Meeting the New Teacher - Part I of Three

Shalom, my friends! Let me introduce myself. I am Jairus, and my home is in Galilee, Capernaum to be exact. Capernaum is a busy town on our Sea of Galilee. I am privileged to have the honour of being one of the leaders of our local synagogue. This is a serious responsibility. The synagogue is our local place for worship of Jahweh and the teaching of our Law. We have to be ever vigilant for correct teaching and interpretation of our Law - and staying away from politics. This last is because of the Romans, who occupy our land. They do not stand for anything that smells of rebellion.

Now, especially in Galilee, it seems our people are prone to breeding rebels. Some of these individuals have also made claims of being The Messiah. According to our holy writings, The Messiah is a descendant of our great King David, who will someday appear and free us from all oppression and restore Israel to its former glory.

I had heard of someone who was being referred to as a new rabbi. Some were even beginning to ask if he was The Messiah. But I am getting ahead of myself.

In the first place, this new teacher, oddly enough, was from Nazareth, a small village northwest of here from where no one of note had ever come. That should have been enough to quell ideas of his being The Messiah, as our prophets have written in our holy writings that he was to be born in The City of David, Bethlehem, way south in Judea. I had heard through the grapevine that he had been a top student of our teachers in Nazareth. He had been slated to go for advanced education after his bar mitzvah but then his father died. Instead, he took up his father’s trade of woodworking to support his family. That was quite a sacrifice but also a noble thing to do. The life of a rabbi would certainly have been preferable to the hard work of a carpenter. 

But then, I guess when he judged his family was capable of surviving on their own, he had left home. I had heard about his turning to teaching. He had even begun to gather around him some followers, as proven rabbis do. However, this young man had no track record yet that would have been thought to attract such disciples. Furthermore, these were not young men noted for being students, for their academic ability. They were fishermen! An odd choice for a rabbi if you ask me.  What’s more, I had heard he had performed what actually seemed to be miracles – such as healing the sick and casting out demons. Some of our people claimed to be able to do these things too. However, they had to take training as to how to do this, which was not free. As a result, the services they offered their clients, who were obliged to go through all sorts of rituals, necessarily allowed for the exchange of money, sometimes considerable amounts of such. Well, this man – his name was Jesus by the way – was reported to perform healing and exorcism on first meeting an individual and merely by his word, free! 

People were beginning to flock to where he was on a regular basis. Apparently large crowds followed him at times, seeking healing and freedom from unclean spirits. But he was also teaching, words said to be a powerful message of the need to repent and seek forgiveness, similar to another recent preacher who had appeared in our midst, one called John the Baptizer, so called because he was baptizing people who repented of their sin and wanted to turn over a new leaf. But this Jesus seemed to be adding a new twist to this message. He was saying that the kingdom of heaven was at hand. This phrase alone was enough to make one wary of what might yet come of him.

Thus, I was somewhat on edge this particular Sabbath Day when I saw a crowd approaching our synagogue and near its front, was a man, striding along, occasionally stopping to place his hand on some poor supplicant and, evidently, from what I gathered, performing some healing. Some people were calling out things like, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.” So, was this the Jesus I had heard about?

I was at the door of the synagogue when this Jesus approached. He stopped and, raising his hands and turning his face heavenward, seemed to be mouthing a prayer. Such a look of peace and determination seemed to then envelop his face. Then he looked straight at me with a look that was both gentle and powerful. Don’t ask me to explain that combination but that’s what I felt.

He bowed to me with clasped hands, walked in and sat down near the front. I quickly followed, almost pushed along by the throng. I conferred briefly with my colleagues and we agreed that, since this man was gaining recognition as a rabbi, the only polite and correct thing was to let him read the scripture and teach. One of our elders then handed him a scroll, from which he read and then began to teach.

In spite of ourselves, we were quite taken aback by his teaching. He did not go on and on reciting the sayings of rabbis from the past to explain the passage, like so many of our young teachers do. And he was so well-versed in the scriptures, the Torah! He quoted freely from it to support what he was saying. In spite of myself, I could not deny the power and authority with which he seemed to speak. It was actually quite refreshing, if I do say so myself.

