‘For he that soweth in his flesh, of the flesh
he shall reap corruption;
but he that soweth in the Spirit, of the Spirit
he shall reap everlasting life.’
(Epistle to the Ephesians 6:8 Wycliffe-Purvey
Translation .)
Standing over his
family’s grave, Tom took his knife from his belt and grimly slit the length of
his hand until blood flowed.
‘By my blood, and that of my father, mother and sister, I swear again
mine oath of vengeance!’ he declared defiantly to the surrounding trees. ‘I
will relent never, neither will I rest until the blood of my foes flows freely
as did my family’s! God and the Devil be my witness!’
Suddenly, as he stood upon the ashes of his past world, his earthly
vision became cloudy and misty, and he was looking into the world of spirits.
To his horror, he saw a black, shadowy chain had wrapped itself around his
hands, feet and chest, drawing tighter.
Then, before his horrified gaze, a large and menacing figure seemed to
arise out the earth, shadowy and shrouded in a cloak as black as the darkest
night. Its face was partly hidden by the hood, but Tom could distinguish the
bony jaw of a skull peeping out from under it. In its skeletal hand was a large
and sharp scythe.
It was the Grim Reaper!
The apparition pointed towards him with a bony finger and gave a ghostly,
echoing cackle of glee. Immediately, other horrible apparitions arose out of
the ground.
Frozen with terror, Tom could tell, without asking, that these were
demons of Violence, Hatred and Pestilence (surrounded by demonic, flea-ridden
rats).
He discovered that the ghostly chain wrapped around him was attached to
a loosened length of chain, and Hatred grasped the end of it. Somehow he knew
the chain represented his oath, sealed with his blood.
The horrible apparitions leered at him for a moment, and the Grim Reaper
spoke in glee with a harsh, rasping voice.
‘Ha! Out of his own mouth is he ensnared.
He reapeth what he soweth. Now we have him.’
Tom realised what he had done. In his folly, he had allowed bitterness
to poison his soul and had fallen into the trap of his true enemies, the
minions of Satan.
Then Violence came forward and was about to take a hold of him.
Somehow,
Tom knew he had a choice to make: to
give in to the hatred that would possess him, living a destructive life of
violence, or repent of his oath and relinquish his mission of vengeance.
His father’s words, even those the Grim Reaper had uttered, came back to
him. He fell on his knees in terror, crying for God’s mercy.
Immediately, like a bolt of lightning from heaven, the shining figure of
a huge heavenly warrior appeared, casting the demons to the ground.
The Grim Reaper slunk away, knowing his time was not yet, while the
others fled in fear.
The light faded to reveal the great Warrior more clearly. He wore the
gear of a great Saxon Thane fully armed for battle, but his face was noble and
kind. In his right hand he bore a two-edged sword.
Feeling like St Paul on the road to Damascus, Tom cried out,
‘Oh messenger from heaven! I have sinned! What must I do to atone?’
In a voice that echoed with thunder, the shining messenger said, ‘Fear
not, Thomas Plowman. I am thy guardian and
messenger. God hath chosen thee for a far greater destiny than a life of bloodshed.
God hath permitted judgement to be executed upon
Baldrick by thine hand, but vengeance belongeth to the Lord, and he will
repay with far greater justice than thou canst do. Neither is it thine to atone
for thy sins, for all thy works of righteousness are as filthy rags. There is a
better way.
‘Think not that doom hath come upon thee for thy past sins. God hath seen
thine hunger and thy pain. He would fill up thine hunger with Himself, the
Bread of Heaven, and would heal thy pain, for He is the Great Physician, and
hath suffered greater than any man. Thus shalt thou find thy destiny, if thou
wilt turn unto Him in repentance and seek His healing.’
Then the warrior himself fell to his knees and bowed to the ground, as
Tom became aware of a warming light behind him. It was as though rays of
unconditional love were shining on him, beckoning him to turn around.
He did so and also fell on his face, trembling.
For before him, he saw
the Lamb of God, suffering on the cross.
