Transgression

by R. S. Ingermanson

  Ari rounded a corner, skidded slightly, righted himself, and accelerated.

  Then his foot landed wrong on a lemon-sized stone in the street, and his ankle twisted beneath him. He cursed just before he hit the ground.

  He lost only a second, rolling once, landing on his knees, scrambling halfway to his feet, scooping up the backpack that had fallen off his left shoulder. Too late.

  The man slammed into him.

  Ari pitched over backward into the dirt. He rolled to his left, grabbed the backpack, and held it up as a shield.

  Then he heard another shout from up the street. His attacker stepped back, fear lighting up his eyes. Ari’s hands closed on a stone in the dust beside him. It was too small, but it would have to do. Still lying on his back, Ari slung the stone awkwardly at his attacker. Pinpoint!

  The man screamed like a woman, turned, and staggered away.

  Ari leaped to his feet and spun around to face whatever danger had frightened his attacker. He saw a young man with a black beard running toward him. The man slowed down and then stopped. He said something Ari couldn’t understand in a voice that sounded friendly. He looked absolutely unafraid.

  Ari held up both hands to show that he was unarmed. “Shalom,” he said. “Do you know anyone who speaks Hebrew?”

  Surprise flashed across the young man’s face. “I do. Do you not understand Aramaic?”

  “No,” Ari said. “I speak only Hebrew.”

  “Are you a Pharisee?” the stranger asked. “Who taught you Hebrew?”

  Ari grinned at that idea. Pharisees, he remembered, were the precursors to the Haredim, who had made his teenage years so miserable. “No, I am not a Pharisee. I learned Hebrew from my parents.”

  The young man studied Ari for a long moment. The quiet strength in his eyes made Ari feel comfortable, at home. “I doubt that you are a bandit, anyway.” He stepped nearer and smiled. “My name is called Baruch.”

  “I am called Ari.”

  “A strange name,” Baruch said. His smile broadened.

  “It is common in my country, and so also is your name.”

  “Have you come for the feast?” Baruch asked.

  What feast? It was too late in the year for Pesach, too early for Sukkot. Therefore, it must be Shavuot. If a feast was on the agenda, he would certainly attend. “Yes, I have come for the feast.”

  “Why are you alone at night?” Baruch asked. “It is dangerous in the streets when the bandits come to Jerusalem for the feasts.”

  “I have nowhere to stay,” Ari said.

  “Did you come to Jerusalem with no money?” Baruch’s eyes glowed with sympathy.

  Ari nodded. “I arrived late today and could find no food and no shelter.”

  “Then you will stay with me,” Baruch said. “I see that you are honest, although not wise. Come with me and learn wisdom.”

  Ari smiled. “I would like that, yes.”

  They began walking back up the street together.

  “And why were you out so late at night?” Ari asked.

  “I was praying with friends in my synagogue,” Baruch said. “I do not fear the bandits, nor any man. I fear only HaShem.”

  Ari smiled. HaShem. The Name. It was a term used by the Orthodox to refer to God without despoiling his name. Amazing that so little had changed in twenty centuries. Ari decided that he liked his new friend very much. Baruch had a direct way of speaking that would have sounded arrogant from most men. From him, it was simply the plain and unvarnished truth.

  “And what sort of synagogue do you belong to?” Ari asked, just to make conversation. Immediately he realized it was an absurd question. There wasn’t any such distinction as Orthodox, Conservative, or Reform in ancient Jerusalem.

  “My synagogue is called Shomrei HaDerech,” Baruch said.

  Ari nodded. Guardians of the Road. From anyone else, it would have sounded ridiculous, like one of those strange Islamic zealot groups. But Baruch was clearly not strange, nor Islamic, nor a zealot. He reminded Ari of the old Hasidic rabbi who had tried to teach him Torah, years ago. Simple, kind, fervent, wise.

  “I am glad you speak Hebrew,” Ari said. “I had some difficulties earlier today.”

  “We love the Torah in my synagogue,” Baruch said. “I am sorry if my speech is awkward. I do not normally speak Hebrew. I only read it and pray the prayers.”

  “You speak very well,” Ari said. His stomach rumbled again.