Suddenly, he was interrupted by a shout, “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know how you are, the Holy One of the God!” We had all turned to look at where the disturbance was coming from and could not help but catch our breath at those words. Jesus was indeed being addressed as if he were the Messiah! But the voice was coming from a disheveled figure in rags whom we all recognized immediately as someone possessed by an unclean spirit. He should not even have been in our synagogue. I was about to summon some of my colleagues to see if we could get him removed. However, before we could do so, this Jesus stopped his teaching and approached the man. Facing him square on he said in a loud clear voice, “Be silent, and come out of him!” The man fell to the floor in a writhing convulsion, shrieking and then lay still. We knew the demon was gone. Jesus reached down his hand and pulled the man to his feet. The man turned in a daze and left the building with his friends. 

The teaching session was over though. Everybody was talking at once about what they had just seen. They were amazed at the authority we had just witnessed. Some wondered who this was and what kind of new teaching this was. It was unheard of to simply command the spirits like this and see them obey. My own head was spinning from what I had heard and seen. Part of me said I had just seen one of our laws broken. Our rabbis had taught that healing was work and not to be performed on the Sabbath. However, before I could do anything further, Jesus and the crowd were disappearing down the road. I heard later they had gone to the home of one of his fishermen followers and that he had healed this man’s mother-in-law. What’s more, after Sabbath was over that evening, the house had been filled with people seeking healing and deliverance from unclean spirits. What indeed was going on here?

Losing Our Mother III – Forbidden Memories

When the family moved to Saskatchewan it had already begun to unravel, as families do. I had moved out in July ‘67, and before Les moved to join the family for Grade 12, we lived together in downtown Winnipeg for the ‘summer of love’ as some called it (hippie days, remember?). Loretta had left 4 months earlier when she had married Dave Kroeker from Saskatchewan. Then, at the end of the summer of ’67, she and Dave moved to Saskatchewan.

Our relationships with our younger siblings then depended either on correspondence or visits, which were not frequent. Nor did we use the ‘phone much. We had not grown up with one so were not used to doing much of that. But that was the way with all families in those days, especially when separated by geography, as we were now. 

Later in life I realized that we were beginning to repeat the pattern of my father’s family of origin. They too had moved about and thus negatively affected relationships between especially younger members of the family. I was often aware of the lack of closeness between us and our parents after we left home and I think father just never had a model for how one related to adult kids as we think of it now. His father was also separated from him most of his adult life, except for visits, which might not even always have been annual, one way or the other.

Thinking again of our father’s instructions to us when our new mother arrived, I thought recently of his grandfather. He lost 4 wives and remarried in short order after the first 3. Perhaps my father had some knowledge of that which played into his quick remarriage. Mind you, his first marriage had been a rapid affair of some necessity too. He wanted to go back ‘north’ to complete his Conscientious Objector term during WW II, but as a United Church minister, not a teacher like his first two years. This seemed to require him to be married. He then came ‘south’ to visit his parents at Easter of 1945, at which time he met my mother. Their parents had become friends as grandfather Brandt had moved into the district to teach and Grandfather Enns (my mother’s father) was a school trustee. The twoyoung people discovered they had a mutual interest in missions. My maternal grandmother had been quite taken with my father and seemed to do her part to promote interaction between the two. Mother was 24 at the time and perhaps grandmother, who married at 19 (a common age in her time), thought she was getting on and needed a spouse. Anyway, some 5 weeks later they were married and 6 weeks after that they were headed back north as newlyweds.

As one grew older though, one begins to remember things more often. It seems to be natural thing that occurs with aging. There is more to our past life than our future. We began to share stories when we visited one another. Our youngest brother Tim, who had been 7 when mother died, wanted to learn more about her. To do so he made a movie with his video camera – a new thing in the 1980’s. He interviewed each of his siblings and our father. Viewing it recently (it is on-line here at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qv5wq713I08), I was surprised, given how things are now, how freely father spoke of his first wife, our mother. Tim even took the video to a film festival in Yorkton, SK, but I can’t remember if it placed in awards.