The vision faded as the Lord of the Harvest Himself appeared, shining in
splendour. He held out his nail-scarred hands to show the suffering He had been
through to secure Tom’s salvation. None of Tom’s own pain could compare to it. Who
was he to sit in judgement on his enemies and to presume to execute judgement
upon them? Had not his mother told him what the Saviour had said before He
died: ‘Father, forgive them! For they know not what they do.’?
Tom wept tears of repentance.
‘Now arise, Thomas. Thou art My Plowman, My Sower and Reaper. I have need of thee.’
The voice above him was as gentle as the breeze, yet more powerful than
a thunderstorm.
In a daze, wondering why he was given the privilege of speaking face to
face to the Lord of the Harvest, he timidly
looked up and found that He had gone. In his place, a new messenger stood before him.
This messenger was clothed as a great Earl of the time of Harold. A glow
and air of authority surrounded him, and in his hands he held a two-edged
sword, a great shield and a sickle. He also spoke with a voice of rolling
thunder.
‘Thy chain is loosed. But not all.’
Tom looked down and saw that the chain had broken and was lying at his
feet. There were still remnants of those chains on his wrists, but his deliverance
was almost complete. Tom closed his eyes
and breathed a prayer of thanks.
How could the Lord of the universe have need of him -- a profligate
sinner? What was the meaning of those gracious words?
Answering his unspoken questions, the messenger said, ‘It is because He
hath chosen thee as a chief labourer in the harvest that is to come to this
land. Thou’rt called as a harvester of souls, a sower of the seed of the Word
of God. But first thou must plough and sow into thine own life.’
The messenger brought forth the implements he bore.
‘Behold! I bear the sword that thou shalt wield in great power to defend
the defenceless and to strike down the enemy of men’s souls. But thou must be
exercised in the use thereof ere I give it thee.
‘Behold! I bear a shield for thy protection. Thou shalt learn to lift
the shield of faith to quench the fiery darts of the wicked one. It shall be
thine anon. Bear it well.’
He held the shield out to Thomas, but when he received it, with a
trembling hand, it seemed to melt into his being and disappear. Yet he felt a new sense of confidence, and that he could
face anything that life, or the enemy, could throw at him.
The messenger continued.
‘Behold! I bear the sickle -- thine authority to go forth and preach the gospel,
making disciples of many in this land. It shall be thine when thou’rt skilled
to fight with the sword and the shield.
‘Now arise, Thomas Plowman! Go thou north unto Oxenford. There thou
shalt find thy chosen yokefellow by the name of William Shephard, a worthy man
of God. He and others of God’s servants shall instruct thee in the use of the
sword and shield. Go forth! For God is with thee.’
And with that, the messenger was gone.
Shaking and wondering if it were all a dream, Tom stood looking around.
Then he noticed it. The pile of ashes of his home was gone. There was nothing
but green growth where once there was death.
He knew his family was safe in the arms of their redeemer. None would
disturb their sweet memory. But he had learned his lesson now. He had an
awesome call on his life to fulfil.
‘…God aiding me!’ he cried.
Shouldering the last of the worldly possessions he had in his sack, he
set off north, on the long road to Oxford.
Tom’s journey to Oxford
seemed rather uneventful after the glorious visitation he had just experienced,
but he was enjoying himself hugely.
He had never felt so free, now that the guilt and shame of his past life
had been washed away, without the need to do penance or buy indulgences.
He had never felt so alive. He felt as though he was born anew, and an
exciting new life had begun. A sense of purpose and destiny had taken hold of
him.
He had never felt so loved, by a love so powerful that the One who loved
him would shed His blood for him and ask for nothing in return for the gift of
salvation.
The religion he was taught by Holy
Church was pale and
pathetic compared to this.
His old joie-de-vivre returned with a vengeance, and the smile
that now lit his face came from a powerful fire deep in his heart.
As he travelled, Tom sang snatches of old songs that suited his elated
mood, but often reverted to the Song of the Harvest, for he knew that the
Harvest of Souls was his calling.
‘Sing Hey for the
sickle! Sing Ho for the scythe!
For the heart of the
reaper be merry and blithe.
