Book of Mercy (2 page)

B
LESSED ARE YOU WHO
, among the numberless swept away in terror, permitted a few to suffer carefully. Who put a curtain over a house so that a few could lower their eyes. Blessed be Ishmael, who taught us how to cover ourselves. Blessed are you who dressed the shivering spirit in a skin. Who made a fence of changing stars around your wisdom. Blessed be the teacher of my heart, on his throne of patience. Blessed are you who circled desire with a blade, and the garden with fiery swords, and heaven and earth with a word. Who, in the terrible inferno, sheltered understanding, and keeps her still, beautiful
and deeply concealed. Blessed are you who sweetens the longing between us. Blessed are you who binds the arm to the heart, and the will to the will. Who has written a name on a gate, that she might find it, and come into my room. Who defends a heart with strangerhood. Blessed are you who sealed a house with weeping. Blessed be Ishmael for all time, who covered his face with the wilderness, and came to you in darkness. Blessed be the covenant of love between what is hidden and what is revealed. I was like one who had never been caressed, when you touched me from a place in your name, and dressed the wound of ignorance with mercy. Blessed is the covenant of love, the covenant of mercy, useless light behind the terror, deathless song in the house of night.

Ishmael, first son of Abraham and his hand-maiden Hagar, is traditionally considered the father of the Arab nation.

T
HIS IS THE WAY WE SUMMON
one another, but it is not the way we call upon the Name. We stand in rags, we beg for tears to dissolve the immovable landmarks of hatred. How beautiful our heritage, to have this way of speaking to eternity, how bountiful this solitude, surrounded, filled, and mastered by the Name, from which all things arise in splendour, depending one upon the other.

R
ETURN, SPIRIT, TO THIS
lowly place. Come down. There is no path where you project yourself. Come down; from here you can look at the sky. From here you can begin to climb. Draw back your song from the middle air where you cannot follow it. Close down these shaking towers you have built toward your vertigo. You do not know how to bind your heart to the skylark, or your eyes to the hardened blue hills. Return to the sorrow in which you have hidden your truth. Kneel here, search here, with both hands, the cat’s cradle of your tiny distress. Listen to the one who has not been wounded, the one who says, ‘It is not good that man should be alone.’ Recall your longing to the loneliness where it was born, so that when she appears, she will stand before you, not against you. Refine your longing here, in the small silver music of her preparations, under the low-built shelter of repentance.

D
ID WE COME FOR NOTHING
? We thought we were summoned, the aging head-waiters, the minor singers, the second-rate priests. But we couldn’t escape into these self-descriptions, nor lose ourselves in the atlas of coming and going. Our prayer is like gossip, our work like burning grass. The teacher is pushed over, the bird-watcher makes a noise, and the madman dares himself to be born into the question of who he is. Let the light catch the thread from
which the man is hanging. Heal him inside the wind, wrap the wind around his broken ribs, you who know where Egypt was, and for whom he rehearses these sorrows, Our Lady of the Torah, who does not write history, but whose kind lips are the law of all activity. How strangely you prepare his soul. The heretic lies down beside the connoisseur of form, the creature of desire sits on a silver ring, the counterfeiter begs forgiveness from the better counterfeiter, the Angel of Darkness explains the difference between a palace and a cave – O bridge of silk, O single strand of spittle glistening, a hair of possibility, and nothing works, nothing works but You.

T
HEY KNOW ME AT THIS
café. When I come in from the vineyards they put a drink in front of me. As a sign of respect I take off my sunglasses whenever I speak to the proprietress. Here I can reflect on the Romans, their triumph, and the tiny thorn in their side that we represent. The owners are exiles too, scattered people, as are their customers, who all seem to wear dark suits and flash gold teeth behind their cigarette-holders. Our children go to the Roman schools. We drink coffee, and some kind of powerful fruit brandy, and we hope that the grandchildren will return to us. Our hope is in the distant
seed. Occasionally the card-players in the corner lift little glasses in a toast, and I lift mine, joining them in their incomprehensible affirmation. The cards fly between their fingers and the mica table-top, old cards, so familiar they hardly have to turn them over to see who has won the hand. Take heart, you who were born in the captivity of a fixed predicament; and tremble, you kings of certainty: your iron has become like glass, and the word has been uttered that will shatter it.