Anyway, in the fall of 1986, we had a family gathering at our sister Loretta’s farm in Englefeld, SK. It was actually in part a 22^ndanniversary of our folks’ marriage, cake so decorated and all. Tim wanted to show his completed ‘Our Mother’ project to the rest of us so we all sat down to watch it. Suddenly our stepmother (I rarely use that term, unless to distinguish her from our biological mother in conversation or writing, because of the negative connotations it so often has) jumped up and ran crying to an upstairs bedroom, saying, “After all I’ve done for you, I’m still not your mother…” or words to that effect, with that meaning. We were all stunned. Father and Loretta followed her up to try to calm her and settle things down. The family gathering continued.  

However, intended or not, we got a message: No more talking about your mother in front of this mother. Hence, the ‘chapter’ title. As I have sometimes said in later years, after becoming a child psychiatrist and learning more about families, there were no manuals for blended families, no guides in those days, as to how to deal with all of these issues affecting our families. So, we simply resorted to silence, except when in the company of one another, and sometimes our uncles and aunts, as long as Mom was not round (Speaking of identifiers, ‘Mom’ is often the term we use for our stepmother; the more respectful and formal ‘mother’ is more often reserved for our biological mother). Indeed, as we got older, on the occasion of getting together, or having contact in other forms, with kin and friends who had known our mother, we would sometimes outright ask them for their memories of our mother. 

We learned we could not ask such at ‘home’ though. When something was said in conversation about Mom or mother, our stepmother sometimes misunderstood and her unhappiness if it was our biological mother who had been referred to was evident. The spirit persists though; one wants to know one’s story, where one came from. Too often even when talking to father in an attempt to learn about our shared past, sometimes looking at photo albums to help sort things out, as soon as mother was in earshot, it was time to close the photo album, to change the subject or be quiet. 

Now, we five older siblings also have two half-siblings from this second marriage of our father's. So, in some ways, that complicates things even more. One does not want to negatively affect them and their impression of 'their' mother by talking of our mother,  whom they know nothing or very little of, in front of them, or in correspondence including them. Just one more reason to keep quiet. Unfortunately, the eldest of the two, our brother Steven, has already pre-deceased the rest of us. He was the one who still lived near our parents, so his absence creates more pressure on all of us distant sibs (in more ways than one as you see now) to 'look after' our aging parents. 

So, sadly, we five have accepted that the reality seems to be that there are many things about our past, about our mother, we will never know. We have learned to live with that, even though we wish it were otherwise.  

How much different things could have been. My wife Anne and I have read the book “A Good House” by Canadian author Bonnie Burnard (I had to ‘google’ this to ‘remember’ it all as we no longer have the book, and there is a review here https://bevcurran.wordpress.com/2017/10/04/a-good-house-by-bonnie-bernard/). This is the story about where a stepmother comes into the picture but she is a wise woman. She knows that really, she has nothing to lose and everything to gain if she helps ‘her’ children keep the memory of their real mother alive.  If only our stepmother had thought that way.

Losing Our Mother II – Your New Mother

Before I go on I want to make one clarification. These pieces about the loss of our mother are just that; they are not so much memories of her or stories about her life. Furthermore, and it probably hardly needs saying, these are my thoughts on the loss of our mother and its impact, which has turned out to be more far reaching than one would have anticipated all those many years ago at the time our mother went to be with her Lord and Saviour. Each of my four siblings has their own memories of all of this, and they do not necessarily coincide with what I remember, think or feel.

At the end of my first chapter in this essay, I talked of our family’s resuming ‘life’ after the loss of our mother. Father continued his work with the Mennonite Church’s urban mission outreach, as it was then still called, with native people, again, as they were then called. We children finished our school years in June 1964. For me, that meant high school graduation and deciding what was to come after that.

In July of that year we got our first inkling of a significant new development in our family life. Father made it known that he was too lonely as a widow trying to raise us five and wanted to marry. Furthermore, he already had his sights on, and had indeed spoken with, a young woman in our church whom we knew. Her name was Anne Thiessen and we older three knew her through our belonging to the youth/young adult program and choir of our church. She was somewhat of a ‘sponsor’ of the former and member with my sister Loretta and I of the latter. Dad had been getting to know her better through his being on our church’s council where she was treasurer.

