As we walk back into the village, our neighbor Marta comes out carrying a waterpot.
“Shalom, Marta! Are you well?” Yeshua says.
Marta does not look on him, and she does not speak, but she smiles as she passes by. Every woman smiles when my son greets her. Every old woman wishes he were her son. Every young woman wishes he were her lord.
And yet every woman of Nazareth hates me, because I shamed them all. Every woman wonders which man begat my Yeshua. Every woman wonders if it was her lord I seduced for no reason, when I was betrothed already to a good man. They hate me for a sinful woman. They hate me for a zonah. They hate me because I seduced a man for no cause, when I was not even hungry. They hate me because I refuse to confess my sin. They hate me because I will not tell who I seduced.
I am an evil tale.
I am the biggest evil tale that ever was.
A small village has a long memory. They would forgive, if only I would confess. But I cannot confess because I never seduced. They will never believe I never seduced, so they will never forgive. They have made me like the dust between their toes.
I hate Nazareth.
Every woman in the village has spit my feet. They would tear me to bits with their nails if they caught me alone, but I have always one of my sons by my side to defend.
Behind us, Marta spits the dirt.
Yeshua’s hand tightens on mine.
For many years, I wept every night for saying yes to the Messenger. I could have said no. Then the women would not hate me. But then I would not have my Yeshua. And so, all these years, the women have thrown their scorn on me.
I will never forgive them. Never, ever, ever.
When my son redeems Israel and comes into his power, HaShem will make a justice on me. And he will punish my tormentors. That day is coming. I feel in my heart it is coming soon. For a little while, I must lose my son while he does a big work for HaShem, but then I will have him with me, until forever.
When we reach our house, my daughters-in-law are lifting a great clay cooking pot out of the firepit. I do not know how many mouths it can feed. When we are ten, it feeds ten. When we are twenty, it feeds twenty. This is the best of all times, at the going out of the day, when the women bring in the food and the men return from their work and we eat together and have joy.
We stand back to let the women carry in the food with care. Once, they dropped it, and we ate only bread that night. Only one time, but that was enough.
My three youngest sons are just now coming in through the village gate. They will never tell Yeshua no on the matter of bringing home a zonah. But neither will they walk within sight of her. My sons do not like scandals.
“Yosi! Thin Shimon! Yehuda Dreamhead!” Yeshua shouts to his brothers.
They turn to grin on us, but they do not walk this way yet. After my lord Yoseph died, Yeshua finished training them all in the craft of the tekton, and each of them finds work because of him. He also found men to marry my three daughters. When my youngest is married, I do not know what Yeshua will do, but I am afraid. Afraid and happy, both at the same time. Yeshua must do what HaShem calls him to do.
My sons still stand in the gate, talking with the village elders.
Now I see that some other man came in with them. He wears a worn tunic and carries a sun-faded leather pack on his back.
A traveler.
The elders all rise to greet the traveler.
I hear their excited voices, but I cannot pick out their words. I am old, almost fifty, and my ears are dull.
Yeshua’s face is tight. I never saw such a face on him. A traveler means news and news means change.
I do not want my world to change.
Yeshua looks on me, and his eyes sing that no woman could be more beautiful than I am.
My heart wants to weep.
Yeshua hurries toward the village gate.
We will have an extra mouth for our evening meal. It is an honor to give hospitality to a traveler. Yeshua will ask for the man, and the elders will give him the honor. The village will gather in the square this evening to hear the traveler’s news from the outside world.
It is a warm summer evening, but I never felt such a bitter winter in my heart.
Chapter Two
Miryam of Nazareth
The stranger’s name is Hanina. He is a Jew from Babylon who travels much. He sells oddments or works as a day laborer and walks wherever he pleases and does as he likes. We recline on mats around the cooking pot in our courtyard, eating stew wrapped in bread and listening to Hanina tell us all that he has seen. He has seen many things in the world, but tonight he wishes to speak only of one.