Y
OU LET ME SING, YOU
lifted me up, you gave my soul a beam to travel on. You folded your distance back into my heart. You drew the tears back to my eyes. You hid me in the mountain of your word. You gave the injury a tongue to heal itself. You covered my head with my teacher’s care, you bound my arm with my grandfather’s strength. O beloved speaking, O comfort whispering in the terror, unspeakable explanation of the smoke and cruelty, undo the self-conspiracy, let me dare the boldness of joy.

L
IKE AN UNBORN INFANT
swimming to be born, like a woman counting breath in the spasms of labour, I yearn for you. Like a fish pulled to the minnow, the angler to the point of line and water, I am fixed in a strict demand, O king of absolute unity. What must I do to sweeten this expectancy, to rescue hope from the scorn of my enemy? The child is born into your world, the fish is fed and the fisherman too. Bathsheba lies with David, apes come down from the Tower of Babel, but in my heart an ape sees the beauty bathing. From every side of Hell is my greed affirmed. O shield of Abraham, affirm my hopefulness.

M
Y TEACHER GAVE ME
what I do not need, told me what I need not know. At a high price he sold me water beside the river. In the middle of a dream he led me gently to my bed. He threw me out when I was crawling, took me in when I was home. He referred me to the crickets when I had to sing, and when I tried to be alone he fastened me to a congregation. He curled his fists and pounded me toward my proper shape. He puked in disgust when I swelled without filling. He sank his tiger teeth into everything of mine that I refused to claim. He drove me through the pine trees at an incredible speed to that realm where I barked with a dog, slid with the shadows, and leaped from a point of view. He let me be a student of a love that I will never be able to give. He suffered me to play at friendship with my truest friend. When he was certain that I was incapable of self-reform, he flung me across the fence of the Torah.

Y
OUR CUNNING CHARLATAN
is trying to whip up a frisson of grace. He wants a free ride and a little on the side. He has hid his shame under a tired animal gleam, and he pretends to be full of health. He’s working hard, dragging that donkey up Mount Moriah. And listen to the authentic muffled cry of his heart, so thoroughly documented and unattended. He has some pictures in his mind, they’re all round and wet, very pressing, and he has his belt, he’s going to give her what she wants. Bring a mirror, let him see the monkey struggling with the black tefillin straps. Where is she, Lord of Unity, where is the kind face, the midnight help, the autumn wedding, the wedding with no blood?

M
Y SISTER AND I BEING
estranged, I parked my trailer at the furthest limit of her fields, the corner that is left, by law, to the poor. Her hundreds of cherry trees were blossoming, and on the road to the great stone house that they lined, a lacework of petals. It was a Saturday. I reclined against a little hill, a shoot of wheat between my teeth, looked at the blue sky, a bird, three threads of luminous cloud, and my heart would not rejoice. I entered the hour of self-accusation. A strange sound trembled in the air. It was caused by the north wind on the electric lines, a sustained chord of surprising harmonies, power and
duration, greatly pleasing, a singing of breath and steel, a huge string instrument of masts and fields, complex tensions. Suddenly the judgement was clear. Let your sister, with her towers and gardens, praise the incomparable handiwork of the Lord, but you are pledged to the breath of the Name. Each of you in your proper place. The cherry trees are hers, the grapes and the olives, the thick-walled house; and to you, the unimagined charities of accident in the Corner of the Poor.