  “Are you hungry?” Baruch asked. He stopped in front of a small stone building and unlocked the door.

  “I have not eaten today,” Ari said. “I…lost a friend while we were traveling, and I had no money to buy food.”

  “The day after tomorrow, we can look for him,” Baruch said.

  Ari resisted the urge to correct Baruch’s misunderstanding. There would be time for that later.

  Baruch shut the door behind them and locked it. An olive oil lamp burned in a niche inset into the stone wall. Baruch had obviously left it burning before Shabbat, so as not to violate the commandments by making fire. Ari’s stepfather had always insisted on doing this with the electric lights—a fact which had nearly driven Ari mad as a teenager. For some reason, it didn’t bother him nearly as much that Baruch did so. Baruch had an excuse for his superstitions, for his ignorance of modern science. There was no modern science yet.

  Ari looked around the room. A pool of water filled the left side of the house—a mikveh, for purification. On the right, under the light, he saw a stone table with wooden stools. Bread and cheese and a wineskin lay on the table.

  “Sit,” Baruch said.

  Ari sat on one of the stools and almost reached for the bread. Just in time, he thought better of it.

  Baruch sat across from him. “Baruch attah Adonai, Eloheinu, Melech ha-olam, ha motzi lechem min ha-aretz!”

  Ari had heard the traditional blessing ten thousand times growing up. It had annoyed him mightily at the age of fourteen. It did not annoy him now. After all, Baruch had never read Darwin, nor Freud, nor Dirac. How could he know that man lived alone in an unfeeling universe? He could not. Therefore, he attributed all things to a nonexistent higher power. Ari could hardly condemn him for his ignorance. And besides, Ari felt truly grateful for this food, so it seemed fitting to express thanks, even if to a nonentity.

  “Amen!” Ari said. He reached for the bread and tore off a chunk.

  “You must explain the writing on your tunic.” Baruch pointed at the Maxwell equations on Ari’s shirt. “I feel certain that it is important, and yet it makes no sense to me.”

  Ari wondered how he could possibly explain. The Maxwell equations completely defined the behavior of light, magnetism, electricity. None of this would make sense to Baruch. Except light. “It tells how HaShem created the world.”

  Baruch’s face began shining. “I must understand this wonderful thing, how HaShem created the world. Is it permitted that men should know such a thing? Can you explain it to me?”

  Ari thought he could, but he suspected he would get himself stoned as a heretic. “Another time, perhaps. It is very deep wisdom. Tell me the news of Jerusalem.”

  Baruch’s face tightened. “The news is not good,” he said. “Renegade Saul has returned.”

  Ari raised his eyebrows. “I am not familiar with that name.”

  “It is a long story,” Baruch said. Anger flickered in his eyes.

  “We have time,” Ari said. “Tell me, my friend.” He was hungry and thought he would probably be at the table for quite a while. It would be interesting to hear what sort of renegade could upset a man as well-centered as Baruch.

  * * *

  Rivka

  “Tell me your story,” Rivka said, when she had finished her meal. “Why do you trust my friend Damien?”

  “Because he tells no lies.”

  “Then why do you trust me?” Rivka said. “You told me today that I am an honest person who tells many lies. Why do you say that?”

  “Why did you lie?” H
ana asked. “You are honest. Your spirit is light, but your words are dark. I do not understand you. When you lie to me, the voices tell me.”

  “Voices?” Rivka said. A cold feeling settled into her chest. Great. So Hana was a paranoid schizophrenic or something.

  “Yes, the truth-tellers,” Hana said. “When someone lies to me, the truth-tellers warn me.”

  “How long have you been hearing these truth-tellers?”

  “Since my husband died,” Hana said. “That is the story I wanted to tell you. He left me a little money, but it was soon gone to pay my rent and buy food. Then I became hungry. I went to the Temple to ask for a share of the poor-basket, but the priests told me I was too young to register as a widow.”

  “How old were you?” Rivka asked.

  “I was fifteen,” Hana said. “So I came home, and I fell asleep crying. I dreamed that I beat the priests with sticks. It gave me happiness to beat them until they cried out. When I awoke in the morning, I heard the truth-tellers. They said that I should go to the Pool of Siloam and wait, and that I would never go hungry again.”

