Pilgrims of Promise(172)
Oswald smiled and looked carefully at the lad. “What is it you see when you look at them?”
Shamefaced, the boy looked downward.
Oswald laid a hand on Otto’s shoulder. “What that world fails to admit, my son, is that these poor creatures are like them, only inside out. Consider the great halls of the lords. They are filled with handsome knights and fair ladies, men and women pleasing to the eye. Yet on the inside—where their hearts reside—they are bent and twisted, misshapen and even revolting to the eye, like my beloved here in Renwick. Look around you now, Otto, and see them as looking glasses into your own soul. It is a good remedy for pride.” He smiled.
Oswald escorted the company out of the chapel and along the path. The group chattered quietly until the monk paused by a beehive. “Now, as for these hives. Father Pieter, you are a man of many years. Tell me, sir, what better picture of what the church should be could nature possibly offer?”
Pieter smiled and leaned heavily on his staff. “None better than these, brother.”
Oswald nodded. “Indeed. None better at all. See the little bees, how they rise from their beds to fly about the world, partaking of its beauty while serving it well. It is these buzzing creatures that pass the seed of life from bloom to bloom; they fill the orchards with fruit. They spend their days sprinkled amongst the color of God’s creation; they draw from the very essence of beauty. From it they make the honey that nourishes both others and themselves with the sweet taste of God’s goodness.
“Watch them. They toil without complaint, each knowing his task and serving the other. They fly and return, only to fly out again. They harvest happily and sleep well. They work together for the benefit of all, and they do so without malice, greed, or pride.
“This is why we placed their hives here, along what we call our Via Crucis, the Way of the Cross.”
The group watched the bees fly from their hives, lightly lifting to the air as others landed heavily, their legs covered with a bounty of pollen. These climbed awkwardly into the small openings leading to their city within and, in a short time, would spring into the air once more.
Oswald led the pilgrims to his own simple hut. It was a timber cottage with a well-thatched roof. He ducked into his doorway and returned in a moment with a clay bowl in which sat a dripping chunk of honeycomb. He smiled at the faces staring hopefully at the bowl. “Ha, ha! Yes, it is for you, and I’ve more to share.” He laughed. “But first, if you’ll indulge me, I’ve one more thing to say.” He lifted the honeycomb from the bowl and beckoned all to come close. “See here,” he said as he pointed to the cells of the comb. “Study it and learn. Res ipsa loquitur… the thing speaks for itself.”
The pilgrims leaned close and stared blankly at the honeycomb. Most wished the friar would stop talking and just pass the honey to eat! Pieter, however, was intrigued. His eyes scanned the wax chambers.
Sensing their impatience, Oswald chuckled. “Forgive me. I oft speak too much! So here,” he said as he passed the bowl to Maria. “Share this one and I’ll get more inside.” The friar retrieved several wax combs and a sharp knife. Soon the pilgrims were sucking sweet honey into mouths dripping with delight!
“I love this!” squealed Maria. Her chin was smeared with sticky honey as she licked her fingers clean. “Pieter, it’s all over your beard!”
The company roared. Pieter’s scraggly beard was matted with globs of honey, and flies were now swarming toward him. Laughing, a clubfooted little girl delivered a small bucket of water, and the old man quickly washed his beard clean.
When the group had settled once again, Friar Oswald begged their pardon. “Now, if you’ll indulge these last thoughts.” He took a badly gnawed honeycomb from Otto and held it up for all to see. “I hear how the scholars are now rushing to fix the matters of heaven and earth to the ideas of men’s minds. I hear they seek knowledge as the way of truth.”
Oswald pointed to the comb. “Deus et natua non faciunt frusta… God and nature do not work together in vain. See here. See the cells of the bees.” He pointed to the little hexagons. “The wax walls of these cells are like the words of man’s knowledge. They grow in number with time, and as they do, our world enlarges.
“But the hive is far more than its cells; it is not merely walls of wax. It is in the emptiness of the waiting cell where the true wonder lies. It is the airy place that will soon fill with sweetness that will nourish many.
“Even so, truth is not confined to things known. Rather, it also dwells in the spaces between the words, in the silence of the cells … in the mystery.