If only Yeshua knew what the Messiah looked like, he would go search for him right away.
Chapter Three
Capernaum, Galilee, AD 6
Yeshua waited all year for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, when he could spend the whole day praying. No one bothered him with petty work or chores. This year, he would put his entire soul into the prayers to make sure God answered all his questions. Because whenever he kept absolutely still, God seemed to be right there with him.
Two days before the holy day, Yosef took his sons for a walk around Capernaum to ask their neighbors’ forgiveness for offenses given in the previous year. Like all good Yehudim, Yeshua offered God’s love to friends and foes alike, as if God had granted him the power to erase sadness and ensure a future free of hardships. He knew his blessings didn’t actually change anyone’s life, but that brief glimmer of hope in their eyes made him warm inside.
The next morning, Yeshua’s father gathered his wife, four sons, and two daughters in the courtyard to practice the Kapparot ritual. Everyone received a newly stitched cotton handkerchief and two coins. “Tie the money into the handkerchief and swing it—like this!”
The children watched wide-eyed as their otherwise stern father swung the bundle over his head like a monkey. Even their mother giggled behind her scarf.
“Accept the coins, Lord!” Abba called up into the sky. “Gather them from me as payment for my sins.”
The children whirled their bundles with frenzy, especially Yakov, whose coins flew out of his hand not once but three times. And when they all agreed that God had accepted their plea, they walked through the town to offer their coins to someone in need.
Ama and Abba both gave their coins of atonement to the widow next door, as did the well-behaved toddlers, Iosa and Shimon. When nine-year-old Yakov wanted to offer his coins to the miller, Abba’s face turned beet red and his hand rose for a slap. Yeshua quickly pushed his way in between his father and Yakov, who had huddled down to wait for the impact.
“Why in the name of Abraham would you waste your offering on a lousy drunkard?” Abba’s voice rang sharp.
Yakov shrugged. “He needs the money.”
“He squanders his money on wine!”
Yakov stood tall on his toes and stared into his father’s eyes. “He’s got to eat too, Abba, just like us.”
Yakov could stare down anyone, but Abba was tougher. What would the neighbors say if he allowed his son to waste his hard-earned money on someone who drank all day and then cried on the streets at night because he had nothing to eat?
At last, Abba broke his stare. “Very well, son, it’s your choice. I do not condone it, but God has awarded you the right to select your recipient.”
Little Miriam, who always did whatever Yakov did, also gave her coins to the miller, then watched in sadness as the miller rushed off to the inn. Their coins would be gone in a heartbeat.
Yeshua thought long and hard. Who deserved his money the most? Salome, his angelic little sister, pushed her long hair out of her amber eyes and squeezed his hand. She glanced toward the house where a one-legged soldier lived, but Yeshua shook his head. Their parents would draw the line at helping a Roman. Instead, Yeshua steered his family toward the outskirts of town, where the lanes merged into fields. He stopped in front of a run-down shed with damaged window shutters. A soiled blanket covered the entrance. From inside came moans and sighs.
“Let us return, Yeshua, it’s not safe.” Ama spread her arms in front of her family to block their way.
At that moment, a leper stumbled out of the house. A torn robe shrouded his skeletal body, and a scarf covered his mouth, exposing only his blistered cheeks and forehead. His cloudy eyes rolled back in his head like those of a rabid animal.
Yeshua released Salome’s hand and gathered his courage.
“May God bless you, my friend. Happy Yom Kippur,” Yeshua said as he held out the handkerchief with the coins. The leper snatched at the bundle like a viper, before Yeshua could change his mind.
Salome shifted her weight from one leg to the other, staring at her feet. She clutched her coins so hard that her knuckles turned white.
Yeshua gently unwrapped her fingers and took the money from her hand. “Is it all right with you?”
When she nodded, he dropped her coins into the leper’s palm, not even flinching at the finger stumps the disease had left behind.
“May God’s light always shine on you,” the leper said, gushing with gratitude.