On July 20 – it’s in my diary, as I discovered recently – Dad asked what I thought about remarriage. I am not sure he mentioned Anne specifically. I thought I had a memory of his asking the three older ones of us way back around February. Now, I’m not sure about that idea. Anyway, was I going to flat out say no?

The secret was soon out. Honestly, I think we were all more intrigued by the idea than that we had or shared negative thoughts about the prospects. We got to go on dates with Dad and Anne. What’s not to enjoy for a family in the summer when you get to go to a powwow (on the prairie outside of Stoney Mountain Penitentiary, mind you, because of father’s connections with indigenous inmates) and a picnic after. Or a day trip to the Peace Gardens, or the Whiteshell – with picnic lunches. 

Meanwhile, I started my first year at Canadian Mennonite Bible College, commuting the 13 miles by bus. This meant leaving home at 6:20 and getting home just in time for supper. A wedding date was set and plans put in motion. Sister Loretta was designated as Maid of Honour and myself as Groomsman. Before we knew it, October 17 rolled around and after a marriage in Bethel Mennonite Church and a reception, we had a new Mom. My siblings remember Dad coming home and telling us this was our new Mom, we should give her that honour and put our biological mother out of the picture, or words to that effect. Sounds somewhat harsh, and maybe it was the impact that caused it to be so remembered (Maybe father did not want us to use the word 'stepmother' and, indeed, I do not remember using this word till years later, and then only outside of our parents' hearing). How little did we know at the time how true this request was going to become over time. 

Anne worked hard at being a Mom for 5 chidden from 7 - 17. If my memory serves me well she even altered my trousers to go with changing fashions. She might even have helped me type up some college homework. Understandably, things did not go totally smoothly. My siblings complained of too many casserole suppers… of not being able to always have seconds… or even meals if they came home too late. As the oldest, whose bedroom was next to ‘the folks’ for a while, I recall overhearing hard discussions between our ‘folks’ with dad trying to encourage our new Mom. For my part, I remember trying to get my younger siblings to go easier on our new Mom.

The following autumn, 1965, I moved into residence for my last two years at the college. From then on, apart from weekends (and not even all of those) and summers at home – and even then, I was out working on a farm in Alberta all of one summer (1966) – my relationship with my parents gradually changed to being one of a guest. Two months after I graduated from college in the spring of 1967 they moved to Saskatchewan. I saw them once more that summer and then not again till Christmas. After that, it was not until I also moved to Saskatchewan in the spring of 1968. Thereafter, it was the usual occasional weekend, perhaps Thanksgiving, usually Christmas and Easter visits etc. Our own biological mother had faded into history it seemed, at least for me.

Losing Our Mother

I have been thinking about writing this for some time. Sometimes writing of this nature helps bring closure to a situation. It can be somewhat cathartic, perhaps healing. A past trauma can be dealt with. 

Losing our mother had a beginning in a certain point in time. However, as life has continued to unravel in this area, I realized that losing one’s mother does not necessarily come to an end. At least, not in this life.

It was in Winnipeg; December 14, 1963. I was in Grade XII. Mother had experienced an exciting fall getting back into teaching after eighteen years. I remember how pleased she was to be able to put on a lovely white blouse over a grey wool skirt, pin on a favourite brooch, and get back into the classroom. She was just 43-years-old.

We were deep into winter – snow, freezing temperatures. Christmas was coming. We had a tree up in front of our ‘picture window,’ with lights encircling it. Something new and fascinating was a little coupling, between light cord and socket, that caused the ‘Christmas lights’ to flash off and on intermittently. My younger brothers were playing in our living room, where stood the tree, and were bothered by the on-and-off feature, so it was ‘off.’

Our parents were preparing to go to a Christmas social at our church. They were going to pick up Dad’s brother, Uncle Victor, and his wife, Aunt Margaret, who was, coincidentally, mother’s cousin. They had just moved to Winnipeg. The women of our church were putting this social on and their husbands were their guests. Our parents were excited to go; it was their first such outing since moving to the city some sixteen months earlier. 

When they had dressed, and passed by my room at the top of the stairs, I asked mother whether we couldn’t leave the intermittent light switch ‘on.’ I thought it helped make our place more noticeable to passersby. I think she asked me to consider my brothers and we said goodbye and I turned to my homework and they continued down the staircase and left.

