a hand on his shoulder.  “I’m glad you’re here.”

When Peter had at last found his breath, he stood and walked with Jesus to the vista point where James and John stood.   He drew a deep breath.  He had never before been up this high, and the crisp air of autumn, though thin, felt good in his nostrils.   He imagined that maybe this was what Adam’s first breath from the mouth of God felt like.

The four of them stood in silence, and took in the view of the outlying countryside. Here and there, mottled among the towns, they saw small wooden shelters in place for this week of Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles.  Peter thought of his people, in ages past, led by Moses through the wilderness, their shelters set beside a mountain not unlike this one.  He wondered about Moses, and about his own ascent of this mountain.  I hope he was in better shape than I am.

Here they stood and recited the psalms together.  More precisely, Jesus and James and John recited the psalms.  Peter recited what he could remember, letting the other three fill in the gaps.  He was never good at memorization.  But he prayed just the same.

“From the rising of the sun to its setting, let the name of the Lord be praised,” they chanted.

He liked that line, for the same sun burned quietly at the edge of the western horizon.

Peter slept deeply that night, and dreamt of food.

–––

The light was everywhere.  

Peter awoke with that cold first breath of Adam.  His heart was racing, and all he could see was light.  Light beyond light.  A spectrum of colours and hues which he knew should be beyond his vision.  It was all around, penetrating and giving a quality of phosphorescence to even the motes of dust in the air before him.  

His first thought was that he had awakened within another dream, but with the light came a solidity of form that betrayed any illusion of a dream.  He looked around him, and saw James and John sitting upright from their mats, looking as confused and alarmed as he himself was.  There was a place within him that felt relieved at that.

The light had a source, and his eyes quickly found it.  His eyes did not adjust to this new sense of sight so much as his mind did.  When it did, he saw with more clarity than he ever had or ever would again.  And what his eyes then beheld was something he would never thereafter be able to adequately describe.  There was Jesus, the Christ he had confessed just days before, standing within what seemed to be a softly glowing ring, an emerald rainbow.  Jesus, the one who had forever changed the fisherman with the giving of a new name, the one who walked so patiently with him up this mountain, shining with light as if he were the sun itself.  His robes were white, whiter than any cloth Peter had ever seen.  Whiter than any soap could ever bleach ‘em, Peter thought distantly.

Peter fell upon his hands, and seemed to feel the earth humming beneath him.  No, not humming.  Trembling.  Alive.  Quaking as he himself was, as a man before unspeakable holiness.  He had felt some taste of this before, that day on the beach, when this same Christ had held him and let him weep.  Now, the earth itself seemed to shake before this man.

There were two others in the center of the virescent ring, and Peter knew without question precisely who they were.  It was proclaimed from their very spirits and even in the solidity of their form, forms as tangible as his own and perhaps more intrinsically real.  Moses stood on the Messiah’s left, his hand in subservience but tenderness upon the Christ’s arm.  Elijah stood to his right, as fierce and focused, and as familiar to Peter’s eyes, as John the Baptizer.  Peter could hear the three speaking together, and he discerned such words as “paschal sacrifice,” and “exodus.”

And suddenly Peter felt himself overcome with longing and joy and tears.  The fear which made his heart race had become the thrill of seeing something indescribably, wonderfully good, and it seemed to him that it should go on forever.  His soul cried out for this to be eternal, for his soul saw something here of Sinai, of Mamre, of Eden.

The shelters of wood and cloth came to his mind, with images of a holy mountain and announcements about deliverance and a kingdom of priests, and he saw those two figures turning as if to leave, as if being relieved of a long-borne duty.  But he wanted them to stay.  To remain here with them forever.  Before he knew he was talking aloud, he heard himself speaking.

“My rabbi… My Lord…  It’s good that we’re here!  If you want, I’ll make three shelters!  I can make one for you!  And one for Moses, and one for Eli…”  And here his voice faltered into a whisper.  “...jah.”

Another light came.  His hands, his whole body, quavered with the earth beneath him as this mantle of light descended from the very fabric of the sky.  It seemed to be a cloud made of light, and it surrounded them completely.  I’m inside of lightning, he thought, and he tried to shield his eyes.  With the cloud came a voice.  It met his ears with the resonance of thunder and the timbre of song.  He wept at the sound of it, though he knew not why.  But he remembered Moses again.  He remembered his receiving of the law upon the mountain.

The voice, so unlike anything he had heard before, encompassed all the sounds of the natural earth, and spoke as the blast of a thousand shofars, but also as a whisper in his ear.

“This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him.”

Peter now fell prostrate, splayed upon the ground and weeping.  He could hear James to his right and John to his left, shivering and whimpering.  All of this, he knew, was beyond what any human should ever have seen, and he wept with joy and fear upon the trembling earth.

