Between Shadow & Shine

 

Some say there were yellow stars amidst a crown of thorns. We have mostly forgotten those ancient legends. But even a mocking gesture can cast a shadow of perpetual light. Each one of us is dreaming, after all. Some believe an entire world exists beneath the waters of the river. Beyond a glass darkly, hidden in reflection. The contemplation of an inward eye. Skia petros, say the Greeks. Petros phos. Kepha telal, say the Arams. Kepha noorha.  In this way they attempt to speak for Moira, the angel of hours and fate. Few truly remember those days. But I remember, in dreams. Tou hēlíou eklípontos. These secrets of the shining star and its crossing. Imma, Abba, Elahin. There is much to be said of Mother’s bluest pearl, and the poet’s moon. Betwixt land and lumen. The wise ones always find hidden ways to talk, right out in the open. About a curious thing of the wilderness. Father’s wandering yet devoted son, clothed in the browns and greens of richest soil and olive leaves. I suppose the Mount calls us all in the end. As the heretic supposed before me. My namesake.

It’s a frightening thing, this tension between seed and sand. They once said nothing grows in Syria. But something did. Legends and light. The story is far, far older than you think, dear ones. Joshua’s commandments. A star standing still in the sky. Simon’s shadow falling upon the sick, and making them whole. An eclipse of sorts, but not quite. A new name was given, they say. And upon this Earth a new church was built. As pipers spread this new chorus throughout Asia Minor, and further afield. Now, two thousand years later, these legends gild our imaginings in ways we still don’t fully understand. The wise ones ask, “Where dwells the magic? Or the tongue that explicates and annunciates? Is it in the wandering wild-eyed boy from Bethel, or in the depths of an even wilder earth?”  The talmidim also asked these questions of their teacher. But he responded with sweetness. Patience and grace, speaking in tongues both Greek and Aram. And other foreign tongues the talmidim did not know. Ears to hear, they soon realised. Eyes to see.

So, I ask, “Who knows more of this rock of green and blue than those who were there, or he who was slain for it?” I have read the stories. I even transcribed them once, by the light of the poet’s moon at Gethsemane. Fate was with me in those months. She held me, and sang. Illumined pages indeed. A softening of the Earth and its raging shadow. I styled myself after my brother, it’s true. But I am only a king of dreams. I’m not the King of Kings, though I knew him well enough in my heart. A truly loving sacrifice, between shadow and shine. Upon the tree the hours witnessed that devoted spirit; wreathed in the thorns and yellow stars of flowering paliurus.  Then placed in a sepulchre of bitter Earth, a stone’s throw from the praetorian guard. A stone’s throw to an angel. But stars, light, and the embrace of love – these things live forever.

Despite such resurrection, the testaments say nothing of those little yellow flowers hidden in the crown. Those paliurus stars about the brow. There were stories though, in the years following the rise of ichthys & anchor. Stories that surfaced again in the Middle Ages. Of a fisher not only of men, but of the asters themselves. On Earth as it is in Heaven. The Magi have always kept those legends, despite Rome’s sinister omissions. Kara, my darling, please hear me. I say these things only to deepen and strengthen your faith. I am your guardian, and it’s an oath I take very seriously. I’m sure you realise by now that I have many names. But you have many names too.

Once, long ago, we both swore to honour the Choral of All Songs. Our Father’s highest affection. Since then I have lain at your feet in the garden of your dreaming. Perched on the edge of Never, my teeth bared as you ran your fingers through my fur. The wolf and his wending, waiting for those hateful wraiths who would dare to breach the shining chorus. I will always do what I can to protect you, dear one. As you rebuild each bridge, verse and refrain among these ruins. We treasure our own, don’t we? Those who love us. Those who care. After all, we need all the help we can get. Especially from those who know something of our Father’s house, and its wisdom. Which is why I say to you now – there were places called Bethel even in Aegypt. Places called Yerushalem also. The House of Light. The Temple of Peace. This so-called heathen poetry was once revisited by Saulus, the heretic. After he went mad at Damascus. Skimming rocks across the river and calling it revelation. Then again, who am I to judge? Who indeed.

Moira, an angel to the Greeks, spoke to men of hours and destiny. Time and place. Perhaps she spoke to the heretic also. Of threads wove from fate and favour. Stitching light to darkness in an act of healing service. Birthing a purpose far greater than the mineral-coldness of clashing iron, bronze and steel. Perhaps she pledged holy secrets to the care of her wild one. Secrets of a shining star beneath the water. Beyond the mirror.  Till the morning of the meek has come. Because in the end, hate is only the broken, demented shadow of love. And love reigns eternal. The holy mysteries of God, unseen to all but the faithful. You still have Moira’s exquisite eyes, my darling, and you have taught me more about fate and favour than you will ever know. I endeavour to recall for us both, and I hope I’ve shown you at least glimpses of this shining realm. It is very real. To many sweet souls it is a place of brotherhood, imagination and adventure. To others, a shaded place of blessed rest and contemplation. Petros phos, to the Greeks. Kepha noorha, to the Arams. Today we explore those mysteries in gentler, often unconscious ways. But no less strange, or evocative. We speak of Mary, George, John and Michael. The wending lanterns of All Saints, like rising lights in a night sky. Storied shadows and shapes upon the wall of imagination itself. The browns and greens of richest soil and olive leaves, with paliurus stars about the brow.