I
N THE THIN LIGHT OF
hunted pleasure, I become afraid that I will never know my sorrow. I call on you with a cry that concentrates the heart. When will I cry out in gratitude? When will I sing to your mercy? Tomorrow is yours, the past is in debt, and death runs toward me with the soiled white flag of surrender. O draw me out of an easy skill into the art of the holy. I am afraid of what I have done to my soul, and the judgement is established like a sudden noise. O help me bow down to your anger. I lie beside the corpse of my idol, in the spell of fire and ashes, my word for the day of atonement forgotten. Lift me up with a new heart, with an old memory, for my father’s
sake, for the sake of your name which rings in heaven and hell, through worlds destroyed and worlds to come, tangible music shining between the hidden and the perceived, garbled in my ear and clearly the place I stand on, O precious name of truth uncontradicting. The scornful man will bend his knee, and holy souls will be drawn down into his house. Hedges will be planted in the rotting world, the young shoots protected. Time will be measured from mother to child, from father to son, and learning will speak to learning. Even the evil are weary, the bomb falls on the pilot’s son, the riot shouts out to be calmed. The wound widens every heart, the general exile thickens, the whole world becomes the memory of your absence. How long will you hunt us with sorrow? How long will they rage, the fires of refinement? Blood drinking blood, wound swallowing wound, sorrow torturing sorrow, cruelty rehearsing itself under the measureless night of your patience. When will the work of truth begin, to verify your promise? Now that all men hear each other, let your name be established in hell, and count us back to the safety of your law, father of mercy, bride of the captured earth. Speak to your child of his healing, in this place where we are for a moment.

M
Y SON AND I LIVED IN A
cave for many years, hiding from the Romans, the Christians, and the apostate Jews. Night and day we studied the letters of one word. When one of us grew tired, the other would urge him on. One morning he said, ‘I’ve had enough,’ and I said ‘I agree.’ He married a beautiful girl, the daughter of one of our benefactors, grown from the child who brought us food in the night to the one for whom he waited all day, and they were
blessed with children. My wife came back to me one strange afternoon, all changed, all lightened, and we opened a bookstall in Jerusalem, where we sold small bilingual editions of the Book of Psalms. My daughter appeared one day and said, ‘I believe you have neglected me.’ ‘Forgive me,’ I said, and her face shone with forgiveness. She married a goldsmith, a maker of ceremonial objects, bore children, and deepened the happiness of her parents. Every so often we gather at midnight before the Wall, our family of little families. ‘After all,’ we say, ‘the Romans do not eat flesh torn from a living animal, and the Christians are a branch of the tree, and the apostate Jews are still embraced by the Word.’ We talk in this manner, we sing the time-honoured songs, and we compose new ones, as we were commanded:

S
IT IN A CHAIR AND KEEP
still. Let the dancer’s shoulders emerge from your shoulders, the dancer’s chest from your chest, the dancer’s loins from your loins, the dancer’s hips and thighs from yours; and from your silence the throat that makes a sound, and from your bafflement a clear song to which the dancer moves, and let him serve God in beauty. When he fails, send him again from your chair. By such an exercise, even a bitter man can praise Creation, even a heavy man can swoon, and a man of high responsibility soften his heart.

I
SRAEL, AND YOU WHO
call yourself Israel, the Church that calls itself Israel, and the revolt that calls itself Israel, and every nation chosen to be a nation – none of these lands is yours, all of you are thieves of holiness, all of you at war with Mercy. Who will say it? Will America say, We have stolen it, or France step down? Will Russia confess, or Poland say, We have sinned? All bloated on their scraps of destiny, all swaggering in the immunity of superstition. Ishmael, who was saved in the wilderness, and given shade in the desert, and a deadly treasure under you: has Mercy made you wise? Will Ishmael declare, We are in debt forever? Therefore the lands belong to none of you, the borders do not hold, the Law will
never serve the lawless. To every people the land is given on condition. Perceived or not, there is a Covenant, beyond the constitution, beyond sovereign guarantee, beyond the nation’s sweetest dreams of itself. The Covenant is broken, the condition is dishonoured, have you not noticed that the world has been taken away? You have no place, you will wander through yourselves from generation to generation without a thread. Therefore you rule over chaos, you hoist your flags with no authority, and the heart that is still alive hates you, and the remnant of Mercy is ashamed to look at you. You decompose behind your flimsy armour, your stench alarms you, your panic strikes at love. The land is not yours, the land has been taken back, your shrines fall through empty air, your tablets are quickly revised, and you bow down in hell beside your hired torturers, and still you count your battalions and crank out your marching songs. Your righteous enemy is listening. He hears your anthems full of blood and vanity, and your children singing to themselves. He has overturned the vehicle of nationhood, he has spilled the precious cargo, and every nation he has taken back. Because you are swollen with your little time. Because you do not wrestle with your angel. Because you dare to live without God. Because your cowardice has led you to believe that the victor does not limp.