From the glass-fronted cafeteria at Powell’s Books I look out upon springtime sunny streets and the parade of Portlanders strolling. Turning my gaze inward there is row upon row of books of every description. I am always intrigued by the variety and quantity of material on display. So much time, talent and knowledge (perceived or otherwise) has been invested in the pages. How do they all get published and what makes these books worth writing? Is there a point beyond being printed and thereby read (potentially) by someone? What value is there in the unpublished word? How about the unread script? Why is the written word treasured? I guess I question the value, and perhaps arrogance, of my own words and the sporadic desire to transform my part-time and often half-arsed word-smithing into polished final pieces ready for publication. At this point my thinking becomes esoteric and mystical or even judgmental. At times the words of John the Baptist resonate and I feel I have something worth saying even if it feels like the voice of one crying in the wilderness. Of course, the price he paid for speaking out was the loss of his head as well as the fame or infamy of announcing the coming of Jesus of Nazareth. It’s probably vanity or blasphemy to compare myself in any way to John.
On my recent work contract in Jordan I had the privilege of visiting many sites of archeological, religious and historical significance. One of these was Machaerus where the very same John was imprisoned by the ruler Herod. It’s fascinating to walk the ground where stories you have read about since childhood actually happened. There is room for the debate on the importance of John in history and his significance in the human story but as historical fact, the basics of his life are as undisputed as most other well known characters from antiquity (Julius Caesar, etc). As I wandered the ruins on a high hilltop overlooking the Dead Sea, I pondered Bible stories of these cousins, John and Jesus. I reread aloud to my fellow visitors, words from Matthew chapter 3.
In those days John the Baptist came preaching in the wilderness of Judea, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” For this is he who was spoken of by the prophet Isaiah when he said, “The voice of one crying in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord; make his paths straight.’”
At Machaerus not much remains of Herod’s castle where a few walls and pillars show the proud position of the fortress and the many caves suggest where prisoners were held. It did however evoke visions in my mind’s eye of Salome dancing for the king on this very site two thousand years ago and, at the prompting of her mother, requesting the head of John on a platter as a reward. The view across the sea to Israel and occupied Palestine stands silent over the atrocities and abuses of power that endure in this region perhaps more than others. And in that silence, the words of Jesus from Luke chapter 19 still echo:
He answered, “I tell you, if these [his disciples] were silent, the very stones would cry out.”
Indeed. And with these words the Kingdom of Heaven was announced. A reign which declares an end to tyranny and injustice which remains aloof here, just as it has for the two millennia since Jesus died declaring it. We continue on to Madaba and the aptly named church of St John the Baptist. Having climbed the bell tower to view the panorama over the town and surrounding desert, we descend to the ruins of previous structures below and an ancient Moabite well named after Ruth (also of Bible fame) who is said to have married Boaz and lived out her days in this part of Jordan. Leaving via the crypt we pass by the ceramic head of John on a platter. A fitting way to end the day. In these days of ‘fake news’, my mind is full of questions about how we understand facts, archeological findings and the ways we present them to the world and its readership. It seems, however, that whenever people speak out in ways that challenge power, heads will roll. And you can be sure that it won’t belong to those (usually a man) in charge. Such has it been since the time of beheaded John and crucified Jesus. For all the words written so that we might learn from history in order not to repeat past ills, not many are taking much notice.
Surely the stones would cry out if they could.
Alas, silence.
