by Angela Hunt
“Then let the door contain your livestock and not the dog,” I answered. “And be at peace with your neighbor.”
As I suspected, some men were reluctant to bring their cases to me—after all, I was a woman. But after I reminded an audience that HaShem told Abraham to listen to the voice of his wife, my reputation grew. Those who sought an audience with me came to understand that I was not young and uneducated, nor was I foolish.
One morning I was startled to see a man standing before me with a firm grip on his young wife. He complained that she refused to sleep with him because she had found a younger man she preferred. “I know what she is doing,” he said. “She thinks that by denying me I will divorce her, and she will be free to marry another.”
My husband, even my uncle, would rarely speak to a woman in a public gathering, but I had no compunctions about conversing with someone of my own gender. “Does your husband speak the truth?” I asked, giving the woman a stern look. “Are you refusing to lie with him because you want to marry someone else?”
A blush brightened the young woman’s face. “He comes home dirty from his work and never bathes. He expects me to lie with him when he’s filthy.”
I shifted my attention back to the petitioner. “Do you wash before you take your wife to bed?”
A tide of dusky red crawled up his throat. “Why should I? A wife should be glad her husband comes home soiled from honest work.”
“You should wash,” I told him. I looked at the wife. “And you should have a basin and pitcher waiting. Help him get clean, then you can sleep together. Keep your attention set on your own man, and not on another. Care for him, and he will become precious to you.”
“Is that what you do?” the young woman asked. “Care for that youth you call a husband?”
The question caught me off guard. “My husband . . .” I paused and changed my approach. “The issue here is not my marriage but yours. Be tender with your husband, and he will treat you well. The Torah commands us to be fruitful and multiply, so go home and obey.”
When they had finally departed, I leaned back in my chair and exhaled in contentment. How things had changed in seven years! I would always be older than my husband, and Jannaeus would always be more concerned with his desires and ambitions than mine. But he had given me two beautiful children, and he seemed to respect me. Indeed, he was probably grateful for me, because my willingness to accept some of his responsibilities gave him the freedom to pursue the things he enjoyed.
The young woman’s personal question might have embarrassed me . . . if I had not accepted my situation as an unusual blessing from HaShem.
Kissa mouthed words as her finger moved from right to left across the scroll. “‘Then he believed in Adonai,’” she read aloud slowly, “‘and He reckoned it to him as righteousness.’”
She looked up. “Abram believed?”
I lowered the scroll I’d been trying to read. “Yes.”
“What did he believe?”
I blew out a breath. Kissa had made great strides in reading Hebrew, but she struggled with understanding why we Jews felt so strongly about keeping the Law. “He believed Adonai’s promise to make him a great nation and give him the Promised Land.”
Kissa’s gaze returned to the scroll. “And your God was happy with simple belief?”
“Yes. Abram was counted as a righteous man.”
“If belief makes one righteous, then why do you live by so many rules?”
“Because later Adonai gave Moses the Law. Those who would be righteous keep the Law.”
“But do they believe?” Kissa lifted a brow. “Because I am your handmaid, I have lived by your laws for years. I remain inside when I am bleeding, I rest on the Sabbath, and I do not eat forbidden foods. Am I righteous?”
Something in her tone made me stop. Was she? She did keep the Law as I did, but she did it to avoid offending me, not Adonai.
I bit my lip and looked at her. “Do you believe in Adonai?”
She stared into space for a moment, then shrugged. “I do not know.”
I floundered, not knowing what else to say. If she did not believe in Adonai, then keeping the Law was of no benefit to her. “I am glad you keep the Law,” I said, carefully feeling my way, “though I know you do it for me and not for Adonai.”
“There is so much I do not understand,” she said, turning to face me. “I have read your Torah three times, and each time I am more confused.”
I straightened, confident in my years of Torah study. “Please explain. I don’t understand why you are confused.”
“Here.” She pointed to a section of the scroll. “Moses gave Israel the Law and said they would break it and go into exile. You have told me that your people did go into exile in Babylon.”
“That is right. Moses was a prophet as well as a leader.”
Kissa shrugged. “If your God knew the Law would be broken, why did He give it to you?”
