The Pessimist - a Midrash of Sorts

I would like to preface this story with a story.  Many years ago I was privileged to participate in a Writers' Workshop at Vancouver School of Theology led by the award winning author Madeleine L'Engle.  I was one of the fortunate few who were selected to have our work critiqued by Madeleine.  During the week we were given an assignment to create some midrash stories, by which Ms. L'Engle meant a story that expanded or grew out of a part of scripture. The intent of such a story was to comment on the scripture passage, to explore more deeply the meaning of the Biblical words through our own words. What follows is one of the stories written for this midrashic exercise.  As I was typing up this story from the original handwritten copy I came across Madeleine's lovely written comment at the end "I'm glad you followed your story."  I'm glad I was able to have Madeleine's inspiration to move me along. I dug out this story to use at this month's Mysterium gathering. I reworked it a bit (re-writing is a big part of writing according to Ms. L'Engle), and now I share it with you, my blog readers.

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The Pessimist

I like to call myself a practical pessimist. It’s better to be on guard against silly, false hope, than to get caught off guard – only to end up disappointed and disillusioned. Philip, my friend from Bethsaida, says I’m getting more like my father everyday. I’m not sure I like that. My father is the great grump of the marketplace - always predicting a poor catch of fish, or trade merchants who will steal us blind, or messiahs that will lead us to our deaths. It seems no one pays any attention to him anymore. Perhaps Philip is right, and I am turning into a killjoy like my father – but I can’t help it, I fear being disappointed again.

Yes, you heard right, again.  I once had high hopes, I once loved a young woman from my town. Her father talked to my father, and everything was set. When I was allowed to visit with her I could tell that her love for me was growing as strong as my desire for her. The future looked promising - a lovely wife, a good job – you see I was an apprentice to a successful merchant who had no family of his own.  Things looked so positive for my personal future that I could even put up with the Romans. But now I hate them, I despise their presence. They are like a sickness that infects our land, a sickness like the one that took my betrothed from me.

Her death sealed my fate. I vowed I would never again hope for a good future, I would live out the rest of my life without expecting much. I know that sounds harsh, but to live in such a way dulled my pain a little and kept me from further hurt.

I found it hard to be around people – happy, hopeful people – their joy rang in my ears and gave me headaches. So more and more often I found myself sitting alone in the garden on the edge of our town. It is a quiet place, and I could enjoy the shade of the fig trees in the heat of the day.

One day when I was sitting under my favourite tree in the garden, thinking about nothing really, Philip ran up to me.  “Here you are” he said while catching his breath, “I’ve been looking all over for you. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

I feared that Philip was trying to play match-maker, and that he had lined up some woman who was the daughter of a friend of a friend of his mother’s, and who is of age to marry.  Ach! I could almost hear the well-meaning voices: “What about poor Nathaniel?  He’s so lonely. He needs a good woman, that will cure his woes… Such a sad thing, to lose his betrothed like that, but one must move on, get on with life. The official period of mourning is long over…  He needs is a wife!  Who is available? Ah yes! Jezreel’s daughter…” and so on.  I didn’t want their help, I just wanted to be left alone.

All this flashed through my head as Philip extended his invitation to me, and thus I was naturally hesitant. “Who is this person that I should disturb my peace to go and meet?” I demanded.

“The promised one, a prophet from Nazareth!” he said excitedly, his face beaming.

“Ridiculous” I thought, and I told him so.  He should have known better, no where in the Holy Scriptures is Nazareth ever mentioned. Surely this was another false messiah, and that’s the last thing I wanted to go chasing after – false hope.

Philip, however, would not be dissuaded. “Well, if you won’t believe me, your good friend, at least come and see for yourself” he said.

“Well, at least it isn’t a woman that he thinks I should meet… and I am rather bored just sitting here, so maybe – just for fun – I’ll tag along” I thought. No hopes raised, no expectations - except to poke fun at Philip’s new found prophet.

I never got the chance. As soon as we came within sight of this Nazarene he said “Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!”  That made me stop, was he talking about me?  How does he know what I’m like?  So I asked, “How do you know anything about me?”

“I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you” the prophet said.  That simple reply changed everything.  All the pessimistic protection I had surrounded myself with shattered. This Nazarene somehow knew me.  In his words I sensed he understood my loneliness and fear.  How could he have known these things?  Unless… perhaps, yes possibly, he is the promised one. Hope began to soak back into my dried soul, and I have been following the Christ ever since.

(See John 1:43-51 for the Biblical story this fictional work grew out of.)