the early days

I have this crystal clear image in my head, of he week after Jesus' ascension--most of the lesser followers leaving, in ones or in pairs, making their goodbyes fondly and saying in an apologetic tone, my family, my fields, my household, I'm needed elsewhere--

(not one of them says, Jesus is gone, there is nothing more here. It is time to wake, and rise, and return to the lives we were living before this dream, this insanity seized us. It was always going to end. None of them say it, but it is implied, it is in their voices, unspoken.)

and then it's just--this group of fifteen or so men and women in the upper room, Peter and James, Andrew and John, Mary Magdalene and Mary of Nazareth, Martha and Mary and Lazarus of Bethany. Those few who were with him from the beginning, who saw, who witnessed. (There are gaps, in their assembly--the head of the table sits empty, from one prophet lost twice to them, and one seat a little further down, ignominiously left empty.)

(the body had been delivered to them for burial, the rope still around his neck. James had made a wordless sound of rage and bloodied his knuckles on the wall, cracking the clay. Susanna had wept.)

What do we do now? Mary Magdalene asks Peter, as they wave off the last of the followers. Peter is older than when she first met him, grey threading through his beard--he has a wife, she knows. Children. A stake in his family's business.

We go back, I suppose, he answers wearily.

Is it so simple? John asks, his own voice quiet. Can any of us go back, after this? After--seeing and knowing what we have?

What else is there? Andrew says.

Go and teach all nations, Mary Magdalene says. At their stares, she shrugs. Well, he did say.

Teach them what? James asks.

There's a long silence as they stare at one another, waiting for some answer. Suddenly, Philip laughs. Do you remember when he convinced Peter to walk on water, and he panicked and started sinking? he asks with a sly smile.

There is a low rumble of laughter, even from Peter, who smiles good-naturedly. Remember the fishes and loaves? he asks. I don't think I've ever seen the Master look so pleased.

And suddenly they are full of stories, remembering and laughing, recalling the wisdom he taught them in parables, to make it easy to swallow, and--that's how it starts, really. All of them in the upper room, putting it into words for the first time and remembering, long into the night.

They never go back.