The sun was climbing back into the seasons, enabling the tradesmen to work without artificial light until the celebration of the Archangel Michael in September.
The farmers could not wait to get in the fields to sow their crop. They had already sowed and reaped the crop many times in their minds whilst listening to the ceremonies in the church. Corn and carrots were growing particularly strong in the fields of their dreams and the farmers were constantly thinking about methods of improvement. They gathered in front of the church after mass and shared their ideas. The farmers were determined to beat the monks and grow the crop faster in the coming year.
The monks and farmers were still busy to build the fountain in the monastery. The farmers were difficult to work with and the monks got very annoyed. The farmers became grumpier every day. They could not wait for winter to disappear. They looked the sky to spot a sign of spring: a mild southerly wind or a song of a bird. The monks were looking for the farmers too as they could not wait for them to leave the monastery.
Brother George was preparing for the football tournament which was coming up in the carnival season. It was the common belief of many parishioners that Saint Peter did not stand a chance. There were fierce discussions at church about the upcoming tournament.
“Saint Peter is the hole of the world. Alcoholics, orphans and disabled; everybody who is not loved ends up in Saint Peter,” said a farmer in the church.
“I will lead you to victory. If we lose it will be my defeat and I will take responsibility,” said Brother George.
“Our community has gone through a lot. We have all grown in faith. Many amongst us have turned into fine Christians. We are capable of winning the games together.”
“Victory is ours,” screamed a young man. His words were accompanied by shouts from the audience.
“I will fight side by side with you my brothers,” said another man stretching his right arm to the ceiling.
“Is everybody allowed to play?” asked a young monk curiously.
“The rules forbid monks from any monastery to participate in the tournament,” said Brother Thomas.
“What are you going to do with all the old and disabled? Are you going to give them wings so they can fly over the football fields?” asked somebody in the congregation.
“Yes, sort of. We will receive wings to help us win the games,” said Brother George lapsed into silence.
Brother George was known as a person who kept his promises. But nobody believed him this time.
“I have to repeat the rules again as some farmers have not yet understood them.” Brother George said. “The football field is more than ten square kilometers wide. Everybody who wants to play is allowed to do so: children with their mothers, grandpas and grandmas; everybody who can make it on the field. We will deploy approximately five hundred players in the games. We will be operating on two fronts. One front will be trying to get the statue of the saint of our neighbors’ church. I repeat again. The church is not the real church in the village of our opponents. It is the field close to the altar where the statue of the Saint from the opposing team is resting. I do not want to see any farmers running to the neighboring village and breaking into their church to mutilate the statue of their saint this time, please. The other half of the village will be defending our church and trying to prevent our opponents to getting the statue of Saint Peter from our church. The winner is the team who brings the statue home and places it on the middle field.”
“The disabled, children, grandmas and grandpas from Saint Peter will be flying over the football field and carrying the statue to the middle point,” said Brother Thomas and everybody laughed.
Brother George said: “No. I have come to the conclusion that communication is vital in this game. I have seen the strongest men running around useless because nobody could give them direction. I have seen wood cutters, bakers, and rafts men standing idly on the fields not knowing what to do. On the other hand, I have seen fast and courageous runners such as Jack, Steve and Brother Benedict determining the game. They can gain kilometers of ground before being stopped by their adversaries. The question is why could they run for so long?” Before Brother George could answer his own question a young man shouted in the audience.
“Because they had wings.”
“They could not have gotten that far if they had run in a front of defenders. Part of their success was that the way was clear,” said Brother George.
“Only the priest of the church is allowed to ride a horse but you cannot oversee a ten-square- kilometer field from a horse-back.
“I repeat myself. The game is about communication. We will divide the field into hundred smaller fields. The people with disabilities and elderly people will be placed in one of the little fields. They will be able to oversee their allocated patch. These towers, as I will call them from now on, will draw maps of what is going on in their allocated patch. The maps will be dispatched by doves to the command post where strategic decisions are going to be made. The people at the command post will have a clear picture of what is happening on the field at any time and can make the best decisions for the team. Rather than being driven by luck and sheer force, we will be able to employ knowledge before launching an attack. We will be able to find the shortest way to the middle point quickly,” said Brother George.
“Remember the human plough of Saint Andrew a few years ago? A group of fifty farmers ploughed over the field, trampling over our defense like bulls over daffodils. They were fast approaching the middle field with the statue of Saint Peter in their possession. I came from the back with about thirty of our players. Brother George was approaching fast on Pegasus and jumped in the middle of the attacking farmers. He was able to keep the statue on the ground until we could form a defending squad,” said Steve.
“Yes, I remember,” said Brother Benedict excited. “This game was called “meatball” later. Two hundred men were piled on top of each other trying to snatch the statue of Saint Peter until Brother Benedict arrived. Brother George grabbed the statue and threw it right in the arms of Brother Benedict who was running back to the altar. The field was deserted because half of our players were stuck in the pile up. As there were so many people involved in the fight it was easy to find open spaces elsewhere. Brother Benedict managed to cover a quarter of the field on his own before being confronted with the defense of Saint Andrew. Meanwhile our attacking squad was approaching fast with the statue of Saint Martin. The players of Saint Martin were exhausted and could not stop our vigilant tackle. They were able to place the statue in the middle of the field and win the game.”
