Reflections of Brother Eulogius

X

***One Day at Nag hammadi***

The desert wind whistles over a wilderness of rocks and scrub. There is nothing  of note to be seen. No signs of life, just withered stems, long dried-out and perished by the unrelenting glare of the sun. The place is remarkable only for being so unremarkable. A haven only for the jinn and ascetics.

Another sound accompanies the wail of the scorching breeze. Metallic, a clinking against stony earth. Through the heat haze a lone figure shimmers at the foot of a rocky bluff. They are digging, driving the edge of a hoe into the arid ground, scooping out a hole that is already almost two metres deep. The figure pauses, breathing hard, a deep red veil drawn across the lower half of the face, shielding the nose and mouth from the harsh wind.

After a few moments, the figure turns its attention to a pitcher urn leaning against the rocks. It is a plain object, a uniform clay-color, and around a metre high. A piece of goat hide is stretched over the open end of the urn and secured tightly with more strips of leather.  Squinting anxiously into the distance, the figure begins to manhandle the urn towards the hole, struggling to drag itover the loose rocks. At the edge of the hole, they grip the wide neck of the pitcher and begin to lower it into the ground. A gust of wind whips sand into the figure's eyes and they lose their grip suddenly, the urn falling sharply the last metre or so before falling onto its side at the bottom of the hole.

The figure quickly regains its composure and looks down anxiously at the urn. It appears undamaged, its contents still safely sealed within.

Grabbing the hoe, the figure sets to work once again, scraping the loose earth back over the pitcher to the mournful cry of the desert wind. It is an apt accompaniment for a sorrowful interment. For the times have become dangerous, when the true teachings of the Nazarene are threatened with eradication by the preachers of a new gospel of propitiation and politics. A time when writings other than those endorsed by sham councils and imperial edict are burned and forgotten.

The figure stands slowly upright as they finish levelling out the dirt. Their eyes are wet with tears. It is a difficult day. But this is another Golgotha. And after three days, everyone knows the sorrow of that dark Friday was turned to resurrection victory and joy.

The wind whines its morbid chorale as the lone figure strides off into the desert, vanishing in the shimmering haze. However long it takes, one day Sunday will dawn again.