what keeps the light

The cart bumped through the lane’s deep ruts as it climbed, the old man it carried experiencing every trembling shake and jolt, expecting at any moment that an axle would break or a wheel loosened by hours of rough road would free itself and roll down the long hill from whence they came. But as it crested the hill, he uttered Mein Gott when he saw the mountains in the distance, patches of the spring green leaves of elm and oak dotted among the veridian conifers.

Though sickly and weak, he propped himself up on his elbows and cried out, Bitte hör auf! and the driver turned to look at him before yanking the reins. The mule did not stop immediately, stubbornly dragging the cart a few more yards into the wheat field at the lane’s edge where it began to nibble the yarrow blossoming amidst the green stalks.

Eyes wet with tears, the old man pushed himself into a sitting position and tried to rub the circulation back into his legs. He wished to get out of the cart to walk into the spring wheat overlooking the valley below and gaze one final time at the beckoning foothills of the range poking above the morning mists, but feared his legs would not hold him upright.

Instead, he whispered a prayer of thanks and when the driver looked at him with a question in his eyes, he smiled back and said hoarsely, Gott ist gut, and forgave himself the longing he felt for those things he could never do or have again. The driver nodded and crossed himself.

Hearing the beating of many horses’ hooves, he looked back down the lane and saw a group of riders moving rapidly toward him. Rome has a long reach, he thought sadly as they slowed to a canter, the lead rider's attention directed unequivocally toward him.

...

Two months before the Pope had sat unattended on the papal throne in Avignon, France, in fervent prayer. So he appeared, his head bowed, eyes closed and his lips moving silently. His aquiline nose shaded his upper lip in the room's poor lighting and the deep lines defining his cheeks ran parallel with the ones twisting his mouth into a perpetual frown.

In truth, he brooded more than he prayed. The monastic orders' squabbles over church doctrine and their competing ideologies had reached a tipping point and the clergy was in sorry disarray. His personal opposition to the Franciscan understanding and practice of the poverty of Christ had led William of Ockham to publicly condemn unlimited papal power.

Against the Vicar of Christ! Against Me!

And the lone light in all of the maddening firmament of chaos and gloom stood accused of heretical teaching by the Archbishop of Cologne. If the unfortunate accused had been a Franciscan or even a Benedictine, the Pope would have approved and rallied the commission for a swift and decisive verdict.

But a Dominican theologian? The finest mind of this age? Unthinkable!

The Holy Roman emperor, he thought angrily, is much to blame in this. The spread of mystical heresies from this Bavarian branch We must cleave from its festering root. The faith beset at every turn, that celestial pretender hast even appointed an anti-Pope in Rome.

How many times had he heard the complaints that Friar's in Teutonia were leading their simple congregants into error? He had hoped the inquisition and the Archbishop of Cologne would quietly resolve the matter, but the accused rejected the authority of both and had appealed to him. Now Eckhart was His problem. The Pope established a commission of theologians and cardinals, and their pronouncements lay rolled up in his lap.

But he did not wish to create yet another heretic martyr, for Eckhart was popular with the laity. He needed a middle solution and waited impatiently for the one man who might provide a useful answer and with the courage to act upon it.

When his visitor was announced, the Pope finally opened his eyes and gestured for him to enter.

Enrico, well met! he exclaimed and then passed him the scroll while his visitor yet paid obeisance.

Raising his head, Enrico grasped and unrolled the scroll, his dark eyes darting through the document before regarding the Pope with concern in his earnest gaze.

We must not give up the poor wretch to execution, Holiness, at least not so publicly at the stake or on the gallows. The distracted multitudes hang on his every word.

But what prevention?

Free him to depart unmolested ... though … it might be expedient that one might die than the whole of the faith languishes into heresy. Perhaps God in His benefice and mercy shall lead the meister to the destruction merited by his apostasy. A fatal encounter with deadly brigands on his long journey back to Cologne, perchance? The roads are quite treacherous, your Holiness.

But Enrico ... he did not recant. He must recant! Then he shalt not die apostate.

*In agro dominico. Include the heretical statements in the Papal bull but at its conclusion remind the clergy that Eckhart recanted before his tragic death, and therefore not condemned a heretic nor denied entry to his heavenly reward.

The poor man is much wrinkled with a spotted and jaundiced complexion, your Holiness, a little longer only shalt he live his doctor has assured me.

Hmmm. As you say ... let him go. Draft the bull and I will sign on the morrow. Peace go with you, Enrico.

He bows, Your Holiness.

...

But the accused had not waited for the commission's decision. He knew he would soon die and wished to see his homeland before meeting his maker.