“So what are the doves for? To attack from the air?” asked a farmer seeking for some cheer. But there was no laugh as the people started to become interested in Brother George’s plan and listened carefully.
“We will us the doves as messengers. The messages will allow us to have a clear picture of what is happening on the field at all times. By putting all the messages together, we will be able to construct a map enabling us to quickly spot opportunities and act immediately. But w….
“We will have enough time to discuss this later.” Brother George and stepped down from the pulpit. The wooden floor moved under his shoes. His thick brown robe glided over the floor like a maple leaf pushed by a storm. He was thinking of the tournament whilst he walked through the church.
Jack and his friends had attended every ceremony since the dramatic events in the church. This evening Brother Benedict preached about the Good Shepherd. Jack sat close to Mary’s shrine in the east wing of the church. Mary’s shrine was often used by sinners to make their comeback into the church. Some of the farmers had never left the shrine of Mary as they felt most secure in the vicinity of the mother of God.
Brother Benedict said that their reaction was similar to boys telling their mothers about a broken window. The mother would then bring the case to the father. By the time the boy stood trial the anger of the father had eased and the verdict was less
severe.
Jack looked to the altar in front of the crucifix in the south of the church. The golden letters alpha and omega where embedded in the red candle piece of the white candle. Verena was sitting right in front of the altar like a pillar on which the church was resting. The golden letters reflected in her black hair. Next to her stood Catherine the second pillar of Saint Peter. It occurred to him that all his brethren were pillars carrying the house of God apart from him. He was week and useless but he would make a comeback and become strong as Samson.
It would take him seven straight Sunday ceremonies to make it to the front row. He would be ranked equal to Catherine and Verena who were already on the way to heaven. He would overtake them on their climb and become a Saint. He could see churches named after him. People would leave their old churches and flock in the newly established Saint Jack churches, inviting the faithful into the world of the supernatural. Prophecies would not fall but pour from heaven like summer rain. The soul painters would have visions and paint portraits of him. The poets would praise him and the musician would compose songs to glorify his name. But he had to undergo at least one painful confession with Brother George before he could even consider putting one foot on the way to heaven.
He could see his shadow appearing in the darkness of the confession box. The invisible eyes pierced his conscience like the knife of the butcher to cut out the sin so that the soul did not get infected. Jack hated sitting there in the confessional whilst Brother George wrestled with the sins in his life. He was not sure if he really wanted to become a Saint after all
He also remembered the cruel destiny of the Martyrs who followed their masters, Jesus Christ, into death. Jack was not yet ready for such a sacrifice, Heaven had to wait as the earth was calling. He could feel the earth under his feet dragging him down in the lap of nature. It was a pleasant experience like the kiss of a mother consoling her child who had lost something valuable. Jack suddenly remembered all the important things he had to catch up with.
Despite all his concerns to become a Saint, something had changed in him. This sweet kiss had polished the edges of his rough nature. The tears of Marc had opened the doors of spiritual awareness. Marc loved him like a father. His love made Jack aware of Saint Joseph, the father of Jesus Christ and husband of Mary. The awareness of Mary was like a river flowing through heaven and earth touching the cosmic awareness of his soul. He had been walking through the darkness like a stranger. Now the Saints appeared to him like stars in the night showing him the true spiritual path to the sea of love.
A picture of the lost sheep stood on a wooden frame in front of the altar. Steve contemplated the soul painting whilst Brother Benedict read the gospel the following Sunday.
“Believe me, I am the door for the sheep, said Jesus. The sheep does not follow the false prophets, robbers and thieves. Jesus is the door. A good shepherd is ready to die for his sheep. Somebody not owning the sheep is not a good shepherd. He leaves the sheep and runs away when the wolf comes. The wolf then attacks the sheep and scares them away. If somebody is looking after sheep only for personal gain, he runs away because the sheep do not belong to him. Jesus is the good shepherd. He knows his sheep and they know him like the father knows Jesus. Jesus is prepared to die for his sheep,” said Brother Benedict looking into the eyes of the parishioners.
There was a painting of the lost sheep in the church. The picture of the lost sheep made a deep impression and many people were meditating on the picture whilst listening to the ceremony. A candle dispensed light on the painting of the good shepherd. Orange light flashings were gleamed through the West window of the church facing the Mountain of the Angels.
Steve was in his own world reflecting on the celebration of the guardian angels last autumn. He remembered the time when the pilgrims sat in the wooden shrine on the Mountain of the Angels to celebrate the day of the guardian angels. The church bells had rung in the valleys. It had been autumn and a warm wind blew from the south. Brother Benedict was conducting the celebration of the guardian angels. He had asked the pilgrims to shut their eyes and listening to the bells. They resonated in the mountains. Their sounds were like the wings carrying themes of the Bible from heaven to earth. Heavenly visions gathered in Steve’s mind like clouds before a summer rain. The heavens opened and the visions were poured in his soul which became a reflection of the Bible.
