A CATHOLIC GIRL’S PASSION
(In Search of the Apostles after Calgary)
by Maria Concepcion Panlilio
“The Twelve Apostles belong to the realm of mythology, and their alleged martyrdoms are pure inventions,” said Dr. Kuenen, and other Dutch Theologians. Do you believe it?
I am neither a theologian, nor a Bible historian. I am only a simple Catholic girl with a lingering passion and endless curiosity about the fate of the Apostles after Jesus died. And what of the Three Kings? What happened to them after they visited with the Holy Family? I want to know this, and more. The Bible doesn’t give all the answers; therefore, I search ecclesiastical traditions, books, the Internet, and maybe you, for guidance.
Yes, this is my personal mission. First and foremost, to discover the facts, myths and legends surrounding the Apostles. For example, after the resurrection of Jesus, Apostle Thomas, also known as Doubting Thomas, The Wanderer, and Didyman (twin), went to Babylon and several other eastern countries as far as China. He established churches, preached the Gospel of the Lord, and converted many people to Christianity. He settled in India, where he was martyred in A.D.72. His persecutors chased him to the hill where he prayed (now known as St. Thomas Mount), and stabbed him to death with a lance. His body was brought to Mylapore and buried inside the Santhome Church that he built himself. One legend says that Magi Gaspar lived and died at about the same time, and was buried in the same place.
Today, Thomas is revered as a saint in both the Roman Catholic Church, the Eastern Orthodox, and in the Oriental Orthodox Church. In 2002, the 1,950th anniversary of St Thomas’ arrival in Kerala, India, was celebrated by the Sryo-Malabar church.
If I can survive reading all the assaults on Jesus and his Apostles, and the condemnations on Christianity, I hope to complete this project by Christmas. On a happier note, below is a delightful short story written by Timothy O’Fallon. (The story, based on a longer piece entitled The Angels, is a tribute to the slain children of Bethlehem.) Enjoy!
The Magi’s Last Journey
The Condemned Man opened his eyes in the midst of his prayers. Could he have imagined the greeting of his old friend?
“Hello?” the kindly voice repeated. “Why is your door barred? Why haven’t you been to the village lately? Where are you?”
“I am here,” said the Condemned Man through a hole in the cave wall. “You should leave, old friend. It is dangerous for you to be here. The killers who have sought me for months have found me, and could murder me at any moment. This is why the door is barred!”
“I see,” said the old man. “Then I think I’ll take a nap.”
“No,” said the Condemned Man, fearing that his captors would only kill the old man if they found him asleep outside. To keep the old man awake, he said, “Instead, would you tell me a story?” He could almost see the old man’s eyes light up.
“Story? What kind of story?”
“Tell me of the time when you first met the Lord.” He knew it was the old man’s favorite story to tell. It was the story that made him a celebrity.
“Oh, that old story! You have heard it a thousand times! Haven’t you? Or did I forget to tell you?”
“I would love to hear it again, old friend.”
After pausing for a moment, the old man began to tell the story of his search for the Mighty King.
People called me wise. I knew about the soul and how the spirit world could reveal the destiny of nations in the stars. Once, I noticed a star that I hadn’t noticed before. I studied what it might mean, and determined that a powerful spirit had entered the world. It could be the event of a thousand lifetimes! I divined that this event had taken place in a land far to the west, so I chose immediately to make the journey. I loaded down my servants with supplies and gifts for the mighty King I hoped to meet, and set off to the mainland.
I was not the only one who had seen this sign in the heavens. I met the others when I crossed the Arabian Sea. A large group of kings and religious men had bought every camel in the region! I found them, and was overjoyed that they were making the same journey. They too had seen the sign and were seeking the new King. They lent me some of their camels, and we journeyed together.
Of the friends I made, Baltazar was my closest companion–one of the youngest there, and the most enthusiastic! The only one I avoided was Melchior, a brooding and pessimistic sage. He wanted to prove to certain people at home that there was no truth to this sign, no great king in the West. He spent much time alone.
