by Paulette Callen
“…and He was with the wild beasts…”
He went into the wilderness to fast and pray. After forty days and nights they came as He knew they would and hoped they would not: fears, doubts, desires, despair. His humanness raged within Him. He cried for humanity and for Himself. He fought a human battle with only human weapons.
Ragged and weary, in unproud triumph, He lies in sand, awash in wind and sun, asleep. They come, one by one, and gather, silent as Quakers and just as full: the beasts.
No angel, Jew, or Gentile, but the lion stands in ageing majesty, against the sun — a cool shadow for His rest. Pariah dogs, lupine, devoted, he on one side, she on the other, lick His face clean of tears and sweat, awakening Him to wolfy grins. The lizard, kaleidoscoping green and brown and rose, scuttles into the shelter of His sleeve, while the locust, God’s soldier, flutters to His knee to rest, all pink and glowing in the sunset. The vulture with feathers tucked modestly beneath her like a taffeta skirt, sits, a gleaming black matron, beside the school-girl dove who has followed Him and watched over Him since His cousin’s watery blessing. The snake, pretty and sleek, coils humbly, contentedly, at His feet, shining like a jewel in the light of the rising moon. The ram, escaped from the safety and bloody end of the flock — gone wild, gone free — stands serene, blinking in the twilight. A desert rat, soft and brown, climbs into His lap, puts tiny feet up on His chest to examine Him, close, with earnest dark eyes and snuffling nostrils. Satisfied all is well with Him now, she scurries away on a private mission. The jackal, shying among the shadows, He calls into the circle.
Who knows the mind of a beast or the mind of God? Who can tell what flows between?
The lion weeps as He strokes his shagged and scary face. Gripping the grizzled mane, He rises, and they lead Him to water. The rat erupts from a tiny dune with figs for His nourishment from a personal trove. Refreshed, He plays with them. The dogs, wiggling, eager for games, play tag with Him. The ram joins in. The vulture and the dove, silhouetted against the moon, dance and dive to His applause, as the lizard somersaults in miraculous circles between earth and sky. The locust clings to His shoulder, informally keeping score. And the snake, rising in her delicate spiral, sways in soundless harmony to the rhythm of their play. The jackal chuckles, sprawled like a pup on the sand, belly up, feet akimbo, giving in to the joys of the romp. Even the lion remembers some kittenish glee in a mock wrestle with this gentle man.
I thought I heard an echo of something said at a place in the desert a long time ago, where a man went to find Himself and finally, breaking His solitude before His fast, sought the company of animals. Why He did this is not so hard to fathom. Why does anyone seek the company of animals? For refreshment and companionship. Perhaps this man had deeper reasons.
The echo I hear is this:
No more scapegoats, my friends. No more sacrifices. No more blood of the lamb on the altar stone. No more dead pigeons. No more an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I AM the eye. I AM the tooth. Humans are a blood-loving race. (The earth has never cried for blood, nor the heavens either.) Their hunger and thirst for flesh and blood shall be sated. I AM become you. And this is the beginning of the end.
And so, the lion wept.
They came, across miles, some of them, and formed a gathering: the lion, the ram, the jackal, and the locust, the lizard, pariah dogs, the snake, the vulture, the dove (she had never left Him), and the small brown rat….. they were there, on the misty heels of the angel who rolled away the stone, before the Marys, to greet Him in quiet, doubt-less welcome, when He walked out of the tomb.
Paulette Callen has returned to her home state of South Dakota in retirement, after 30+ years in New York City. Varying degrees of culture shock in both directions — but always, the space she returned to has been made home by a dog.