A hand touched his shoulder, and there was only silence.

A voice, soft and human, spoke above him.

“Rise, and do not be afraid.”

Peter, his face smeared with tears and dust, lifted his eyes, and saw only Jesus.

Fishing.

The sun wasn't up yet, but the charcoal black sky on the eastern side of the lake was taking on a dark shade of navy blue. Abraham's stars hung silently. He sat by the water and breathed deeply, closing his eyes and filling his lungs with the cool morning air. The scent of the water refreshed his mind, and he quietly whispered, “Thanks.”

His fishing pole lay next to him, and as the night sounds lingered on. He squinted one eye in the starlight and threaded his hook. The bait squirmed as he placed it upon the barb. “Sorry, little fella.” he murmured. He slipped off his shoes and took a sharp breath as his feet met the bracing water. He waded out a short distance, and tossed out a line. The hook plopped nearly noiselessly into the stillness of the lake.

He waited.

The sounds of the early pre-dawn surrounded him. The gentlest of waves massaging the rocks. Insects singing their repetitive songs. The rustling of a bird's silent wings.

He was unaware of how much time had passed when he finally felt a tug on his line. He jerked quickly on the line, but the tug was gone. “Come on, buddy,” he whispered. The line twitched again, and he gave it another tweak. This time the tug remained, and grew more violent. Carefully and swiftly he pulled in the line as the catch struggled.

He lifted the fish from the water and into his free hand. Its green scales glistened in the remnants of starlight. “Hello, little guy!” he said as he deftly removed the hook from its mouth. The tilapia were common in this lake, and although this 'musht' was a modest size, it was large enough to keep. He waded back to shore and tossed his catch into a small bucket. He retrieved his supply of bait, and in moments he was back out in the still waters.

“Thanks,” he whispered again.

He gazed out at the ever-growing dawn, and spied the first sliver of the sun's circle over the far hills. A lone fishing boat glided upon the open waters. When he once again felt the familiar tug at his line, the sun seemed to be peering over the hills like a small child at the kitchen table. Once again he pulled at the line, chuckling at the vigor of the small fish. A moment later, and two fish were in the bucket.

The sun began to warm his face as he tossed another line into the now golden water. The slightest breeze rippled the surface, and it seemed that another tug came almost instantly. He jerked upon the line, and seemed to lose his prey. Another moment later, however, and the line was taut.

Three fish now lay in his bucket as he gathered dried driftwood scattered upon the shore. He made a small fire, placed some charcoal around the flames, and took out his knife to prepare his catch.

Laying the fish on a flat rock, he carefully cut around its gills, along the middle of its belly, and then along its back. He pared back the skin, and skillfully began to remove the meat. Not a bit of it was missed. After salting and seasoning the meat, he gently wrapped it in fig leaves and placed it on the coals. The scent was delicious, and his stomach rumbled as he took some bread and placed it next to the fish.

He stepped back to the shore and crouched down by the water to clean his hands of blood, salt, and fish scales. The sun was just inches above the horizon now, and the lone fishing vessel had come closer to shore. He stood and held his hand above his eyes to see the boat more clearly. The voices of the people aboard carried clearly across the lake as they went about their work.

He smiled, and returned to his fire and his fish.

The meat was hissing and popping soothingly over the flames when he glanced once more at the ever-nearing fishing boat. He watched the men move about, still silhouetted against the morning sun. He smiled when he recognized the gait and swagger of the bigger man.

With one hand to his forehead and the other to his mouth, he called out to them.

“Hey! You kids catch anything to eat?”

“We ain't caught nothing but a buzz! We've been trying all night!” came the familiar man's reply.

“Try the other side. Over there. I think there's a school of musht there. I caught a few stragglers,” he said, and pointed to his fire.

“Thanks, buddy. We'll give it a try.” the fisherman called out.

Tending to his breakfast, he watched them toss their net into the drink.

“Whoa!” he heard, amidst laughter. “Look at that!”

He was right. A shoal of musht were there, finding haven from the cold waters in a warm current.

He noticed one of the men taking a second look in his direction, and lean in to whisper something to his bulky friend. The burly man raised a hand to his forehead and peered towards the shore. A moment later, and the man was out of the boat, half swimming and half running towards the shore as soon as he could touch the bottom.

He emerged from the lake, dripping and shivering and smiling abashedly.

Jesus laughed.

The two old friends embraced fiercely. Peter snuffled, and Jesus sniffed.

“You smell like booze and dead fish,” Jesus said, smirking. “And you're getting me soaked.”

Peter released him, and stood back, chortling in spite of his quivering lip.

“Hungry?” Jesus asked.

“Very.”

“Let's have some breakfast.”

And the two resurrected men sat by the fire and ate.