I closed my eyes and fervently wished that Simeon ben Shetah were sitting beside me. He would have an answer.
“The Law was broken,” I said, “and Israel was exiled. But at the end of the seventy years prophesied by Jeremiah, we were allowed to return. Now we live in the land promised to Abraham—not all of it, but Uncle is working to reclaim the rest of Israel’s territory.”
Kissa lifted both brows and nodded slowly. “So now you all endeavor to keep the Law even though you could not keep it when it was first given to you.”
“That is true.” I was dismayed to hear a note of uncertainty in my voice. “Because if Israel keeps the Law perfectly, HaShem will bless us. We will also be counted righteous enough for HaShem to send His Messiah and usher in His kingdom.”
“So you think every Jew can keep the Law perfectly?” Kissa made a face and returned to the scroll. “Who is this Messiah?”
“The Anointed One who will come in the last days.”
Kissa shot me a frightened look. “The last days of what?”
“The last days of this cursed earth,” I answered, though I felt more uncertain than ever. “Can these questions wait? I would like to consult with Simeon ben Shetah before answering further.”
Kissa tapped the scroll. “So you don’t know.”
“No, but I will find out.”
I would not have objected if we remained in Sepphoris for the rest of our lives. Though I would always love Jerusalem, I came to appreciate the quiet beauty of the hills beside the Sea of Galilee. The Gentiles of the area looked at us with curiosity, and I hoped Jannaeus and I could be examples of righteous Law-keepers who had earned the blessings of Adonai.
Spurred in part by Kissa’s penetrating questions, I began to correspond with Simeon ben Shetah. I asked him about the last days, and he wrote to tell me that in the Torah, Moses mentioned the last days four times.
“First,” he wrote, “when Jacob called his sons together for a blessing, he said he would tell them what would happen to their descendants in the last days. When Balaam tried to curse Israel, he foretold what would happen to Israel in the last days—a star will come from Jacob, and a scepter will arise from Israel. In Moses’ final song, he prophesied that Israel would do evil, and evil would fall on our people in the last days. Moses also said that when we were in distress, in the last days we would return to Adonai and listen to His voice. He would not abandon us or destroy us or forget the covenant with our fathers.
“So do not despair, Shelamzion,” Simeon added. “We did forsake the Law and go into exile. But we have been restored, so surely we are entering the days in which our Messiah will come.”
My question must have stirred something within him, for a few weeks later I received another letter in which he called my attention to a prophecy of Isaiah:
He treated lightly the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali,
But in the future He will bring glory—
By the way of the sea,
Beyond the Jordan—
Galilee of the Gentiles.
> The people walking in darkness will see a great light.
Upon those dwelling in the land of the shadow of death,
Light will shine.
You will multiply the nation.
You will increase the joy. . . .
For unto us a child is born,
A son will be given to us,
And the government will be upon His shoulder.
His Name will be called
Wonderful Counselor,
Mighty God
My Father of Eternity,
Prince of Peace.
Of the increase of His government
And shalom there will be no end—
On the throne of David and over His kingdom—
To establish it and uphold it
Through justice and righteousness from now until forevermore.
The zeal of Adonai-Tzva’ot will accomplish this.
“You are living in Galilee,” Simeon concluded, “the territory allotted to the tribes of Zebulun and Naphtali. The prophet foretold that one day the land will be filled with the glory of Adonai. So I must know—have you seen it?”
Had I? The question puzzled me, and for several days I looked at my husband’s petitioners with new eyes. Could one of them be the Anointed One? Was one of them destined to sit on the throne of David?
Or—more daring still—could the prophet have been speaking of one of my sons? Surely they were more likely to be chosen than one of the Galileans. Perhaps Hyrcanus would be the Anointed One . . .
If so, HaShem had already answered my prayer. Had I not told Kissa more than once that the thing I wanted most in life was to be important to someone? If Hyrcanus became Adonai’s Messiah, then as his mother I would be a part of the man who would bless all of Israel.
I wrote my Torah teacher and told him I had not seen any glory save that of my own beloved children. “They are HaShem’s blessing to me,” I wrote, “and perhaps one day they will bless the people of Galilee, but not yet.”