A few hours later I heard the door open and steps on the stairs. I turned to my bedroom door and there was father, with Uncle Victor right behind. Father had a pained expression on his face. It was as if he was choking on the first words that came out of his mouth, “Your mother’s dead,” he said. 

The rest of the evening, and indeed, much of the days that followed, remains a blur in my memory. I do have a diary that I kept, that I can refer to, but I don’t want to be obsessive about details here.

We children, there were five of us in school, quite school a week earlier than our peers for ‘Christmas break.’ Our grandparents, our uncles and aunts, friends from church, were in and out of our home. They brought food or prepared it at our place. They helped look after us – my youngest sibling was 7-year-old Tim – while also helping father with the necessary arrangements for things like a funeral and burial.

When a funeral home had been secured – Loewen’s of Steinbach, whom I discovered later, had longtime connections with our parents – father took us children to view our mother’s body, nicely dressed and lying in a casket. I remember how gray she looked… I had my little camera along and took a picture. 

Besides our grandparents – mother’ parents from Winkler and Dad’s from Clearbrook (now part of Abbotsford), BC, other uncles and aunts came to the city. Uncle Henry and Esther Born and their family were traveling back from South America where they were in mission work, to BC, and made a last minute detour to Manitoba.

Then came the day for the funeral, held not in our church, Winnipeg Bergthaler Mennonite, but in the larger more distant Bethel Mennonite. It was bitterly cold - minus thirty degrees. A long black limousine came to pick us up to go on the long ride to the church. I had mixed feelings about riding in this car – there was the element of luxury for a teenage car nut like myself at the time – but it came with death. 

After the funeral, of which I remember nothing, we again rode the limousine to Brookside Cemetery out by the airport for mother’s internment. Our family and friends huddled around the gravesite while last words were spoken in the fading winter sunlight. Then it was back to the church for a reception, which was the custom. All I really remember of that was our Aunt Ruby (Dad’s older brother Peter’s wife) Brandt’s mother, Mrs. Robinson, coming up to me to give me a big hug and express her condolences. I don’t recall anyone else doing that. Hugs were not yet common in the Mennonite repertoire of social behaviour. As I write, it is only days since I shared that memory with Aunt Ruby, now 97, long-since widowed, and my cousin Shirley, her daughter, on a visit to them in Houston, Texas, where they now live.

Then it was on into the New Year, 1964. Distant relatives went home. However, we continued to get a lot of support from especially mother’s parents and siblings and their families. Mother’s youngest sister Marian was still single and in the city and she came over a lot to help with household tasks. Loretta, next youngest to me at 15, our only sister, went through an accelerated period of learning to do more of the tasks considered women’s work in those days.

We went back to school, except for me! I had contracted mumps somehow during this period of time, and so was a couple of weeks late returning to classes – at the new River East Collegiate in North Kildonan, where we had moved six months earlier.

Life continued. There was no talk of what we had just experienced. Of course, family and friends showed their support and care in the ways already described. There was no lack of love. However, I don’t recall anyone expressing any particular concern for how we were all doing. There was no processing of our experience. There was certainly no grief counseling, as there often is nowadays. That was something unknown in our circles. 

We had lost our mother, traumatically, long before we should have. That’s all we knew. Were we in shock? Is that why I have so little memory of this all? Were we in denial? Was that the only way to cope? It seems we all just closed the wound as quickly and as best as we could in our own ways and carried on. 

To be continued

In the Fulness of Time

“In the fullness of time.” How often have we heard that phrase with relation to Jesus’ coming? Usually it refers to the state of the world at the time with particular reference to how the Hellenization of the Mediterranean and adjoining lands followed by the rising of the Roman Empire made it possible for the gospel to be spread after Jesus’ ascension as rapidly it was.

I wonder if there is not another explanation for that phrase. Let me take you back to the tale of the patriarch Jacob wrestling with God. You will recall that God changed Jacob’s name at the time to ‘Israel’, meaning ‘one who wrestles with God.’ God told Jacob, as God did his father Isaac and grandfather Abraham before him that through them God was creating a special people. You will also recall that Jacob’s descendants, as this people of God, took on the name Israel, and now that name is applied to the nation formed in 1948 in Palestine.

