Tensing body and soul, the Abbot listened. From far in the distance came the howling of the wild game of the desert. The animals were not hungry; they were afraid. Close by, almost on top of them, a beast wrapped in fire and whirlwind bellowed and approached in the darkness. The Abbot listened to the voices of the desert and as he listened suddenly he shuddered and turned. Some invisible being had entered his cell! He looked. The seven flames of the candelabrum flickered turbulently and were on the point of going out; the nine strings of the harp, which was leaning unused in a corner, vibrated wildly, as though some invisible hand had seized them in a fury in order to snap them. The Abbot began to tremble.
“John,” he said softly, looking around him, “come here, close to me.”
The boy flew out of his corner and approached.
“Command me, Father,” he said, and he placed his knees on the ground, to prostrate himself.
“John, go and call the monks. I have something to tell them before I depart.”
“Before you depart, Father?”
The boy shuddered. Two large black wings, beating in back of the old man, had caught his eye.
“I’m going,” said the Abbot, and his voice suddenly seemed to come from beyond the other shore, “I’m going! Didn’t you see the seven flames lurch and draw away from their wicks? Didn’t you hear the nine strings of the harp vibrate madly, ready to snap? I’m going, John. Run and call the monks. I want to speak to them.”
The boy bowed his head and disappeared. The Abbot remained standing in the middle of the cell under the seven-branched candelabrum. Now at last he was alone with God: he could speak his mind freely, with no fear of being overheard. He lifted his head calmly; he knew that God stood before him.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said to him. “Why do you enter my cell, why do you try to put out the light, shatter the harp and capture me? I’m coming, and not only of your will, but of my own. I’m coming. I hold in my hands the tables on which the complaints of my people are written. I want to see you and speak to you. I know you don’t listen or at least pretend you don’t listen, but I shall bang on your door until you open, and if you don’t open (nobody’s here now to hear me, so I’ll speak freely), if you don’t open your door, I shall break it down! You’re fierce, you love fierce people-they alone you name your sons. Until now we have wept, prostrated ourselves and said, Your will be done! But we cannot last any longer, Lord. How long are we going to wait? You are fierce, you love fierce people-we shall become fierce. Our wills be done now-ours!”
As the Abbot spoke he kept his ear tensed so that he could hear whatever was in the air. But the rain had abated, the thunder had retreated into the distance-the claps were muffled and came from the east, far away over the desert. The seven flames burned steadily above the old man’s white head.
The Abbot waited in silence. He waited a considerable time for the flames to waver again, for the harp to quiver once more with fright… Nothing! He shook his head. “The body of man is accursed,” he murmured. “It’s the body which always intrudes and refuses to allow the soul to see and hear the Invisible. Slay me, Lord. I want to be able to stand before you free of the dividing wall of the flesh, so that when you speak to me I shall hear you!”
The door of the cell had opened noiselessly meanwhile, and the untimely awakened monks had filed in, dressed all in white. They stood against the wall like so many ghosts, and waited. They had heard the Abbot’s last words, and the breath stuck in their throats. He’s talking with God, they said to themselves, he’s upbraiding God: now the thunderbolt will fall upon us! They stood against the wall, trembling.
The Abbot looked off into the distance. His eyes were somewhere else; they did not see. The novice approached and prostrated himself.
“They have come, Father,” he said. He spoke softly, in order not to frighten him.
The Abbot heard his subordinates voice. Turning, he saw the others. He moved from the center of the cell, walking methodically, slowly, holding his moribund body as straight as he was able. He reached the stall, mounted the low stool in front, and halted. The phylactery with the holy apophthegms which was around his arm came undone. The novice darted forward in time to retie it tightly, before it could be soiled by touching the ground on which men walk. The Abbot put out his hand and grasped the ivory-hilted abbot’s crosier which was next to the stall. Feeling new strength, he tossed his head high and swept his eyes over the monks who were lined up against the wall.
“Friars,” he said, “I have a few words to say to you-my last. Open your ears, and if anyone is sleepy, let him leave! What I am about to say is difficult. All your hopes and fears must wake up and alert their ears in order to give me an answer!”
“We’re listening, Holy Abbot,” said Father Habakkuk, the oldest of the Abbot’s suite, and he placed his hand over his heart.
“These are my last words, Friars. You’re all thick-headed, so I shall speak in parables.”
“We’re listening, Holy Abbot,” Father Habakkuk repeated.
The Abbot bowed his head and lowered his voice. “First came the wings and then the angel!”
He stopped, glanced at the monks one by one, then shook his head. “Friars, why do you look at me like that, with open mouths? Father Habakkuk, you raised your hand and moved your lips. Do you have some objection?”
The monk put his hand to his heart. “You said, ‘First came the wings and then the angel.’ We never noticed those words in Scripture, Holy Abbot.”
“How could you have noticed them, Father Habakkuk? Alas! your minds are still dim. You open the prophets and your eyes are able to see nothing but the letters. But what can the letters say? They are the black bars of the prison where the spirit strangles itself with screaming. Between the letters and the lines, and all around the blank margins, the spirit circulates freely; and I circulate with it and bring you this great message: Friars, first came the wings and then the angel!”
Father Habakkuk reopened his mouth. “Our minds, Holy Abbot, are lamps which have gone out. Light them, light them so that we may enter into the parable, and see.”
“In the beginning, Father Habakkuk, was the longing for freedom. Freedom did not exist, but suddenly, at the very depths of slavery, one man moved his manacled hands quickly, violently-as though they were wings; and then another, and another, and finally the entire people.”
Questioning voices rang out joyfully: “The people of Israel?”
“Yes, Friars, the people of Israel! This is the great and terrible moment which we are now passing through. The yearning for freedom has grown ferocious; the wings are beating wildly; the liberator is coming! Yes, Friars, the liberator is coming, because… Wait-this angel of freedom: what do you think he’s made of? Of God’s condescension and charity? Of his love? His justice? No, this angel is made of the patience, obstinacy and struggle of mankind!”
“You place a great obligation, an unbearable weight, on man, Holy Abbot,” old Habakkuk ventured to object. “Do you have that much confidence in him?”
But the Abbot ignored the objection. His mind was riveted on the Messiah. “He is one of our sons,” he cried. “That is why the Scriptures call him the son of man! Why do you think thousands of Israel ’s men and women have coupled, generation after generation? To rub their backsides and titillate their groins? No! All those thousands and thousands of kisses were needed to produce the Messiah!”