With joy shall we
labour through rain or hot sun,
Giving thanks to the
Lord when the harvest be done.’
He had a fine, strong, lusty voice, and those who heard him would stop
to listen. In taverns along the way, the local men applauded loudly and bought
him ale in return for another song.
At other times in his journey, he would
meditate deeply upon the things that had been said to him, both in the
visitation and also by his parents over the years. He was largely recovering
from the grief he felt for his family, gone forever, but an ache would sometimes
surface in his heart. This made him feel more for the sufferings of the people
he passed.
However, his buoyant spirit could never be submersed for long, and it
was not long before he burst into song again. His meditations comforted and
cheered him, meaning so much more than they ever had before.
This was the second experience of the shield that the Messenger had
given him.
His money lasted him for most of the journey, but such was the exalted
state he was in, together with his new-found compassion, that he gave freely to
those in need.
To supplement his dwindling resources, Tom hired himself out to farmers,
and such was the volume of work he did that many asked him to stay.
Although he enjoyed the roving life, his heart was restless to see what
awaited him at Oxford,
and to meet this mysterious man, William Shephard, of whom the Messenger spoke.
At first, a little unwisely, he spoke about his visitation to fellow
travellers or in taverns along the way. He was naturally gregarious and fell
easily into conversation with strangers.
Many of the simple folk were awed at his experiences, and there was
certainly a glow about him that could only come from meeting the Lord of life
Himself.
But some mocked and laughed. They had some cause to do so, for there
was so much superstition around, and
preposterous, conflicting tales were told, often fostered by the wandering
friars.
Tall tales sometimes generated an extra coin over and above the usual benefice
that friars received. Many had long lost their credibility, for times had
changed from when the friars first appeared as humble men, fired with zeal and
true to their vows of poverty and a simple lifestyle.
Tom had a lot of easygoing tolerance, but if the mocker went too far,
that gentry found himself head-down in the nearest horse-trough or miller’s
pond. Tom still had a few things to learn.
Finally, he crossed the Cherwell and found himself outside the Bull and
Book tavern in Oxford.
Entering, he discovered a much more congenial atmosphere than William had found
a number of years before.
Much reconciliation had occurred since the riots at Merton College.
Many students, mainly Wycliffeites, had approached the townsfolk and addressed
their grievances. Friendships had been made, and now the tavern was nearly full
with townsmen drinking the health of the masters and students, and vice versa,
much to the delight of the tavern-keeper whose business was thriving again.
One man stood up and called for a toast for ‘Doctor
Evangelicus, Champion of the poor’.
Nearly
everyone drank and applauded loudly.
Another, rather reprehensibly, toasted, ‘Confusion to Courtenay!’ which
produced loud, ribald laughter. Tom learned later that Courtenay, Bishop of
London, was a fierce opponent of Wycliffe and forbade him to preach in his churches.
One group of students, farmers and labourers, mellowed with good ale, hailed
him genially, liking him on sight. They invited him to join them, and one
bought him a drink.
The one who did this shook his hand warmly and said, ‘I call myself
Benjamin Abyngdon, master. A student of Merton College
am I. It seemeth that thou’st journeyed long and sore, and a great journey’s
tale hangeth upon thy brow. Wherewithal can one be of service unto thee?’
‘Thou’rt abundant kind to a stranger, Master
Abyngdon.’ responded Tom, touched and grateful. ‘Thomas Plowman is my
name, and I seek one William Shephard, a man of God. Dost thou ken of such an
one?’
‘Few that ken him not at Oxenford, Master Plowman. A busy man is Father William, but hath ever occasion to speak to
any that hath need of his wise rede. I met him hither as
a stranger in this very place, whence he rendered
me kindness in return for the churlishness of myself and my companions. A more
godlier man have I not found, and his fellowship do I value above all. Haply we
will find him anon.’
So it was that the Shepherd and the Reaper finally reached their
divinely-appointed rendezvous.
Standing before him, Tom saw a tall, bearded man, with a grave and
kindly face, and latent laughter in his grey eyes.
A sense of destiny came upon him.
