Lorica
My dogs like to sniff the morning. It’s a quirk I have decided to adopt, as it seems to set them up well for the day. The van door slides open, and before they step into the outside, they push their noses forward. And sniff. Some days the sniff is followed by an enthusiastic bound onto tarmac, and a forage into the secrets nestled in a grass verge. Other days the damp and soggy sky means a quick toilet stop before a towel-dry, mud-scraping return to warm beds and fleecy blankets. I’d like to adopt that too.
Recently, a dry and crisp day and longer sniff results in tail-wagging excitment as a gentle breeze beckons them out: spring is coming.
On these days, as they begin to occur in sequence, I grab the dog lead and greet the morning with a phrase running through my mind like ribbon in the wind:
It was now spring, the time when kings go to war. (2 Samuel 11:1-18 CEV)
Fluttering on repeat, these words are strange and uninvited guests.
But war?
I remember what happened when King David stayed home one springtime, and idleness in his bones created space for distraction, temptation, and mischief. For lust, rape, and murder. (2 Samuel 11/12)
Roof-top nakedness might not catch me in desires I surrender to, but I know how apathy can wait to snare me.
This morning, this sniff, I ask Wisdom to meet me at the threshold of spring. Meet me at the door, Sister Wisdom, and ready me as fresh winds rustle new leaves in the trees, and blossom appears promising fruit to come.
No idle prayer, I know by now to create space, and take hold of time, and yield to the Holy Spirit: Let me be yours this springtime. Time, money, desire, attention. Yours.
It’s the morning of Nissan 10, 5724. April 18th, 24. The day of the door. My Bible is open at Joshua 1:
“Moses my servant is dead. Now then, you and all these people, get ready to cross the Jordan river into the land I am about to give to them–to the Israelites. I will give you every place where you set your foot, as I promised Moses.”
The kettle and candle are on, and my notepad is ready. Space and time.
While I’m waiting for the the whistle to indicate the water is hot enough, I mull over a recent complaint about a song lyric that declared “my name is written on his heart”. Usually, the fact the hymn was written two centuries ago would be enough to placate most watchmen-on-the-walls of sung worship, but not that day.
Written on His heart.
Sunlight catches my shiny blue kettle, and I hear the words lapis lazuli, and the Spirit prompts me to remember Aaron, brother of Moses, High priest. In Exodus 28, 15-21, the breast plate worn by this first high priest, and others that followed, is described in fine detail. Twelve stones are set across it, four rows with three stones on each. One stone for each of the twelve tribes of Israel. Each stone inscribed with the name of the tribe it represented. This breastplate was to be worn across Aaron’s heart, so he remembered the names of those he performed the sacrifices for. Those he literally carried into the presence were written across his heart. A reminder for him, and for The one he carried them to:
Look, your people.
Look your God.
The whistle redirected my thoughts of Aaron toward the letter written after Christ was raised from the dead. To the One sacrifice who is now High Priest forever. I turned testaments and read:
Now there have been many of those priests, since death prevented them from continuing in office; but because Jesus lives forever, he has a permanent priesthood.Therefore he is able to save completely those who come to God through him, because he always lives to intercede for them. Such a high priest truly meets our need—one who is holy, blameless, pure, set apart from sinners, exalted above the heavens. Unlike the other high priests, he does not need to offer sacrifices day after day, first for his own sins, and then for the sins of the people. He sacrificed for their sins once for all when he offered himself. For the law appoints as high priests men in all their weakness; but the oath, which came after the law, appointed the Son, who has been made perfect forever. (Hebrews 7: 23- 28)
Perhaps this high priest Jesus still carries us as jewels across his heart. Our names inscribed. Saying to us:
Look, your God.
And to The throne:
Look, your people.
I remember Jesus’ intercession on earth (John 17:12). He did not lose one of us entrusted by the father to him. I remember, and my mind returns to David in spring-time, full of life and distraction. I wonder if there was a breastplate he could have worn then, across his heart, with only One adorning it, only One written there, so his heart would remember, and his feet wouldn’t wander. (Eph 6: 10-18)
Paused at the doorway to another spring, ready to enter in, I ask myself: am I in remembrance? I lean into this wondering, close my eyes and pay attention.
The stone lintel was held up by crumbling walls. Just the doorway remained, jutting out of the ruins around. Ivy held stone and tree trunks in a loose embrace. Lichen and sunlight cast a vivid mustard hue over stone, and grass shimmered in the mid-day haze. Gnats hummed, birds sung, breeze. Breathe.
Squatting on the ground by the archway, back braced against a tree-trunk, red hair tied back tight, a woman was rubbing the surface of a piece of dark wood. I couldn’t see it clearly. She was silent. Focused. Fierce in movement and atmosphere.
I watched her, absorbed in her focus and her deep quietness. I found my hand touching my soft belly as I pondered her taut readiness for what was to come. She stood slowly, apraising her work, and light caught the carvings across the wood, illuminating indecipherable lettering. Her movements fluid, she lifted the thin carved wood, and hooked leather straps over her shoulders,
Entranced by her beauty, I started when a warm hand touched my shoulder. Wisdom, ha. She likes to catch me unawares. Who is she? I ask.
Wisdom answered, as she does, with a question: what do you see?
Boudica. This was the name on my mind. The red-headed warrior. I’m guessing she was attending to her armour. Readying for war.
What do you see?
Wisdom asked again. I squinted, unable to decipher the carvings, and admitted that I didn’t know. She was wearing a breastplate, that much was clear, but I don’t know what else.
They called them Loricas,
Wisdom explained.
This warrior girl, perhaps a Boudica in type, has fought many battles. It’s not the wood across her chest, but the words inscribed upon the wood that she stands behind and draws both courage and protection from. The Lorica was a prayer, an invocation of the name that went before her, the Christ who wore her name on his chest. Like St Patrick these warriors learnt to dwell within the prayer, following the instructions of Psalm 91. Knowing Him as Shield and protection.
I’m held in this moment. It is as if Wisdom pressed pause, and in the pause They whispered to me of the things to come. Be ready.
His name on my chest, mine name across His.
My belly is still soft, but inside I’m taut and ready to listen.
And to raise the battle cry: Kingdom come!
And to lay hold of it. Forcefully.
I sniff the morning not for fear, but for information. And when I step out, I step out encircled by 3.
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