Magyar Egyház, 1994 (73. évfolyam, 1-4. szám)
1994 / 4. szám
20. oldal MAGYAR EGYHÁZ the Gospel to all nations they must prepare a book. The world is big. The disciples can stay but for a short time at one place. They can gather into a congregation those who believe in Christ, but they must move along. They must leave a book so people can learn what Jesus had said, all Jesus had commanded. They must have a book. So they decided to meet in Mary’s house to prepare a book. The disciples would tell, one after the other, as they recalled the story. The Sermon on the Mount. The miraculous catch of fish. How Jesus taught them to pray. What he said about paying taxes. Their private talks in the evenings after all the people had gone home. The parables. That last horrible week. That incredible morning of the resurrection. The last weeks with Jesus and his last words. They told the story as it came into their minds—it was wonderful: the words would come back, not one would be missed. As if Jesus spoke to them again. It was Matthew who began to take notes first. John Mark too. He remembered a lot, although he had been still a child when Jesus was with them. The third man who made frequent use of his stylus was a new disciple, Luke, the physician, Paul’s travelcompanion. And so they met many nights; it often happened that the cock signalled the coming of a new day and they were still together exchanging their memories of Jesus. It was usually Luke, with his orderly Greek mind, who guided the wandering thoughts of the disciples. One evening it was again Luke who spoke up: “Brethren, there is one thing we never discussed before: about the birth of our Lord. I admit I wasn’t such a close companion of the Master as you were. Maybe this is the reason why I can be a better judge that without the story of his birth our book would be incomplete. People could ask where he had come from. Particularly those who are unfamiliar with your Jewish prophecies; the Romans, the Greeks and other pagans. You can’t start the story just saying, ‘Jesus stood up and said this and that.’” “Why not?” was John Mark’s objection. “Important was what he was saying and doing. Of course, he was born. There is nothing peculiar about the birth of a baby.” “You say that because you never gave birth to a child” They all turned to the direction where these words came from. It was Mary, the mother of Jesus, who spoke. Since the day of the crucifixion Disciple John took care of her as the Lord entrusted her to him. She was now well past sixty. Sometimes John brought her to this other Mary’s house, the sister of Barnabas and John Mark’s mother. Everybody treated her with love and respect. But she seldom spoke; just sat at the fireplace and listened how the others recalled the Gospel story. Her face showed an indescribable radiance—they were talking about the Gospel her dear son had brought. But now she spoke. Slowly, simple words, her eyes fixed in the far distance, more like telling a dream than a story. “I shall tell you how he was born. You are right, Luke, your book would be incomplete...” “You know, it was in the year when Quirinius was governor. A decree was issued for a general registration so everybody had to go to his own city. I was engaged to be married to Joseph the Carpenter, in Nazareth. But since we both are from the House of David we had to go to Bethlehem. Oh, what a journey it was; it was winter and I was with child.” Mary stopped here. Then continued: “I have to go a little farther back. I must tell you first about my aunt Elizabeth, wife of Zacharias the Priest.” And so the story rolled from her lips: the strange story of the birth of John who was later called the Baptist. How the Angel of the Lord spoke to Zacharias and commanded him to name his son John. “But then the Angel spoke to me, too. I just couldn’t believe what he said. That I too shall have a son and that he will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High.” The men in the room listened with bated breath. They did not take any notes. They knew they would remember every word she said. “What could I have said to the angel than ‘let it be to me according to your word.’ You can’t say ‘no’ to the Angel of the Lord! Shortly after this I ran to Aunt Elizabeth. I had to tell about this to someone. Joseph wouldn’t have taken me seriously, my parents might ‘have driven me away from the house. But Elizabeth behaved so strangely. Just as I entered her house she exclaimed: ‘Blessed are you among women and blessing is on the fruit of your womb. Who am I that the mother of my Lord should visit me?’ This is what Aunt Elizabeth said. Well, I didn’t quite understand her but something in me made me pray. What a strange thing, I was almost a child, yet a mother-tobe. I just prayed and sang to the Lord: ‘My soul magnifies the Lord because he has looked kindly on his servant, even though my place in life is humble.’ Oh, how many times I prayed and sang these same words.” Mary stopped. “I am tired. I’m an old woman, you know. Some other time I shall tell you the rest of the story if you want to hear it.” Tumultuous days came. Paul and Barnabas came from Antioch, James was killed, Peter arrested. Then on the night when Paul and Barnabas were about to return to Antioch they asked Mary to finish her story. “I left when we were on our journey to Bethlehem. It was cold and I was in pain, the baby was due any hour. I was scared—where will my son be born? The angel’s prophecies seemed to be so unreal—Son of the Most High? All I could thank about was a warm room, a bed to rest, and a crib for the coming baby. And Joseph: he was wonderful. He almost carried the little donkey which I was riding. He was such a gentle man.” Mary’s voice was soft. She must have loved Joseph very much. The story continued: the end of the journey, the inn, the laughing guests making ribald jokes, the
