Nostalgia, regret and the memory of meadows
As Jesus made his long journey down to Jerusalem , anticipating there the final clash of worlds, I wonder if he brooded nostalgically over the pungent smell of sandalwood, the heft of a hammer in his hand, the vision of his father bent over a block of sycamore planing it to a smooth, aromatic finish. Did he long to feel again the warmth of his mother's hand on his forehead, her quiet movements around the house as she prepared the evening meal? As he lay awake at night, did he long for the countryside of his youth, the hills and valleys around Nazareth where he spent long summer days of discovery with friends, the beach days skipping stones on the sparkling surface of the Sea of Galilee? For what was Jesus nostalgic, what did he long to retrieve when he cried out in agony in Gethsemane, “ Abba , Father, everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me.” It comes as no surprise that age longs for youth, that the river imagines brilliant, sparkling mounta...