So then, what might that name mean for the Jewish people? Might that mean the same for the nation? There’s another twist to this. We Christians consider ourselves to be following in the footsteps of the Jews as the people of God. What does ‘Israel’ mean for us?

Some Jewish theologians have come to understand, although they still question why, that it is the lot of the Jews to ‘wrestle with God.’ What they mean by this as I understand it is that they accept this state of struggle, but still wonder why? They continue to struggle with God over what has happened to them throughout their history, and still do. Why were they reduced to slavery in Egypt? Why were so many of their people lost because of the actions of invading empires? Why the Holocaust? And why, in particular, has anti-Semitism never ended? What is the purpose of all of this? Where is the meaning in it? And especially why, after 4000 years and more, do there not seem to be answers?

My proposition is that this goes on because the presence of the people of God is never going to be welcomed by all in our world as it is. There is another power who has been fighting God since Creation and many humans, perhaps often even unwittingly, are helping him fight his battles.

Satan would like to destroy God’s people. The treatment of the Jews and Christians throughout history is a testimony to that. To our shame as Christians, Satan has too often even been able to use us for his purposes when our actions become anti-Semitic.

But all of this is not where I am going with this. Let’s go back to the phrase I began this piece with.

We believe that God, in his love, created us to be in a mutually loving relationship with him. However, almost from the beginning, we as humans strayed from that for which God created us. God’s plan to deal with this, as we have come to know it, was ultimately for God to come among us to show us his true nature and how that could be lived out in the world. This came about through the birth, life, death and finally resurrection of the one we call Jesus. Jesus was God in human form.

But even that was not enough. We are incapable of living the way God planned it. We are going to ruin God’s plans even if it means killing him to get our way. And we know that’s what happened to Jesus.

God had even that covered in God’s plan. We believe God is love. God showed us through Jesus that the ultimate act of love is to lose your life for the other. So just when Satan and his blind and deaf minions thought they had won the victory by killing Jesus, they had actually and totally lost. Jesus’ death and our belief in and acceptance of the gospel, the good news of that penultimate historical event, turned out to be the means of our reconciliation to God.

And ‘the fullness of time?’ Yes, the Roman Empire was there. Its roads and its laws did help spread the gospel. The Apostle Paul, the prime example of the Apostles, the ones first called by Jesus himself took advantage of those factors. However, that was after Jesus’ ascension, his return to whence he came.

God’s plan was able to be fulfilled at the time in history when it was for at least two reasons. God’s people, the Jews, Israel, thought they had it all figured out as to how to get on God’s good side, to put it somewhat crudely. They, at least the leaders, had no use for Jesus. He didn’t fit Into their scheme. What was worse, it seemed he was going to destroy all their best-laid plans. They had to do away with him. They were still committing the sin of their ancestor Jacob, thinking they could wrestle with God and win. They lost.

The other reason was though, indeed the Roman Empire. The Romans wanted power at all costs. Nothing should upset their plans. So, when the Jews brought Jesus to the Roman governor Pilate, it was not that hard for him to give consent to doing away with one more zealot.

The earthly minions thought they had it all figured out. As it turned out, God’s plans were the ones that were fulfilled. Praise the Lord!

2019 2 4 

The Story of Onesimus I. Changes

It was only the beginning of the second watch, but even now the oppressive heat was building. The sun was already moving higher into a cloudless sky. There was just enough of a breeze to feel its coolness on one’s perspiring skin. However, working in the confines of the courtyard scarcely allowed for even that little reprieve. 

Onesimus was preparing a shipment of wool to be transported to the neighbouring city of Laodicea. His master, Philemon, was a shrewd buyer of some of the best wool in the region. In sheep-shearing season wool Philemon had purchased from the area would arrive in piles on the backs of donkeys and be unloaded under the shelter of a roof projecting out from the side of his house. It was Onesimus’ job to take these piles of wool and try and sort them out into bales of similar quality. Once that was done to Philemon’s satisfaction, they would be tied up and transported to Laodicea. There, they were made into clothing by the many slaves who dyed and wove the wool. 

