A Dream
I saw the sun rise on a vast, barren plain, wrinkled with
the furrows of a land dying of thirst. Against it, like shadows, I saw crowds
of people moving very slowly. A plaintive moan filled the air. As the sun rose
higher and the orange sky turned slowly to a golden dawn, my eye picked out the
shape of a huge rock in the distance, its outline gilded by the rising sun.
Then, slowly, rising from behind the rock I saw the figure of a man. A
fisherman, I thought, but he had a shepherd’s staff in his right hand. He stood
on top of the rock and looked around him at the crowds, whose faces I could now
see in the light of that early dawn. I saw that they were in great distress.
They lifted up their faces to the man on the rock. “Who are you?” they asked.
And he said, “My name is Peter.” He looked at them with eyes of pity and I
thought I saw a teardrop trickle down his rugged cheek. It made a small splash
upon the rock on which he was standing. At that moment, to my amazement, I saw
that teardrop pierce the surface of the rock and from that spot there came a
stream of clear running water. In an instant the moaning turned to shouts of
joy. The crowds ran towards the stream, which quickly spilled over and spread
across the plain. They drank from it and splashed their faces with the cool,
life giving water. They held hands and danced, and the fisher-shepherd held
hands and danced with them and loud songs of joy rent the air. As the sun rose
to meet a cloudless sky, I saw the dry land come to life with green grass and a
hundred different wild flowers. By sunset I could see the land covered with
trees and I heard the glad music of a thousand birds twittering. And my heart
leapt for joy.
I saw the sun rise again on another morning. The stream was
now a great and magnificent river. On it I could see many wonderfully crafted
boats and vessels. Coming from within them I heard many-voiced choruses singing
the praises of The Most High. Harmonious. Inspiring. Divine. The biggest and
most imposing of these boats was beautiful and grand in its design. Inside it I
spied the Fisher-Shepherd. He was splendidly attired and my eyes danced upon
the glittering patterns on his clothing. His staff was now made of gold. Many princes and kings came and paid
him tribute. Along the banks of this great river there were people dressed in
fine clothes singing those uplifting songs of praise. They went down on their
knees, beat their breasts, joined their hands and recited prayers in one voice.
And the river flowed on, growing larger and even larger. And I said how
wonderful it all was.
Another sunrise, another morning. The river had sprung
tributaries and I saw people moving over to the banks of these side streams. I
saw other boats, other barges plying these other little rivers. I heard
different but beautiful new music coming from the many new tributaries and
there was beautiful music heard along the main river and my innocent ear tried
hard to harmonise the many mellifluous though disparate sounds. The
Fisher-Shepherd raised his eyes up heavenward and I could see the lines of
earnest effort on his countenance. Other sunrises; other mornings and I watched
the river flow, sometimes smiling, sometimes scowling over sharp rocks and
branches of dead trees and now and again I saw the shapes of creatures in the
river, some friendly, but some, where the river had meandered into a swamp,
looked threatening. I heard the people in the boats and those across the plains
singing songs to unheard of tunes in which discord and dissonance popped
question marks and ended in crescendos of disquiet and even anger. And I
trembled. I heard in those atonal
melodies, words of concern, choler and counsel. Do this, they sang and do that.
The boats need repair, they sang, they need renewal. The swamp needs to be
drained, they chorused. The creatures must be annihilated. We need new sails,
new masts, new rudders, new engines. We need to trim these sails, they sang in
agitated counterpoint and to paint our boats another colour. We need to explore
motorboats, rafts and new, exciting water sports to invite the young, the bored
and the adventurous. They sang in voices of varying pitch from feathery
pizzicato to shrill sforzando. And the Fisher-Shepherd raised his eyes
heavenward again.
And then I watched one more sunrise. The songs of dissonance
were still in the air when I saw the Fisher-Shepherd rise to his full height
and come to the edge of his big and magnificent boat. He looked out into the
plains and he saw again, amidst the finery of a few people, the distressed
faces of so many. He brought his boat to the banks of the river and looked into
the eyes of these people of God, many whom did not belong to his boat or to The
River. “They’re thirsty,” he whispered. And in the new sunlight I thought I
spied again a teardrop trickle down that rugged face. As the drop splashed into
the muddy river, I saw ripples of crystal clear water grow outward and spread
across the entire stream. He looked down into the now clear water and he saw a
reflection of himself. I looked down at the water and I too saw there the
Fisher-Shepherd’s reflection as in a mirror. There once again I saw him, as on
that first sunrise, wearing those simple, old Fisher-Shepherd’s clothes and in
his right hand the shepherd’s staff. The people saw that reflection and looked
up at his face. “Come and drink,” he said. “That’s why this river flows. Not
for boats and things, but to slake your thirst. Come.” And the people said,
“Who are you?” And he smiled at them and said, “My name is Francis. Pray for me.”
This article appeared in the April issue of Fr. Agnel's Ashram News