After many days, we calculated that the sign in the heavens was directing us to the coast of the Mediterranean, north of Egypt. We sent a message to King Herod, and he agreed to receive us. He knew nothing about any new King. Melchior was delighted, and had a good laugh at all the rest of us. I was disheartened, and dreaded the thought of returning home in my folly.
But Herod grew serious. He gathered his own religious experts to determine the birthplace of this new king. Apparently, the religion of these people promised a Messiah. When the local wise men named a town, my heart leapt with joy! Herod gave us free passage, and made us promise that if we found the king we would send word so he could also give the Messiah many gifts.
But we found no one in Bethlehem who knew anything about a king. After a week, we gave up and decided to go home. Melchior’s gloating was insufferable.
The night before we planned to leave, my fitful sleep was interrupted by a servant. Some local sheepherders wanted to speak with us. Reluctantly, I got up to hear what they had to say. They claimed to know where this King was staying, and in fact were present at his birth. They had this story of supernatural beings directing them to a stable, of all places, two years earlier. They considered themselves guardians of this family, but agreed to take us with them. The oldest of these men – a fellow by the name of Nehu – told us that only three of us could go, but that Melchior had already been chosen in his dream.
The rest of us groaned at that choice. Melchior only smirked. We tried to reason with the sheepherder, but he paid no heed to us. Finally, we cast lots to see who else could go, and as you guessed, I was one. Baltazar was the other, which made my heart very glad. But imagine my disappointment when Nehu laid a further condition on us: we were each to bring only one gift apiece. This was terrible after all we had brought with us. Melchior didn’t see why he had to bring anything. He took a gold cup offered by one of the other wise men. I brought some fine perfume thinking they were still living in a stable. Baltazar had a hard time choosing. Finally, he brought out a small box, but he did not tell anyone what it was.
The sheepherders brought us to some caves outside of town where the poorest lived. The mother welcomed us when we arrived that morning, and she used what little food she had to make us breakfast. The father was preparing to go to work in town. He was a builder. We tried to exchange pleasantries but we had no common language. Neither of the parents spoke Greek or anything else we knew. We noticed a manger in the middle of their small home, and through Nehu’s translation we asked about it. The mother smiled and said it was their son Y’shua’s first crib. I was aghast. Baltazar looked uncomfortable. Melchior was strangely quiet as he looked at it.
Suddenly, about a dozen small children came running into the small cave. They were shouting and laughing. The leader seemed to be a very young lad with dark, curly hair. To my surprise, they all came to me, tugging at my clothes, and wanting to play games. Astonished, I asked, “Which one of you is Y’shua?”
The little curly-headed boy walked right up to me and hugged my leg. Then he said in a voice so clear for one so young, “Thanks for coming to my house. Won’t you play with my angels?” He waved at the children.
I wondered who was filling this boy’s head with delusions of grandeur. I did stiffly tousle the hair of a few of the urchins. None of them had shoes, and they were all poking me and being somewhat more playful than I was accustomed to. I looked to Baltazar for help, but he was only laughing at me. The father then said something to Y’shua, who then spoke to his friends. They whined and complained a little, then filed out of the cave. The father said a blessing, and we all sat down to eat.
The child kept asking us all kinds of oddly perceptive questions. I answered him, though I was a little annoyed. Melchior kept quiet, and barely ate his food. I was convinced that the trip was a waste. We found a bright, engaging child, and there seemed to be some local legends about him, but he seemed so ordinary. We spent several hours there, and in that time all those other children came back. Although I like children, I felt overwhelmed. Baltazar must have been feeling the same, because he finally said, “We brought you gifts.”
Y’shua smiled, and told his angels to settle down. It was funny to watch the older children obey him, even though they teased him and tugged his hair and chased him like any other child.
“What did you bring me?” Y’shua asked.
I presented my gift to the mother, as was proper, and she thanked me very much. Melchior silently brought out his cup, and a few gold coins, which he had found in his tunic. Baltazar looked very worried, but reluctantly handed the small box to the mother. She gasped, and her eyes filled with tears, snapping the box shut. I had a glimpse of what was inside, and I must tell you that I was a little shocked. Baltazar had brought Myrrh, which as you know is used for embalming. We had brought some on our journey in case of any unexpected deaths. I was amazed that he would do such a thing. But Y’shua thanked us. He walked over to Baltazar, and gave him a kiss. Baltazar was bewildered, but kept silent.
