As a teenager, I was part of a small group of friends who started a literature publication called the “Pen Upon the Paper”. We wrote poetry, prose, and short stories which were published in our little paper along with our critiques of each others’ work.

Our little paper, which actually gained a few subscribers (mostly from supportive friends and family) eventually was renamed “The Inkling” in honor of Lewis, Tolkien and Co.

Our writing and publishing project flourished briefly like crocuses in early March and then quickly wilted away as one contributor after another became sidetracked, engrossed, called, etc. to other fields of life.

I’m sharing the piece below because it speaks to the very name and ethos of my blog, and because it relates to the topic of an essay which is currently brewing and stewing within me.

I was 18 years old when I contributed this to the Inkling– probably one of the last before I dropped it altogether. Reading it today, I was tempted to make a few changes- I’m not sure why I imagined the disciples were big, burly men. (except Peter- I still imagine him as a big man, for some reason). And I’m pretty certain it would have been highly unlikely to see a blonde-haired, blue-eyed child in 1st century Israel… but I will honor this younger version of myself, and refrain from editing it.

Who is the Greatest?
Matthew 18:1-4

Of course, the question came from Peter. 

But the rest of them wanted to know too, and they stood around the Master⎯tense, and a little embarrassed maybe, hoping he wouldn’t know why they asked. Big men with snarled beards and weather-beaten faces; big men with a big question. 

They waited for His answer, for He always had the answers it seemed. He said nothing but turned to them and His eyes were sad and deep.

They thought he must have misunderstood when he knelt down in the sun-speckled grass where a young family ate their packed lunch in the shade of a towering sycamore. He held out his arms to their son, a chubby little fellow just learning to walk, with tousled blond hair like sheaves of corn and sparky blue eyes like the Sea of Galilee.

“Come, sweet child” He said. “Come here a second.”

The little boy looked at his mother⎯she smiled and nodded. Then he tottered right into the arms of the Master and stared into His face with large sober eyes. Eyes that revealed the bottom.

Andrew coughed; Nathaniel stroked his beard. The little boy gazed at them, completely unaware of all those things such as the kingdom of heaven and jealousy and fear and competition and… 

The grass waved; locusts droned their monotonous tradition. The Master squeezed the little fellow again and set him down to go back to his mother who stood to one side, watching as only a mother can watch.

The Master stood and brushed off some dust. And the big men hung their heads, because somehow…somehow they knew the answer. Before He opened his mouth, they knew what He would say.

–Jared Martin
August 2010