  Rivka found herself struggling to breathe. “So you…”

  “I went to the pool, and there I met a woman named Martha who helped me. She taught me how to stand and how to walk to make men hungry.”

  Rivka closed her eyes. “And what about the truth-tellers?”

  “They protect me,” Hana said. “One day, a man came looking for a water carrier. Martha went away with him.”

  “And…?” A nameless dread clawed at Rivka’s insides.

  “And her body was found outside the gates of the city,” Hana said. “It has happened several times. The truth-tellers show me who can be trusted and who cannot. I protect all the women there. I did not see Martha go, or I would have warned her.”

  Rivka said nothing for a long time. It was a strange tale. How much was real, and how much fantasy? How could Hana make decisions based on voices in her head?

  Probably those were the wrong questions, she decided. To Hana, it was all very real. She would have no concept of fantasy. And everyone made decisions based on voices inside their heads. Most people’s stream of consciousness was vocalized in an interior voice. If you could accept one voice, why not several?

  Clearly, Hana had had a horrible life, and this was how she protected herself. Rivka felt tears rolling down her cheeks, and she brushed them away. Finally, she asked, “What about my friend Damien?”

  “He is your friend, but he is not your friend,” Hana said. “He is from your country, but he is not from your country. He is a man who walks backward. I do not know what this means, but the truth-tellers say that he walks backward. Do you understand me, Rivka?”

  “Yes,” Rivka said.

  “You are telling the truth,” Hana said. “And you are also lying. How can this be, Rivka? I do not understand it at all.”

  “It is very difficult.” Rivka opened her eyes. “I will try to explain it when I understand better myself.”

  Hana was staring at her intently. She continued studying Rivka for some time. “You have a question you wish to ask me.”

  Rivka shook her head.

  “You do have a question. Ask it.”

  Rivka didn’t believe in the truth-tellers, but obviously Hana had a very well-honed sense of intuition. It wouldn’t do any good to lie to Hana. “I was just wondering something about Jerusalem.” She paused, wondering how to phrase this. “Are there any Jews here who are called Notzrim?” That was the modern Hebrew word for Christians. What would it be in the first century?

  Hana’s face twisted in puzzlement. “No, who are these people?”

  “It is a sect,” Rivka said. “Like…Pharisees, or Sadducees, or Essenes.”

  “There are many sects,” Hana said. “Every year, a new prophet arises, claiming to be Eliyahu or Mashiach.” Bitterness edged her voice. “Every year, the Romans kill a prophet. Last year, there was a man from God who came out of Egypt.”

  Rivka nodded. The so-called “Egyptian” mentioned in Acts and Josephus. The man presumably came from the huge Jewish community in Alexandria, the biggest city in Egypt.

  “He was lucky,” Hana said. “The Romans chased him away into the wilderness. Many of our people died.”

  Rivka felt like weeping. She had read about all this in her history books and had felt bad about it. But it was different when you heard about it firsthand.

  “Now you must tell me, who are these Notzrim?” Hana said.

  “There was a prophet, about thirty years ago, who came from Nazareth,” Rivka said. “His name was called Yeshua, and many of our people thought he was HaMashiach.”

  “Was he killed by the chief priests for sorcery?” Hana said.

  “The Romans killed him,” Rivka said. “But yes, the chief priests gave him over to them.”

  Hana nodded. “I know of this man and his followers. They are not called Notzrim. They are called HaDerech.”

  HaDerech. The Way. Rivka saw it at once. How obvious! The Book of Acts mentioned “The Way” or “this way” several times, early on. Then the term disappeared, as the story moved from Jerusalem to Samaria to Antioch, and on to the empire at large. But it made sense that the original name had stuck, at least in the city of origin.

  “Tell me about HaDerech,” Rivka said.

  Hana shrugged. “There is not much to tell. They are known to be righteous men. Many of them are Pharisees.”

  That went with what Rivka knew. The Book of Acts made it clear that a large number of Pharisees had entered the Jesus Movement in the forties and fifties. The reasons for this were unclear, given the running battles between Jesus and the Pharisees during his lifetime. However, if you took Acts seriously, then you had to accept that things changed at some point.