Though his return travels were trying and overlong, Eckhart managed to live long enough to enter Southern Westphalia where he saw again in the distance the mountains of home.

But as the riders slowed to a stop, he muttered Here are my executioners.

The first dismounted and approached him in a friendly manner before addressing him, *Deus bonus est, Johannes. Nomen meum est, Pater Enrico.

Deus bonus est, Pater.

Turning to the driver the priest smiled and placed a gold coin into his hand. *Lass mich dir für deine Mühe bezahlen! Then he and another dismounted rider lifted Eckhart out of the cart and held him steady as the driver snapped the reins and the mule ambled back into the lane and slowly down the hill.

Can you stand and walk, Johannes? the priest asked kindly.

A little.

Refresh yourself with some wine, the priest said while extending a leather bag toward Eckhart’s lips.

I have mine own … he began, weakly pointing at the retreating cart before dropping his arm in surrender. Let me catch my breath, he finally whispered, wishing to delay the moment of poisoning a little longer. Such a beautiful morning, he murmured with a sigh.

They moved slowly into the wheat, their arms under his shoulders to keep the old man steady before gently lowering him to the earth in the green grain. The priest extended the wine bag a second time, but Eckhart turned his head away. *Lass mich hier ein wenig ausruhen, he muttered, lapsing into his mother tongue.

The priest smiled, pulling the wine away, A little longer. Perchance we might speak together on matters of the faith. Do thou believest as some do, that man can reason himself to a knowledge of God?

I apprehend the world with reason, but God with faith.

But do we truly know God or rather of him as reason suggests?

Christ hast taught that if we have but the faith of a mustard seed, the smallest of all of them, we might command of this mountain, cast thyself into the sea and it must obey. How much more might we know Him with this self-same faith than merely of him?

I would enjoy disputing with thee further, but I have delayed this moment overlong my dear Johannes, to take thy final confession that thou may recant for the surety of your immortal soul.

Eckhart grunts dismissively. You do not know of that which you speak, Father. The only thing of mine that will burn in Hell are the parts of me I can't let go; my memories, my attachments. Hell burns them all away. But this is not punishment. Oh, no. It will free my soul.

The priest holds up for Eckhart's weary gaze the bag of wine. This wine was made with an ancient recipe of the Greeks. Have you heard of the Eleusinian Mysteries?

Eleusinian lies.

The Dionysus revelers who drank this wine saw the world as it truly is, all its lies stripped away, their eyes open as if scales had fallen from them. Sometimes they witnessed Persephone in all her glory. This eucharist is the *pharmakon athanasias, it is mixture of wine and ergot from contaminated wheat. But when the wine is improperly prepared the ergot drives thee mad before the killing of thee.

Thou have told lies about God, Johannes. If thou do not recant before I serve this final communion, whatever visions thou behold, whether the Godhead or leviathan, thou shalt awaken in the flames and sulfur of the nether world and gnash thine teeth with the desire to repent thy crimes over late.

I am absolved; my heart is true. Thou pretend an authority that God hast granted thee not. My lips are clean even if thou soil them with a wicked and false eucharist.

Then it is time, Johannes. The priest kissed him on the cheek.

Time is what keeps the light from reaching us, Judas. Feebly, Eckhart took the wine from the priest's grasp and drank long and deeply.

When the mourners viewed Meister Eckhart's body the following Sabbath, each remarked on the beatific expression gracing his features, many believing he had finally beheld his Lord face to face.

But what wonders he witnessed whence he crossed the tenuous bridge to the undiscovered country we can only dream.

...

*English translations from the German, Latin and Greek:

Mein Gott - My God

Bitte hör auf - Please stop

Gott ist gut - God is good

In agro dominico - in the Lord's field; often used in the context of papal documents

Deus bonus est, Johannes. Nomen meum est, Pater Enrico - God is good, John. My name is Father Henry

Lass mich dir für deine Mühe bezahlen - Let me pay you for your trouble

Lass mich hier ein wenig ausruhen - Let me rest here a little while

pharmakon athanasias - the immortality drug

Author's Note: Although Meister Eckhart, Pope John XXII and William of Ockham were real historical figures, this is a work of fiction. Anyone who reads me regularly should know by now to never take anything a serial fibber like myself writes as gospel. How Meister Eckhart died is unknown.

The quote, Time is what keeps the light from reaching us, is Eckhart's.

The following lines are a loose paraphrase of Eckhart's views on the purpose of Hell for the believer: The only thing of mine that will burn in Hell is the part of me I can't let go; my memories, my attachments. Hell burns them all away. But this is not punishment. Oh, no. It will free my soul.