Steve knew an old man living in the mountains. He had visited the shrines in the Mountain of the Angels whenever he had time. He had told Steve that the mountains were the home of the angels long before the birth of Adam and Eve. They worshipped God here before they ascended into heaven. He said that the angels were living all around the world to worship God and to protect the good souls from evil. The connection to God was leading humans on pilgrimages to find the holy shrines, where the angels used to live. The Holy Spirit was moving strongly in these sacred places.
The Mountain of the Angels was particularly beautiful in autumn when the leaves on the trees appeared in yellow, red and orange colors. The sun- shine poured on Saint Michael, the monastery of the Mountains of the Angels. Autumn was the evening of the seasons, the beginning of a new time and the most beautiful season in the year. It was time when the angels descended from heaven on earth to collect the memories of the passing year, whilst Jesus Christ was creating a new era in heaven.
The old man had told Steve that he had been going to the Mountain of the angels since he was a little child. He had seen angels on the green fields.
Steve was looking forward to all the pilgrimages, to walks through forests and over mountains, stays underneath waterfalls and swim in the mountain lakes. Nature became a voice expressing God’s joy and blessings for the earth.
Brother Benedict knew all the places where earth meets heaven. People had built shrines dedicated to Jesus, Mary and the Angels.
The souls of pilgrims were attracted by these shrines like thirsty elephant walking through the dry desert to find water. Steve closed his eyes to connect with heaven. Visions and dreams mixed with the themes of the Bible like a kaleidoscope to merge into a mystical view of God. The old man had told him that Brother Benedict knew all the places the angels used to visit on their voyages on the earth in the past. One could speak with heaven and earth, the trees, the sun, the moon and all the stars in the sky. Steve remembered sitting in a green meadow with Catherine, gazing at the sky and counting the shooting stars. The bells were ringing in the valley and he felt as if his whole life was flowing in a sea of emotions.
When Steve woke up from this wonderful dream darkness came through the stained-glass window in the west. Brother Benedict concluded the ceremony with the words:
“The ship is lifting the anchor and slowly sailing into the night.”
The church had a lot in common with a ship. The pulpit looked like the basket. The priest was the captain leading the vessel through the storms of life. Brother Benedict was standing on the high pulpit looking for land. At this moment Steve could identify with the old Israelites walking through the desert for forty years. The congregation followed the words of the priest to the Promised Land.
Steve looked to the East window, at a painting of the Archangel Michael telling Mary that she was going to give birth to Jesus Christ. The feast of Annunciation was celebrated on Mount Mary at the beginning of spring.
Colorful lights appeared in the windows. Somebody knocked at the church door. The knock was like a cry for help resonating in the body of the church. The knocking faded. It sounded again resonating in the church like the knocking of a pilgrim on heaven’s doors.
Brother Benedict marched through the church. His shoes resonated like drum-beats on the wooden floor. He opened the door. Jack stood outside with his friends who had broken into the church recently. They held glass lamps in their hands.
“We are sorry for the problems we caused,” said Jack.
His lantern was shining like the horizon over the mountains in different seasons.
??
?Do we want them back in the church?” asked Brother Benedict smiling and turning to the congregation.
“Yes, come on in,” said a voice in the congregation. “You were lost but now you are found.
“Sit next to us. There is always place for a fisherman in the wide open sea,” said Peter tapping on the wooden bench.
“We have a forgiving God,” whispered Verena sitting next to Catherine in front of the altar.
“The prodigal sons. Come and celebrate with us,” said Brother George leaving his seat and going straight to the farmers with open arms.
“What have you got in your hand?” asked Brother Benedict looking at the lantern.
“We have made lamps out of glass in different colors. We burn the remaining alcohol in the glass. The alcohol gets a useful purpose,” said Jack.
“The lamps look beautiful,” said Brother Benedict, “and blend miraculously in the season of Mary’s Light Mass which is next in the calendar of our holy liturgical year,” said Verena.
“We shall celebrate the festivals of lights from now on.” Catherine was watching the light of the lantern, which flowed like the water of a colorful river over the surface of the glass.
“These lights symbolize our souls maturing in the Holy Spirit,” said Brother George, taking the lantern Jack held out to him.
“You are very talented artists. Did you know that?” Brother Benedict said to the group of farmers who had gone through much work to create the lanterns.
“We will make one for each citizen of Saint Peter so you can bring them to the celebration of Mary’s Light Mass,” said Jack standing next to a monk who opened the wooden gate of the church.
The congregation followed the ministrants into the winter night. The colorful lights of the lantern reflected on the Holy Cross wavering over the heads of the ministrants. The painting was carried into the mountain of memories to protect it from King Bloodstone and his soldiers. The whole community celebrated the return of the farmers.
The altar candles had accompanied the congregation through the joyful and sad moments in the liturgical year. The flames had become weaker.