Yeshua’s heart bubbled with happiness. But when he stepped forward to embrace the leper, Abba yanked him back.
“Enough!”
As they walked away, Yeshua turned and waved to the leper. He had made the right decision; this poor man had been the most deserving of them all.
During the prefasting dinner that night, as they sat on mats around the platters of food, Abba blessed the bread and asked his children to explain the reasons for their decisions. Yeshua listened as the others spoke, but couldn’t get one thought out of his mind. “Abba, why do lepers have to live like that, in hiding?”
“In hiding? They merely live outside the center. It is the town rule, a manner of managing disease. Elsewise, we might all be contaminated.”
“But why can’t people just leave food for them? You know, outside their house? They’re hungry. I’ve heard they don’t even die from leprosy; they starve to death.”
“That’s not true, son. Many families grant them weekly provisions and food. You know very well it’s our obligation as Yehudim to help others.”
“Then why does the rabbi say lepers need to show the world how impure they are? They’re not impure, Abba; they’re sick!” Yeshua couldn’t sit still any longer. His stomach cramped at the thought of those lepers suffering. They hadn’t done anything wrong. “And who says they have to rip their tunics and destroy their garments like that? And grow their hair long? Why can’t people let them live in peace?”
“No one wants to fall ill, agreed? It’s a means of protecting ourselves.”
“But how would you feel, Abba, if you had to wear your disease like that? Don’t they suffer enough? Of course they’ll stay away; they won’t want others to suffer as they do. But they should be treated like men, not animals.”
Ama cleared away the food, avoiding another heated discussion.
Yeshua clenched his mouth shut. His father was the man of the house. He might be wrong, but he deserved respect.
Abba turned to his oldest daughter. “And how do you justify your charity?”
Salome raised her head like a proud heron and straightened her back. “Everyone needs to eat. Like the miller, even if most of his money goes to drink.” She glanced at Yakov. “But the lepers, they can’t work. At all. They need us to help them, and that’s why.”
Abba smiled and patted her head, ignoring Yeshua. He took another helping of soup and looked at his children. Yeshua sighed, relieved. Once again, sweet Salome had saved him. She always knew how to mellow her father’s rage.
Hearing that the bickering had subsided, Ama returned and sat next to her husband so he could light the oil lamps and recite the blessings for the holy day to begin.
At dawn, Yeshua woke with a grumbling stomach and a heart filled with excitement. Yom Kippur had arrived at last! It didn’t matter that he wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything until sunset; he could weather the hunger. He pulled the blanket off Yakov and Iosa, who were sleeping beside him, and together they tiptoed into their parents’ room to wake them; time to go to the morning service.
Moments later, Yeshua sat cross-legged in prayer in the synagogue. Beside him, his three younger brothers struggled to sit still in silence. And before long, they were all pinching one another as hard as they could while trying their best not to laugh and squeal.
This year, Yeshua had warned his brothers not to touch him. His father had promised that if he behaved, he would finally teach him to read. But that wasn’t the whole truth. Yeshua longed for
quiet reflection, yearned to spend time thinking about the deeper meanings of the scriptures. The rabbi always said that every action or thought was returned manifold. A kind act could turn the meanest bully into a lamb, and God would punish any misbehavior. The Buddhist monks he met said that all sentient beings—animals and humans—had equal rights to happiness. It made sense. Because God loved everyone, not just the Yehudim. What had the Hindu trader said? “Why would there be a reservoir when there is flooding everywhere?” That had to be the truth.
He closed his eyes and turned his attention to the singsong of the rabbi’s voice. A warm feeling enveloped him, and he drifted into nothingness. Into love. And in his mind, a light flickered, and a soundless voice spoke to him: My son, it said. Your holiness is the redemption of the world. You will spend your life serving me and teaching others about salvation.
Yeshua blinked awake and looked around. Who had spoken? His brothers? No, they still tumbled around, teasing one another. All the grown-ups swayed in prayer, their eyes focused on the rabbi. Yeshua shrugged; he must have been dreaming. He sat up straight and caught up with the chanting. He knew the verses well.