By the time the wool got to Onesimus it had become quite dusty from the roads over which it had traveled. Handling it with its itchiness was bad enough; the dust only added to the discomfort.

Onesimus really did not remember any other life than being in the service of Philemon. As a long-time slave, he and his master had reached a mutually beneficial understanding of their roles, their places in society. Onesimus knew when his services did not reach his master’s expectations that the consequences could be severe, but her had leaned to take that. It was the lot of a slave, and that’s what he was. He knew too though, from his limited contact with other slaves, that there were far worse masters than Philemon. 

Just the same, Onesimus sometimes wondered what it would be like to be a freedman. He knew he was not stupid. He watched how things were done. In fact, it was that trait that had led Onesimus to try and be helpful as a young child, before he was really expected to do slave duty. That was how he had been given the name Onesimus, meaning ‘helpful one.’ 

Some of his cuurent thinking now might have been the over confidence of youth, but sometimes he thought he could make a go of his own business. However, he knew those were futile thoughts. Unless one came to an understanding with one’s master, one would never become a freedman. Even then, the master would expect a considerable payment from the would-be freedman, something he could use to replace him by purchasing another slave. From what Onesimus had seen, that rarely happened, and when it did, the slave had usually outlived his usefulness to the master. It was more like the master no longer wanted to be responsible for the slave than that he gave him freedman status out of goodwill. Besides, with the situation Onesimsus found himself in, he was a long way from having any money to buy his freedom. The other option? Running away? That was pretty much a death sentence.

Still, it irked him sometimes in particular when he compared himself to Archippus, Onesimus’ only son. They were very much the same age, had grown up together, but the obvious privileges of the one set him in quite a different world than the one in which Onesimus was destined to live. 

But what was really bothering Onesimus now were the changes he was observing in both Philemon and Apphia. He thought he knew them well, could practically read their minds. That way, he could avoid some of the mistakes and punishing consequences that would ensue. But now, he was increasingly finding that he no longer knew what to expect of his masters. Even Apphia, his mistress, was not as harsh as she had once been. 

Of course, it would never have crossed Onesimus’ mind to try and find out what was going on. There was a certain familiarity in his relationship with his long-time masters, but that only went so far. You could never let your guard down and be lulled into thinking you had everything figured out. He could only observe and listen to try and make sense of what seemed to be a developing new order. Where did it come from and what did it mean? Onesimus was not really concerned for his position; he was sure that was a given. However, if one did not know how to relate to one’s master, well, there was increased risk in that. Onesimus had suffered enough beating in his life not to really want more.

The strangest thing was that, from what he heard, and from some of the new practices Philemon and his family seemed to be carrying out, was that these changes seemed to have something to do with religion. Now, in some ways, religion was everywhere in the life in which Onesimus had grown up. There were shrines and statues of the gods everywhere. There were rituals that had to be performed to appease the gods, to keep them on your good side as much as possible. Sometimes, there might even be an occasion to give an offering of thanksgiving to a god if, for example, you really got a good batch of wool that fetched a high price in the markets in Laodicea and Hierapolis. These practices never really demanded that much from one though. There was really no sacrifice involved. One did or gave just enough. There was certainly no impact of these traditions on one’s daily life. By and large, Onesimus knew, it all just made more intelligent people somewhat cynical about the whole affair, and he was quite satisfied with that.

Onesimus had picked up though that there was a new twist to this worship. The Emperor in that faraway city of Rome was now demanding worship. It was not enough that everyone was taxed to the limit. Now people were expected to worship the Emperor as a god. As a rule, none of this had any effect on Onesimus. The master’s trips to the temples were not usually excursions that included his slaves. However, he had heard Philemon complain about this added layer of expectation. It just took more time out of his day and money out of his pocket. Of course, Philemon had to be careful where he expressed these sentiments, lest he be suspected of treason. However, Onesimus had heard of others who felt the same way.

Begrudgingly, it seemed the master’s family had come to terms with this new reality. Sometimes Onesimus had accompanied his master to the temples of they were together delivering wool or on some other business errand that took them past these centres. For him, it just meant a few more stops on the route. That was not so bad though, as it gave him more time away from the labour back home. His lot was just to wait on the street with the cargo and animals, not to join in on what went on in the temple. It gave him more time to rest and sometimes to chat with other slaves whose masters were in the temple. 