“Two weeks ago, I was in Jerusalem.” Hanina leans back on his elbow and takes a mouthful of stew. “All the city was going down to the Jordan to see a great thing.”
Every one of us leans forward. Our people go up to Jerusalem three times in a year to see a great thing, the Temple of HaShem. If Jews are going down from Jerusalem to see a great thing, then it must be a mighty wonder.
Hanina tips his stone mug and drinks the last of his beer. “Tales tell that there is a prophet again in Israel, a man named Yohanan.”
My heart flutters to hear this news.
My sons all stare on Hanina. Their eyes sing.
“A prophet in Israel!” There is a big excitement in Little Yaakov’s voice.
It has been many hundred years since a prophet spoke in Israel. Until HaShem sends us a prophet, we are still in exile. Even if we live in the land of Israel, we live also in exile, both at the same time. HaShem has not returned to rule in our land, as in days of old. Not yet.
But HaShem will return. I heard it from the Messenger many years ago. My sons do not know about the Messenger. I never told a living soul about the Messenger, because who would believe? But all Israel knows that when a prophet rises in Israel, it is a sign HaShem will return. HaShem will give us a king to rule on David’s throne.
And the Messenger told me my son will be that king.
Hanina’s eyes glitter. “I went down to the Jordan to see this prophet, this Yohanan, who is called the immerser. He looks like a prophet from old times, like Elijah, who killed the prophets of the ba’al. He tells our people that if we turn from our sins, if we turn again to HaShem, then HaShem will forgive our nation and return to us and be our king.”
My sons’ breath hisses in their throats.
I myself cannot breathe at all. Our people have looked for HaShem to return for many hundred years. We have prayed. We have suffered. We have been thrown in slavery to the goyim. We have cried out to HaShem. Now he will save us. Now HaShem will return as king. I heard it myself from the Messenger, and yet even I am surprised.
Yeshua studies Hanina’s face with sharp eyes, bright as knives. “And where is this Yohanan?”
Hanina shrugs his shoulders. “If you walk south on the Jordan Way to Jericho and then go east by a walk of one hour to cross the river at the fords, that is where I saw him.”
Yeshua’s eyes turn inward, and I know he is thinking hard on the matter. There is another world behind those eyes.
My heart quivers.
My other sons ask Hanina many questions.
Little Yaakov asks what Rabbi Shammai says on the matter. Rabbi Shammai is the greatest sage in all Israel.
Yosi asks why Yohanan does not go up to Jerusalem, but makes Jerusalem come down to him.
Thin Shimon asks how they know he is a prophet.
Yehuda Dreamhead asks whether Yohanan parts the Jordan, as Joshua did in days of old, when he led our people out of exile from Egypt.
Hanina answers their questions, but I see my Yeshua is not listening. I see what he is thinking. A fist of iron grips my heart.
“Imma.” Yeshua’s eyes shine on me, bright as fire.
“No, Yeshua, please.” The words strangle in my throat. “We have the wedding feast for your sister.” I do not fear for the wedding feast. I fear for myself. Is it selfish to fear for myse
lf, when HaShem has a big work for Yeshua to do? I do not wish to be selfish, but I am afraid. In days of old, they stoned seducing women. In the eyes of the village, I am a seducing woman.
“Imma.”
All the others stare on us.
I am more afraid than I ever was. The Messenger said my son would bring in the kingdom of HaShem. That he would rule in power. That the exile of our people would end. I know my son must be taken from me for a little while to do a big work for HaShem, but I do not want him taken, not for one day.
“Imma, you know I must go and speak with this prophet.”
A sword pierces my heart. The man of HaShem spoke true. To lose my son for one day is to die for that day. I have my other sons, but they are not Yeshua.
“Yes, Imma?” Yeshua’s eyes tell that he is afraid for me. That he loves me more than his own life. That he would do anything within the will of HaShem to protect me.
That he must go.
I want to say no, to throw myself at his feet, to weep and beg and make him repent. But that is not the way of HaShem. I promised the Messenger I would obey. Therefore, I will obey.
