John

They step into the prints of themselves moving, where an apron of surf melts into sand. Above, seabirds hang like banners on the wind.

'Great work is ahead for us, Papias,'John says at last. His voice is almost without tone. There is no excitement or anticipation, but an even sounding as if the words are stones placed carefully to step a stream. 'In Ephesus we will begin a new time of the Lord. We will bring the Word of the truth.'

'The glory is at hand, Master,' Papias says.

Still they walk. The tide touches their ankles.

'Yes, Papias. But such will not be simple. We will meet with opposition. The world may not be ready.'

The blind apostle stops. He turns towards the youngest of them, in whom lies his greatest hope. He touches the air with his hand. Papias thinks to take it, but thinks better of it. He offers only the sleeved arm. For some moments there is this wordless bridge-way between them, frail transport of love and hope and faith.

'There are others gone before us. You know this, Papias.'

'Yes, Master.'

'There will be many Antichrists who will deny that Jesus is the Christ, is the Son of the Father.'

'I know.'

'But now, Papias, now it is the last time. And though we will sojourn in a place of mistrust, of jealousy, though we will be despised and by some hated, we will know one another.' His voice has a sudden quiver in it. In his lost eyes there moves perhaps the future. Perhaps in an inner white domain he can witness their coming, see them, the Christians, and how they will be received. His hand holds tightly the other's arm.

'Papias, we will know one another. We will know one another by love. For this is his Word. We will abide in him, that when he shall appear we will have confidence. Remember this. Behold what manner of love the Father hath bestowed on us that we should be called the sons of God: therefore the world knows us not, because it knew him not, Papias.'

The phrase is as a thorn at his eye. The Apostle winces. Because it knew him not. Through the deep layering of acceptance sings this oldest of wounds: that the world did not see. It is in him yet, this piercing. The world knew him not. And if it had? What history then there might have unfolded? What time of love and forgiveness? What if all had embraced him, allowed that the Father had sent his Son? What world might have been? In his mind John cannot white away the images of the thousands crucified, the roads marked with them, the thin, head-hung figures crying out from crosses in the darkening sky. Because it knew him not.

It is the grief of love: that in finding your heart blown open, in seeing the wonder and miracle of another, that this is not perceived by all. The love was not shared. The multitude that followed the signs was turned aside. They spat on him John loved. The wound leaks an old bitterness. The blind man tastes it rise and is quiet.

The seabirds come close to the two still figures, reclaiming their shore.

'We will abide in him,' Papias says. In his voice is a tremor, seeing a first glimpse of what lies ahead.

20

You are coming.

We go to meet you.

To prepare the time, for it is near now.

Truly, you are coming.

What turned before will turn back again. The multitude that was by the shores of the Sea of Galilee. The great number calling out your name that would have taken you and made you their king. When you left them and crossed the sea, they came after by shipping to the temple at Capernaum. They came, though already for healing on the Sabbath the Pharisees had spoken against you.

They came, their number great, their voices loud. We twelve about you in a circle. I, full of pride and love, not knowing they would turn.

I thought: your time is come. I thought: your glory has already begun.

Then said some from Jerusalem: 'Is not this he whom they seek to kill?'

And another: 'Do the rulers know that this is the very Christ?'

And above the murmuring you cried out: 'Ye both know me, and ye know whence I am; and I am not come of myself, but he that sent me is true, whom ye know not. But I know him, for I am from him, and he has sent me.'

And some pushed in the crowd to lay hands upon you, and I and James and Philip raised our hands to ward them back. But already they had sent officers to take you.

Already there was a turning.

Yet a little while am I with you, and then I go on to him that sent me.

And some said: 'This is the Christ.' But others, 'Can Christ come out of Galilee? Is not this man Jesus son of Joseph the carpenter?'

And the turning was as the sea and we upon it.

In the fall of even we went, the twelve, with you on to the Mount of Olives. But you withdrew further and we sat below and spoke of the unrest. Though the night was still and cool, I did not sleep. I watched where you sat further up on the mount, the stars about.

The early morning we followed you again to the temple, each of us knowing what talk and judgement awaited, what already was said against you. The scribes and the Pharisees brought you the woman taken in adultery, asking if you would break the Law of Moses and not have her stoned. Seeing if they might accuse you.

For now there was hatred and some who sought to kill you.

You judge after the flesh, I judge no man. I am the one who bears witness of myself and the father who sent me.

And they said, 'Where is thy father?'

You neither know me nor my father. Whither I go you cannot come. You are from beneath; I am from above. You are of this world; I am not of this world.

If you continue in my word, then are you my disciples. You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

And they cried: 'We are Abraham's seed and were never in bondage to any. How shall we be made free?'

The crowd pressing forward, James and I stepping in front of you lest they try to seize you.

Your voice crying out above the clamour. Those who shouted against you, who pushed against us. One who stepped to the pillar and called, 'See, say we not well that this is a Samaritan and hast a devil?'

The jeering. The mockery. The ones who raised their fists, sought in the ground for stones. One standing on the pillar shouting, pointing. And the first stone coming, and the great surge of the people to seize you. Philip striking out against the head of one; James with both hands outstretched pressing back a number. I pulling down one by the pillar, dragging him by his garment to the ground, falling down upon him amidst the sandalled throng, the sea of anger.

The turning.

That now will turn again.

For you are coming. Your time is at hand.

Facing the sea, John sits against the rock wall, his head back. As light into a cave, memories. Detail, words, voice. They come without summons, vivid, startling. The decades since fall away and he is returned to himself as a youth. He can see each place as if standing there again. In a grove of olive trees. On a road not far from the pool of Siloam. Whole days, sights, weathers, things he did not know he knew, or were ever in his mind. So it comes to him that such were not lost in his memory but are gifts. Out of the great length of time he has lived, out of the constancy of his enduring, his body has weakened, his mind been betimes unclear. But now he is lit. All is strangely clarified. He hears the words of Jesus spoken a lifetime since and knows that change is here. He hears them as if in his company again. There is a sense of nearness, and of imminence; he sits by the rock wall and suffers illumination with a pulsing joy. His blind eyes flicker as if at sights.