Adonai, the true Lord, may you always be with us;
Manifest your presence.
You created our spirits and guide us in the light;
And wwe praise you. Amen.
By the end of the day, Yeshua’s brothers were asleep on the carpeted synagogue floor, exhausted from a long, tiresome day of prayers and from having to behave. Yakov whined in his sleep; this was his first year of fasting on Yom Kippur. Yeshua was hungry, too, but in a different way. His stomach was empty, but his spirit was filled with light. The rabbi’s sermon on forgiveness and charity had inspired him, and his dream had given him hope. Yom Kippur marked a new beginning: all past sins were forgiven, and their names were inscribed in God’s Book of Life with the promise of a good year ahead. Oh, how Yeshua loved the Yehudi traditions!
When the ram’s horn blared to mark the end of Yom Kippur, Yeshua woke Yakov with a shove, and they chased each other back to the house, where platters of food awaited them in the courtyard. Without pause, Yakov and Yeshua stuffed their mouths with olives, bread, horse beans, meats, and fruits.
“What is this?” Abba slammed the gate behind him. “Is my house invaded by beasts?” Yeshua and Yakov put their food down, laughing nervously as they backed away, then watched their father sit down to eat, showing them how it should be done. With dignity. With presence. With gratitude. Relishing every bite.
Chapter Four
Capernaum, Galilee, AD 8
The year Yeshua turned twelve, he joined his parents on his first pilgrimage to the holy city of Jerusalem to celebrate Pesach. The temple had filled his daydreams for years; in them, he wandered around its holy grounds and knelt down in prayer at the altar. He couldn’t believe the time had finally arrived to visit the source of his dreams.
Yakov, as always, made fun of him. “Hey, it’s just a building, you know. Stones and mortar, that’s all it is.”
Yeshua ignored him.
“It’s no different from our synagogue—and you go there every Sabbath.” Yakov laughed. “They’ve even got the same rabbis, the same prayers, the same offering tables.”
It wasn’t the same at all. Yeshua twisted his brother’s arm as hard as he could, but Yakov just grinned and pulled away.
“You think some kind of magic will happen when you’re there? That God will reach down and touch you?”
Yeshua’s cheeks burned. That was exactly what he hoped. He wanted another sign from God that he was special, that his dream had been real, that he had a purpose in life. He wanted the priests to notice how wise and devoted he was and tell him he should teach the word of God even though he hadn’t been born into a priestly family.
“You’re a fool,” Yeshua said, and walked away. He left the house and went around the corner to the workshop, where he picked up an ax and hit a piece of almond wood over and over, until the floor was covered with splinters. Were his dreams just fantasies? What if he went to Jerusalem and everyone treated him like any other ignorant Galilean boy? But no, surely the high priest would notice him in the crowd and understand how special he was. Wouldn’t he?
On the day before the journey, Yeshua’s grandmother arrived to tend the younger children at home while Yeshua and his parents traveled to Jerusalem.
“My little wonder boy,” she said, and hugged Yeshua so hard he couldn’t breathe. She was old and thin but stronger than many men. “How you’ve grown, Yeshua. You’re almost a man now.”
Yeshua straightened his back. Almost a man!
“Yeshua wants to be a priest,” Yakov cried out with a mock-serious face.
“No, I don’t!”
Yeshua kicked Yakov’s shin, but his father, quick as an adder, grabbed the kicking leg.
“Children, behave. This is a celebration. I do not want to hear another quip from either of you tonight. Understood?”
Yeshua pursed his lips. No one seemed to understand him. He took a seat next to his father and ate in silence as the grown-ups continued their boring conversations about who had gotten married and who had died, gossiping about people in his mother’s village he had never met.