  Not everyone took it seriously, of course. It was an uncomfortable claim. Modern Jews preferred to believe that the early Christian movement was essentially pagan in origin—ergo, Ari’s notion of Jesus as an avatar myth. Conservative Christians found it hard to believe that the “early church” could have found room for “legalistic Pharisees.” Liberal Christians didn’t take any of Acts seriously—too many miracle stories.

  It seemed that only two groups took any notice of these Pharisees in the Jesus Movement: Messianic Jews and historians. And nobody paid much attention to either of them.

  “So tell me more,” Rivka said.

  Hana shrugged. “Most of the followers of HaDerech live near David’s tomb. That is all I know. Are you a member of HaDerech? Why do you ask me for information?”

  “Because I am new to Jerusalem,” Rivka said. “I would like to meet some of them.”

  “I can show you where they live,” Hana said. “But I will not go there with you.” She wrinkled her nose. “I do not care for Pharisees, and they do not care for me.”

  Rivka reached out and touched Hana’s arm. “I care.”

  Hana looked at her sadly. “Yes, you are different. You are not a Pharisee, yet still you are a righteous woman. They will not hate you. Shall I show you where they live tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” Rivka said.

  “It is late,” Hana said. “We must sleep now.”

  Rivka stood up and yawned mightily. Who knew what tomorrow would hold? Would she meet James, the brother of Yeshua? Shimon, cousin of James? The apostle Paul?

  And what would Dr. West do if he met any of these men? Maybe one of them would convert him. Oh, right. Like Dr. West was going to get converted by meeting somebody who didn’t speak English. She was nuts if she thought that was going to happen.

  * * *

  Ari

  “Tell me about Renegade Saul,” Ari said.

  Baruch’s eyes narrowed. “I know only what I hear, but the stories are very bad.”

  “So tell me.”

  “I am a Pharisee, and the son of a Pharisee,” Baruch said. “I love Torah. Torah tells us how to live for HaShem and how to live with our brothers.”

  “With all men?”
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  “Not all men, of course not. The goyim are evil. We are not commanded to live at peace with them. But we are commanded to live at peace with our brother Jews. The way of Torah is the way of peace and life.”

  Ari nodded, though he did not believe this. Not much had changed in the last couple of thousand years. Baruch would feel perfectly at home in the ultraorthodox synagogue of Ari’s stepfather. It all sounded nice in theory, but this talk of “the way of peace and life” ended the minute you disagreed with them. At least, that was how it had been for Ari, growing up in Haifa in a community that rejected the rational and embraced authoritarianism.

  “Renegade Saul claims also to be a Pharisee, and yet his actions are not those of one who follows Torah. He travels among the goyim, and we hear that he eats with them. We hear that he urges our brothers who live among the goyim to abandon the commandments. We hear that he teaches Jew and goy to pray together.”

  Sudden realization flashed through Ari’s brain. Renegade Saul!

  At Princeton, Ari had known an Israeli named Meir who went by the name of Mark. At MIT, he had met a Leah who called herself Lynn when not home in Brooklyn. Many Jews had Gentile names that sounded like their Jewish ones. Ari had never read the Christian New Testament, but he did know about a man named Paul. Which sounded suspiciously like Saul. Coincidence?

  Ari cleared his throat. “My friend, does this Renegade Saul have another name among the goyim?”

  Baruch frowned. “I have heard that he is sometimes called by a Greek name—Paulos—which means little. It is a fitting name because he is very short.”

  Paulos. Paul. It had to be him! Ari smiled a little. Well then. That explained Baruch’s antagonism to Renegade Saul. So here he was, the great avatar mythmaker himself, Paul of Tarsus, alienating real Jews. No wonder Baruch was upset. “Why has Renegade Saul come to Jerusalem?”

  Baruch shrugged. “For Shavuot, of course. The same reason you have come.”

  Ari nodded impatiently. He didn’t want to get into that right now. “So tell me more about Renegade Saul. Is there some man he admires very much?” That would be called a leading question in a court of law, but Ari didn’t care. He wanted to find out if the whole mythmaking scheme had begun yet, or whether it was still future. Whatever, this would be interesting to take back to Rivka. If he could prove to her that Jesus was just a myth, she might rethink her position.