Ghostly friend in God, thou shalt understand that I find, in my boisterous beholding, four degrees and forms of Christian men's living: and they be these, Common, Special, Singular, and Perfect. Three of these may be begun and ended in this life; and the fourth may by grace be begun here, but it shall ever last without end in the bliss of heaven.
— 14th century Christian mystic
Shadows on the wall dance in syncopation with the flickering of lamps I have spread before me. I have several, you see. My eyes are failing somewhat and the light they provide enable me to the write with legibility, if not clarity. The shadows have become friends. They seem alive and energized with silent force, watching me write words that speak of him. It is about all there is left that I can do. Once I held forth in preaching and teaching. Once men listened to me instruct them of him. Some were important men, supposedly. Governors. Senators. Others appointed to high office by Rome. But no more. I speak no more. I am applauded and appreciated by crowds — no more.
I confess to you however, that I am not bitter. I can say that without rancor and in honesty with myself. Admittedly, I often long for another platform, especially when I hear others speak, some better, most worse than I did. I am ashamed to say that I am truly fond of the plaudits, of the well-wishers, of the expressions of gratitude. But they are gone now and it is not constructive to dwell on such memories, not to speak of useless.
I have a new profession now: word craft. As you will see in a moment, I make a passable effort at it. I love to find just the precise word to express meaning, feeling and intelligence. Just reading the word itself will produce a quality of pleasure or pain. I know, because I read and re-read these words myself, desiring to choose even a better word, a more eloquent phrase, a paragraph potentate. In this reading and re-reading, I often weep.
Perhaps you will see my love of words as a distraction; a toy with which I play. Perhaps you will think I presume too much. Some of the words are obscure, or even opaque. They will prove an annoyance to you. Forgive me. Do not let this weakness of letters destroy your enjoyment of this narrative. I mean you no harm. I do not use them to annoy or alienate you. I merely want my reader to enjoy the pleasure they bring. And if by God’s eternal grace they engender closeness with him, then I have chosen well.
The words I write tell of him. There are no words, in any language, quite up to this task. Words written of him are holy, set apart from the usual concourse of words. And as this scribbling chronicles his life, I deeply sense that it is not I who scratches away beneath the shadows in some lonely vigil, but some Other. Whether my sensing is true or not, I do not know. He has not chosen to let me know that I speak for him. But I can tell you this: from the day I first encountered him, from that day until this, from that day until the hour of my last breath on this earth, I am his servant, if he will have me. If not, then I spend my life wishing to be.
I clearly am not selected to be among his choicest servants, although I knew him from the beginning. From the day I saw with my own eyes the feathered embodiment of the Spirit light upon him, I knew that I must follow him. I must be with him. I knew then that I would rather perish than be without him. It is an amazing consternation to me that such devotion can be affirmed or disenfranchised by the casting of lots. But so it was. And so it is. So now, I comfort myself with words.
-- Joseph, bar Sabbas, called Justus