Early the next morning, Yeshua and his parents set off for Jerusalem. The roads were crammed with families making their way south. Antlike rows of people approached from every direction across a panorama of dusty hills. Here and there, weathered pilgrims paused to enjoy a meal or take a nap before they continued to the next village. And far too often, they passed a group of fools gathered around a self-proclaimed prophet who filled their minds with strange ideas about the coming Messiah. Abba rushed his family past them, afraid their false teachings would stick to them like a rash.
They walked all day with only a break for lunch and stayed at inns at nights, rushing through Galilee and Samaria to reach Aunt Elisheba’s house in Judea before the beginning of Pesach. On the way, Yeshua made friends with Aaron and Levi, two boys from a village on the western shore of Lake Kinneret who were also on their first pilgrimage to Jerusalem. They were excited about seeing the temple, but they were even more eager to become men and get married. They went on and on about girls, changing their minds at a whim about which girl they would choose. When Yeshua tried to discuss important matters with them, like the true meaning of Pesach, their eyes glazed over. And when he asked them why they thought God saved only the Yehudim firstborns from the plague and whether all babies wouldn’t be innocent, Aaron threw a ball at him and laughed. Yeshua felt nothing but relief when their ways parted.
In a village just outside of Jerusalem, Aunt Elisheba and Cousin Yochanan welcomed them with hugs and kisses, praising God they had made a safe journey. When his parents excused themselves to rest, Yochanan dragged Yeshua up to the roof.
“You and I are going to sleep here!” Yochanan pointed at a couple of sleeping mats. “It will be great. We can spy on all the pilgrims coming through the village and bombard them with pebbles.”
“Pebbles?” Yeshua had never met his cousin before, but he seemed wild. His cousin’s hair hung long and unkempt as if it hadn’t been combed for months. But his clothes were clean, and despite everything else, he had a pleasant freckled face.
“Small stones.” Yochanan punched Yeshua’s shoulder and laughed. “I’m just joking, cousin. Let’s just look at all the pretty girls.”
That sounded a lot better, because Yeshua didn’t want to cause trouble. The worst thing that could happen now was if his parents forbid him to visit the temple.
Downstairs, the front door slammed.
The color drained from Yochanan’s face. “Uh-oh. It’s Abba!” He gulped, eyes wide. “We must go downstairs. Now!”
In the dining room, Uncle Zekharyah greeted Yeshua’s parents with the customary “Peace be unto you.”
Yeshua shuddered as he approached his uncle. Piercing black eyes peered out from the many wrinkles of his face, and an oversized nose formed a
beak over his scowl. How could this menacing man be a servant of God? Yeshua forced a quiet “Peace be unto you” and returned to safety behind his father.
Aunt Elisheba bid them to sit on plush cushions around a low table covered with an embroidered golden cloth in the dining parlor. Tall oil lamps cast a warm light over the many platters of food and on the colorful tapestries on the walls. In front of every seat was a plate with food that Yeshua knew represented their ancestors’ flight from Egypt.
Uncle Zekharyah filled a silver goblet with wine and recited the kiddush blessing to sanctify the first night of the Seder. In unison, they raised their glasses of wine and sipped. Aunt Elisheba proceeded to circle the table and pour water over everyone’s hands to symbolize ritual purification.
As the youngest members of the family, Yeshua and Yochanan took turns asking questions about the story behind Pesach, and the grown-ups replied by reading from the Haggadah. By the time the meal started, Yeshua’s stomach was growling with hunger. He devoured his serving of grilled lamb, egg, unleavened bread, and figs. The wine numbed his mind and Yeshua relaxed, no longer frightened of his uncle.
With their bellies stuffed, Yochanan and Yeshua were asked to search every corner of the house for the hidden bread, and when they found it, they all welcomed the spirit of Elijah into the house.
After the fourth and last ceremonial glass of wine, Yeshua crawled up to the roof to sleep. He lay on his back and watched the moon move in circles. If he closed one eye, it stopped for a moment, and then it started rotating again. His stomach felt queasy, but the exhaustion from walking for four long days had caught up with him, and within moments he was fast asleep, snoring like a little field mouse.
The Transmigrant Page 2