N
azareth did not fit. An independent-minded community, it was looked upon with some scorn by stricter Jews. Independence is perhaps, a euphemism. Anomaly would be more to the point. The life and attitudes there disturbed the religious climate owing to its adherence to its own way of thinking and doing things. The religious climate did not disturb the residents of Nazareth. The residents took a perverse pride in being different which, of course, annoyed the religious leadership in Jerusalem. Nazareth was a creature unto itself. A rogue community. It lay outside the mainstream of Israelite life. Except for several main trade routes that ran near the town, it may have well been left to itself, outcast and alone. Situated midway between the Sea of Galilee and Mt. Carmel just south of both, the village lay along the slopes of the lower hills of the Lebanon range quietly overlooking a spreading plain.
Less than an hour’s walk from Nazareth a clear, cold spring seeped through a precipitous embankment and formed a pool. Surrounded by trees that gave shade, moss, fern and lilies flourished. In evening hours, familiar and incessant sounds of small creatures announced the creeping softness of approaching silence. Here, morning wetness and gentle mists greeted opening dawn. Here sunlight danced in innumerable droplets of condensation. Here in the afternoons she came.
Mary’s place. A solitary place where she came when she felt the need for quiet, for meditation, for closeness with God. Here in late afternoon, she smiled at bright butterflies bouncing in puffs of gentle summer zephyrs. A small beauty with blue streaks in butter-yellow wings lighted upon her hand as if stopping to gossip. She wondered at the bees buzzing above blossoms, legs heavy with pollen. She herself spread upon the grass gazing at the giant white cumulus thinking about how it would be to soar among them like the eagle, or imagining their shapes with things that were familiar to her. “That one looks like old uncle Elimelech,” she laughed. And here, in early morning or evening hours she came to pray. This place, hidden in the hills, her sanctuary.
Dew mantled the meadow, glistening as crystal. Evening airs still and cool. She stood where the slopes fell sharply to the Plain of Esrdraelon, watching lights below reflected in the deepening panoply above, the light of day fleeing to the place opposing from whence it will come in the morning. Waters from the spring gurgle into a pool so clear it seems invisible, trickling down lush slopes forming a watershed quenching the thirsts of caravans on Roman roads below. She must return home soon. Her parents will worry.
Still lights twinkling in the valley plain and in the deepening vault above. Sweet Jasmine smells. The urgency of parental concern flitted about her consciousness tugging at her thoughts, her compulsive desire to stay in this place. “Oh God,” her heart exclaimed, “Let me live here forever.” She did not expect an answer, but one came. How sweet to speak to God in your heart and have him answer there. How utterly exquisite. How comforting the peace. How intimate the moment. How inestimable to hear your name upon his lips.
“Mary.”
The man simply appeared. He had not approached by foot. She had heard no one coming and surely she would have heard. He appeared there as if he had come before her, waiting for her. But she had not seen him. Or heard him. She was afraid. She wanted to flee but her legs would not move. He made no attempt to touch her. He just stood there, looking at her as if . . . as if it were she and not he, who had suddenly and mysteriously appeared, as if it were she who were the apparition to be feared, as if she, not he, were the subject of awe.
What beautiful eyes; Mary thought without fear. He spoke, “Be comforted, child.” He appeared to be about ten years her senior. Not a man of ancient years, although he was. Not a man of maturity and command, although he was that, too. He bore no semblance of opulence, no airs, no attitude of superiority or elitism. He was simply a man, neatly attired, unspectacular, unassuming. Yet, intuitively Mary knew. This was no ordinary man. “God has chosen you above all women, Mary,” he said quietly. He waited while the soft sound of the brook splashed and rippled. It was an appropriate sound, making itself heard with poignant moment. “In this you are highly honored. You are favored as no other.” The magnitude of this simple declaration did not register.
“I . . . I do not understand,” she stammered. “Who are you?” What are you? Unanswered, his eyes danced with the twilight. He smiled. Whatever anxiety may have stalked her, retreated, replaced with expectancy. Why have you come? A question of thought, reluctant to make it way to her tongue.
Sensing her intuitiveness he said, “I have splendid news for you, child.” He spoke to her as a father, yet he was not. He waited. He wanted her to hunger, to seek, to demand what he had to say. It did not take long.
Please! She begged, peremptorily.