“After the wedding feast,” I say.
That is two months more I will have my son with me.
In two months, he can make a justice on me.
He can punish the village for me.
Then he can go and redeem Israel and bring in the kingdom and rule in power.
I only ask HaShem to make a justice on me soon, or else I die.
Yaakov of Nazareth
I love my brother Yeshua.
I hate my brother Yeshua.
Both at the same time.
We have finished our evening meal, and now Yeshua wishes to go speak with this prophet. Soon. I do not think he will wait two months. I think he wishes to go next week.
He must take me with him when he goes. He must.
The women begin cleaning the cooking pot.
We men take our guest Hanina to the village square so all Nazareth will hear the news on this new prophet in Israel.
All the village is already there, waiting. We do not get many visitors to Nazareth.
We sit in the square to hear the news all over again.
As soon as Hanina begins speaking, Yeshua stands and steps backward, away from the crowd. He waits on the edges for a moment, then turns and glides away on silent feet.
I follow him.
He walks north, past the house of Shimon the baker, past a dozen more houses. He passes the leather-man’s house at the end of the village. He passes the stinking piss-pool where the leather-man tans his hides.
He enters the narrows on the way to the spring.
I drift along behind him, silent as Sheol.
At the spring, he sits on the ground and sighs deeply. We are one night past the full moon, and his face shows clearly. He is afraid.
I move forward into the moonlight. “Take me with you.”
His eyebrows leap up, and his mouth opens in a perfect circle. “Little Yaakov! I … how can I take you with me? Our brothers need you. Our sister needs you. Imma needs you.”
I shake my head and sit beside him. “You need me more.”
“I need a word from HaShem.”
I study him intently. “You think to redeem Israel, yes?” I never heard Yeshua say he is to redeem Israel. I never heard Imma or Abba say it. But ever since I was a boy of two, I smelled it in the air. I saw the way Abba and Imma looked on Yeshua. I heard a stray word now and again when they thought I was beyond hearing. I know there was some man of HaShem who spoke a word over Yeshua in the Temple once. All the family thinks Yeshua is to redeem Israel.
Except me.
Yeshua’s face twists in doubt. “I do not know how to redeem Israel. The scriptures do not explain the matter. I need a prophet to explain the matter.”
Yeshua is double-minded, that is his problem. He is fearful and womanish. He does not wish to fight. He does not long to take up the sword. How is he to destroy our enemy?
We have a special word in Hebrew to speak on an enemy of our people, an enemy that wishes to destroy our nation.
That word is satan.
In days of old, the enemy of our nation—the Great Satan—was Babylon. We had a weak king in those days, fearful and womanish, and he led us into a bad war, and we lost, and the Great Satan burned our city and our Temple. The Great Satan killed our men and raped our women. The Great Satan slaved our children seventy years.
Then HaShem brought us back from the Great Satan.
We have a big enemy of our people again, only now it is a different enemy. Now our Great Satan is Rome.
We need a strong king to fight the Great Satan, and this time we must win.
I do not know why Imma and Abba ever thought Yeshua should be king.
I do not know why Yeshua thinks he should be king.
But I know Yeshua is not fit to be king.
Yeshua is a good man, a righteous man—a tsaddik. I love him for his righteousness. He is good and kind. All the village loves him. All but a few.
But he is weak. He is fearful. He is womanish.
Yeshua must never be king. He must never be the anointed king of Israel, the son of David, which we call Mashiach.
Yet he thinks to be Mashiach.
If he tries to be Mashiach, he will take us into a bad war with the Great Satan and we will lose. The Great Satan will burn our city and our Temple. The Great Satan will kill our men and rape our women. The Great Satan will slave our children.
And that is why I hate my brother.
I sometimes think Yeshua has no yetzer hara—no evil inclination. But that cannot be so. Every man ever born has a yetzer hara. Strong men have a strong yetzer hara. Men like our father David the king, who was a man of strong deed and big passion. A man red with the blood of the sword. A man who took any woman he wanted.
