jealousy on her account, for the Lord had opened Heaven to those who became as little children.
“… from the oppression of the flame which surrounded me,” Joachim read from the Book of Wisdom, “and in the midst of the fire I was not burnt …” Dietrich gave silent thanks for their deliverance from the fires three days before. Only Rudolf Pforzheimer had died. His aged heart had stopped when the
elektronik
essence had been at its thickest.
Dietrich shifted the book to the other side of the altarand read from the Gospel of Matthew, concluding, “If any man will come after me, let him take what he has and give it to the poor.”
Joachim cried, “Amen.”
“Na, Theresia,” he said as he closed the book, and she sat back on her heels to listen with a guileless smile. “Only a few feasts possess a Vigil-Night. Why is St. Laurence among them?” Theresia shook her head, which meant she did remember, but preferred that Dietrich tell her.
“A few days since, we remembered Pope Sixtus II, who was killed by the Romans while praying Mass in the catacombs. Sixtus had seven deacons. Four were killed at the Mass with him and two others were hunted down and killed the same day. That is why we say, ‘Sixtus and his companions.’ Laurence was the last of the deacons, and eluded capture for several days. Sixtus had given him the possessions of the Church for safekeeping—including, so they say, the cup from which Our Lord drank at the Last Supper and which the Popes had used at Mass until then. These he had distributed to the poor. When the Romans found him and ordered him to hand over ‘all the wealth of the Church,’ Laurence took them into the hovels of the city and showed them the poor, declaring—”
“There
is the wealth of the Church!” Theresia cried and clapped her hands together. “Oh, I love that story!”
“Would that more Popes and bishops,” Joachim murmured, “loved it as much.” Then, seeing himself heard, he continued more forcefully: “Remember what Matthew wrote of the camel and the needle’s eye! Someday, O woman, artisans may fashion a singularly large needle. Somewhere in far Arabia may live an exceedingly small camel. Yet if we take the Master’s words at their least meaning, it is this: Wealthy lords and bishops—those who dine at groaning tables, who sit their asses on satin pillows—are not our moral guides. Look to the simple carpenter! And look to Laurence, who knew where true treasure lay—where thief cannot steal nor mice consume. Blessed are the poor! Blessed are the poor!”
Ejaculations like that had put Joachim’s order in deep disfavor. The Conventuals had disavowed their brothers in the face of it, but the Spirituals would not hold their tongues. Some had burned; some had fled to the Kaiser for protection. How much better, Dietrich thought, to escape notice entirely. He raised his eyes to heaven, and something seemed to move among the candle-sent shadows in the rafters and vises in the clerestory. A bird, perhaps.
“But poverty is not merit enough,” Dietrich cautioned Theresia. “Many a gärtner in his hut loves riches more than does a generous and open-handed lord. It is the desire and not the possession that diverts us from the straight path. There is good and ill in any besitting.” Before Joachim could dispute the point, he added, “Ja, the rich man finds it more difficult to see Christ because the glitter of the gold dazzles his eyes; but never forget that it is the man that sins and not the gold.”
He returned to the altar to finish the Mass, and Joachim took the bread and wine from the credence table and followed him. Theresia handed him a basket of herbs and roots that she had gathered and Joachim brought those to the altar, too. Then, since he had received only the lesser orders, the Minorite stood aside. Dietrich spread his arms wide and recited a prayer for the offerings. “Orátio mea …”
Theresia took all in with the same simplicity with
“… from the oppression of the flame which surrounded me,” Joachim read from the Book of Wisdom, “and in the midst of the fire I was not burnt …” Dietrich gave silent thanks for their deliverance from the fires three days before. Only Rudolf Pforzheimer had died. His aged heart had stopped when the
elektronik
essence had been at its thickest.
Dietrich shifted the book to the other side of the altarand read from the Gospel of Matthew, concluding, “If any man will come after me, let him take what he has and give it to the poor.”
Joachim cried, “Amen.”
“Na, Theresia,” he said as he closed the book, and she sat back on her heels to listen with a guileless smile. “Only a few feasts possess a Vigil-Night. Why is St. Laurence among them?” Theresia shook her head, which meant she did remember, but preferred that Dietrich tell her.
“A few days since, we remembered Pope Sixtus II, who was killed by the Romans while praying Mass in the catacombs. Sixtus had seven deacons. Four were killed at the Mass with him and two others were hunted down and killed the same day. That is why we say, ‘Sixtus and his companions.’ Laurence was the last of the deacons, and eluded capture for several days. Sixtus had given him the possessions of the Church for safekeeping—including, so they say, the cup from which Our Lord drank at the Last Supper and which the Popes had used at Mass until then. These he had distributed to the poor. When the Romans found him and ordered him to hand over ‘all the wealth of the Church,’ Laurence took them into the hovels of the city and showed them the poor, declaring—”
“There
is the wealth of the Church!” Theresia cried and clapped her hands together. “Oh, I love that story!”
“Would that more Popes and bishops,” Joachim murmured, “loved it as much.” Then, seeing himself heard, he continued more forcefully: “Remember what Matthew wrote of the camel and the needle’s eye! Someday, O woman, artisans may fashion a singularly large needle. Somewhere in far Arabia may live an exceedingly small camel. Yet if we take the Master’s words at their least meaning, it is this: Wealthy lords and bishops—those who dine at groaning tables, who sit their asses on satin pillows—are not our moral guides. Look to the simple carpenter! And look to Laurence, who knew where true treasure lay—where thief cannot steal nor mice consume. Blessed are the poor! Blessed are the poor!”
Ejaculations like that had put Joachim’s order in deep disfavor. The Conventuals had disavowed their brothers in the face of it, but the Spirituals would not hold their tongues. Some had burned; some had fled to the Kaiser for protection. How much better, Dietrich thought, to escape notice entirely. He raised his eyes to heaven, and something seemed to move among the candle-sent shadows in the rafters and vises in the clerestory. A bird, perhaps.
“But poverty is not merit enough,” Dietrich cautioned Theresia. “Many a gärtner in his hut loves riches more than does a generous and open-handed lord. It is the desire and not the possession that diverts us from the straight path. There is good and ill in any besitting.” Before Joachim could dispute the point, he added, “Ja, the rich man finds it more difficult to see Christ because the glitter of the gold dazzles his eyes; but never forget that it is the man that sins and not the gold.”
He returned to the altar to finish the Mass, and Joachim took the bread and wine from the credence table and followed him. Theresia handed him a basket of herbs and roots that she had gathered and Joachim brought those to the altar, too. Then, since he had received only the lesser orders, the Minorite stood aside. Dietrich spread his arms wide and recited a prayer for the offerings. “Orátio mea …”
Theresia took all in with the same simplicity with
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