Our parting was uncomfortable. We had come to find a king, and instead we found…well…an interesting family. Baltazar broke the ice with a quick bow, and both Melchior and I followed suit. Then, all the children jumped all over me again, and I couldn’t really say anything proper, as I was busy untangling myself. But the little boy, Y’shua, walked with us a few feet out of the cave. As we walked away, he said to us, “I’ll see you again!”
Disappointed, we returned to our caravan. Melchior stayed quiet, and the rest of us were thankful for the lack of gloating. We decided to depart in the morning.
In the night, we had a dream not to say anything at all to Herod. We decided to leave secretly. Baltazar went back to the cave to help the family with some kind of move. I bid him farewell. I never saw him again. I joined with Melchior, and a few others for the return journey. We escaped Judea, lamenting the failure of our mission. There was really nothing magical or divine about this child after all.
A few days later, during one of our worst laments, Melchior startled us with a shout. “Are you stupid?” he said. “Do you have any idea what you are talking about? There was a miracle right under your nose!” I protested that I saw no miracle, and he threw his hands up in frustration. “In what language did he speak to you?” he asked. I stammered, and answered that it was in my own dialect. “Well, I heard him in my own language. And I’ll bet Baltazar heard the child in his language. So there’s your sign, you blind fool!”
I was shocked. I hadn’t even thought about the language. Everything seemed so ordinary. But Melchior was right.
After a few hours, a messenger from another group who had gone a different way came running to us with evil news. Though the family we had met left for Egypt, Herod’s soldiers killed all male infants and toddlers remaining in Bethlehem. I wept bitterly for the children who played with me. Once again, I doubted the kingship of the child Y’shua. If he were divine, surely he could have saved his friends!
Melchior fell to his knees; his face streaked with tears. With trembling voice he said, “He is the one. Y’shua is the savior of the world. We found Him.” I did not understand at all. Melchior, gently and in a tone I had never heard before, said, “Remember how He called the other children my angels? He knew their time was short.”
Realization dawned on me. It was indeed a powerful sign.
I decided to become a Jew, and to try to follow the teachings of Y’shua’s religion. Since there were no synagogues in my own homeland, I came here to the mainland, and joined a Jewish community. I have lived here ever since, trying my best. And when you came, I stopped trying, and started living in grace.
After a long pause and an audible sigh, the old man continued. “That’s my love story. Are you sure I never told you that before?”
The Condemned Man spoke with a soft voice. “I never tire of hearing it.”
“Good. I need to go home, though. It is getting late. But do come to the village tomorrow. We miss your teachings so much, Thomas.”
“The Holy Spirit is the real Teacher, Gaspar,” said the Apostle.
Gaspar walked home, and the murderers did not try to stop him. But the walk was long, and the Wise Man stopped to rest under a tree. He closed his eyes to sleep, and fell into the deepest sleep of all.
At first he did not know what was happening. Light was all around him, and he thought he heard the sound of Melchior laughing merrily. There was music – such music! But then, he felt a tug on his arm.
There were several children all around him. They looked familiar. I am too old to play with you, he was going to say, but then he noticed that his arms were strong and his body was straight. Somehow, in this beautiful dream, he was young again! So he played with them. He played catch, and chase-the-calf, and tag, and all kinds of games he had never heard of. After a time, the children became still and just stood there giggling. Then Gaspar remembered them.
“The Angels! How beautiful you are! Tell me, where is your Friend?”
They pointed behind Gaspar. He turned around, and was face to face with the Son of Man. His hair was white as snow, His skin a burnished bronze, His eyes like burning coals…and on His face, a gentle smile. His arms were open in embrace.
Gaspar embraced Him, and whispered, “My goodness, how You’ve grown.”
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© Copyright 2007 writeartista (UN: mariapanlilio at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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