All of this had not really made that much difference in the life Onesimus knew otherwise. It really had not taken much effort on his part to accommodate this, and, as he saw it, there had been certain advantages for him socially at times. However, he had not been long getting used to these changes when something altogether different and more demanding seemed to be occurring.

Our 'creative side'

Christmas is often a time of year when people’s creative side emerges. You see it in decoration, how gifts are handled and in all the baking and cooking that goes into its celebration. Have you ever stopped to think about where this ‘creative streak’ comes from? 

If you accept the theory of evolution you might think of all kinds of adaptive reasons for its development. I am not going to enter into any debate around that. As Christian, I believe we are creative because we are made in the image of God, however that occurred. God is creative. Most religions of the world believe that. We might say that’s why the whole universe is here, including us humans and the earth we live in. We have an account of creation in chapter one of our Judeo-Christian Old Testament.

Can we answer our original question more easily if we understand why God is creative? Interestingly, I am not sure that question is answered anywhere in The Bible, at least not straightforwardly. But I have a theory.

We are told that God is Love. What is love? One could possibly give many answers to that question. For my argument here, I will propose that at least one element of love is that it is an outward directed ‘force,’ for want of a better word. We are also told that God is all about Relationship. Now, if you want relationship, you need something, someone, to relate to. Now, we believe God exists in a Trinity wherein there is a tripartite relationship between ‘Father,’ ‘Son,’ and ‘Holy Spirit.’ At the same time, we believe that is only one being. Still no ‘other’ to share that love with. Follow my train of thought?

Well, yes, he had apparently created angels. We do not know a lot about these beings. They are most often seen in the Judeo-Christian tradition as servants and messengers of God. Were they not enough? Maybe not. And why not? Could it have something to do with their freedom? It would seem from our limited attempts to explain the origins of evil that there was an angel who did appear to exercise some choice and rebel against God. We call him Satan, the Devil, the Evil One, or, in more charitable moments, considering his origins, Lucifer, the Angel of Light. But we also speak of God as Light. But I digress, somewhat.

God had a plan. He has all kinds of plans. He created the universe and our earth in it, populated it with untold varieties of flora and fauna, not to mention the beautiful landscapes and seascapes, the skies. God is Good, so, naturally, everything he was created he saw as good. However, something was missing. When we love, do we not yearn for someone to receive our love, ideally to love us back. Why, that idea was even popularized in a Jefferson Airplanehit song in the 60’s, “Don’t You Want Somebody to Love?” After all, relationships are not a one-way street. That is not selfish. We realize, even scientifically now, it is essential for our health, our survival. All of what he had created from Days 1-5 was unable to reciprocate that love satisfactorily. 

Do we not love best when the other is like us? God’s solution was to create beings into whom he personally breathed the breath of life. Furthermore, we are told, he created them – us – in his image. Ergo, we are creative because God is creative.

So, why do we create? Do we not have a compulsion, a drive to do so? At least if we are healthy enough. And do we not do so because we enjoy it? Do we not like ‘the fruit of our labours?’ Just as God liked and called good all of his creation. 

However, there is more to this. I don’t believe we can separate these characteristics of person we have been talking about – love, reciprocity or relationship, creativity. Ultimately, we create because we want someone else to enjoy it. As I said with relation to our Creator, that is not selfish. Yes, in our imperfection, we have often made it less than what it should or could be. That means some of us seem happy to keep it all to ourselves, for a variety of reasons. Others are so starved for attention and acceptance, approval, they go overboard in trying to gain that for their creativity from others. Notice how relationship is tied in with this.

Also, I believe, in our imperfection, we often create things which are not good. But that’s a whole ‘nother story.

For most of us, who enjoy the creative process and feel compelled to create, we want to share our creativity with others. Does true sharing not come from love? See, again, how the strands of God and personality are inseparable?

So, does this help explain more about what we are about when we create? It’s a lot more than just wanting that ‘Like’ on Facebook, isn’t it?