Weak men have a weak yetzer hara. They are slow to anger and slow to look with desire on a woman. Maybe they sin less than other men, but they also live less.
I think the man of HaShem told a wrong tale. Or else Abba and Imma misheard him. Or else he was no man of HaShem at all. Yeshua has a weak yetzer hara, and he will never be Mashiach. The man who should be Mashiach is strong and fearless and quick to make decision. Also, the man who should be Mashiach must have no smirch on his name. Yeshua needs me, and he knows it.
I seize Yeshua’s hand. “Take me with you! You are a righteous man, a tsaddik. Any fool can see it. You are a man all Israel will love. But you need a man to take up the sword and be your strong right arm. Take me!”
Yeshua smiles on me. “Little Yaakov, you are strong. You are brave. Our father was proud on you. Our mother loves you. Our brothers admire you and our sisters adore you.”
I hold my breath. He tells me nothing I do not know.
Yeshua leans forward and gives me a kiss and a kiss and a kiss. “And I love you, my brother. You should have been the oldest.”
My heart catches within me. Yes, I should have been oldest. I should have been the one about whom the man of HaShem foretold. I should be Mashiach, because I have the yetzer hara of Mashiach.
My fists clench. “Will you take me with you?”
Something flickers in Yeshua’s face. Some decision, at last. My brother is slow to make a hard choice, but once he makes it, he has some little strength of will.
He stands. “Little Yaakov, come. There is a thing I must tell Imma and our brothers and our sister.”
I leap up on light feet, and my heart beats a mighty rhythm on my ribs. My yetzer hara never felt so strong inside me. I wish I had a sword so I could take it to battle now. I wish my woman were still alive so I could give her a night of a big passion, enough to wake the whole village.
We walk back along the narrow path. I feel the sadness of my leaving heavy on my heart, but I know that in a month or six months or a year, I will return. We will return. As conquerors.
When we reach the village square, Yeshua calls our brothers.
They see the fire in my eyes and the face of quiet decision that Yeshua wears, and they follow us meekly home.
Our women are done with the cleaning. They sit on benches inside our courtyard, enjoying the moonlight. The zonah sits with them, and for a moment I notice the soft roundness of her body under her thin tunic.
Yeshua tugs me forward and waits for quiet.
Imma’s eyes are bright with a big fear.
It will be hard on her to see Yeshua go. Harder to see me leave also, but she has still three sons. My uncle and cousin live in the next house. Imma will be safe.
Yeshua pulls Imma to her feet and gives her a kiss and a kiss and a kiss. When he speaks, his voice cracks with sadness. “Tomorrow I will go to hear a word of HaShem from this prophet Yohanan.”
Imma screams and throws her arms around him. “No! Please! Not so soon!”
My heart shivers. I always had a weakness for the tears of Imma.
Yeshua holds her tight, kissing the top of her head many times.
At last her sobs weaken, but still she clutches him. Her knees have gone soft.
“I will not leave you defenseless,” Yeshua says.
Of course we will not leave her defenseless. Our brothers Yosi and Thin Shimon and Yehuda Dreamhead are almost as big as me, with strong arms and thick hands. None of them has a yetzer hara to match mine, but they are men of courage and they keep their women warm at night. Our mother will be safe with these three to protect her.
Imma sighs with a big sigh and burrows her face in Yeshua’s chest.
Shlomi Dancefeet has great tears streaming down her face.
The zonah stares with her mouth wide open.
“Imma, here is your firstborn son.” Yeshua takes her hand.
He takes my hand. “Little Yaakov, here is your mother. Today and forever, you are the firstborn son.”
Firstborn son? My head feels light and my veins feel on fire and my knees wobble. Yeshua has given me his place. He has given me all.
All but the one thing I wanted most. I want to shout no, but my throat is dry and my voice is stolen.
Son of Mary Page 2