In the summer of our seventh year, I ordered the servants to prepare a lavish banquet for important guests. Simeon ben Shetah had come from Jerusalem, and I was eager to introduce the esteemed Torah teacher to the Jews of Galilee.
“I don’t understand why you are so excited to entertain this Pharisee,” Jannaeus said, scowling as the cook walked away with her instructions. “And I don’t know what he has in common with Diagos. This might well be the most boring banquet I have ever attended.”
Jannaeus had invited Ezra Diagos, commander of his law-keeping force. Jannaeus thought highly of the man, saying Diagos had proven himself to be quick, clever, and courageous. Though Jannaeus’s militia lacked numbers, the skill and daring of its members more than compensated for its small size.
My husband may not have been the brightest of John Hyrcanus’s sons, but he was clever enough to realize that he owed his success to an excellent commander.
“Simeon ben Shetah,” I said, “is an intelligent and devoted Torah teacher. He is an expert on the Law and actually keeps it—the sort of man who would have made the sons of Mattathias proud. But more than that, he has been my teacher for years. I am pleased to call him my friend.”
Jannaeus blew out a breath. “Fine. But make sure I am seated next to Diagos, so we can talk. Keep the Torah teacher and his wife at your side.”
I bowed my head. “As you wish, husband.”
We greeted our guests in the vestibule, where I met Simeon’s wife, Naava, with an embrace. “Tell me about events in Jerusalem,” I said, squeezing her hand. “I feel as if we have been away for a lifetime.”
She tugged at a wayward curl that had wandered onto her forehead. “The talk is all about the high priest,” she said, then cut a glance toward Jannaeus. She lowered her voice. “A Pharisee called Eleazar stood up at a banquet and said he had heard the high priest’s mother was a captive during the reign of Antiochus Epiphanes.”
I frowned. “What did he mean?”
She moved closer to whisper in my ear, “A woman who has lain with a man is forbidden to marry a priest, and if they do marry, their children are disqualified from the priesthood.”
I gasped as the full meaning of the comment became clear. “That is not true! I am from Modein, as was the high priest’s mother, and no woman from that village was ever taken captive by the Seleucids.”
“The truth hardly matters,” Naava said. “Eleazar is one of many who believe John Hyrcanus should not be high priest because he is not descended from Zadok. The Essenes have protested that point for years, but this is the first time the Pharisees have made it an issue. Once Eleazar’s claim became public, the high priest demanded the Pharisees punish him for that terrible slander.”
“But why would they raise this complaint now? John Hyrcanus has been high priest for nearly thirty years.”
She sighed. “I am not certain, but my husband thinks it may be an attempt to seize power. John Hyrcanus is not well, so if they can discredit him, they discredit his heirs, which opens the door for a high priest from another family.”
My mouth fell open—I had not realized Uncle was sick. “Is the high priest dying?”
Naava shook her head. “He is old and frail, so many have turned their thoughts toward his successor. My husband says many of the Pharisees are angry with Hyrcanus because he forced the Samaritans to become Jews. Eleazar and many others—even my husband—disagreed with the high priest’s action, and now they are making their voices heard.”
I, too, had not understood why Uncle would force the Samaritans to become Jews. And criticism, once voiced, frequently spurred others to find fault where none had been noticed before. Perhaps Jerusalem would be more peaceful if the dissenters remained silent . . .
I caught Naava’s hand. “Did the Pharisees punish this Eleazar?”
“They whipped him, but the high priest was highly offended and said Eleazar should have been executed. So John Hyrcanus declared he was no longer a Pharisee, but a Sadducee. His sons have become Sadducees, too. I suppose all the Hasmoneans now count themselves among the Sadducees.”
I thanked her for the information, then turned away to sort through my jumbled thoughts. Uncle, a Sadducee? What would possess him to make such a decision? If he were not old and unwell, he would never have done such a thing. As to Naava’s assertion that all the Hasmoneans had become Sadducees, she was wrong. Even if Jannaeus declared for that group, I could never consider myself anything but a devout Pharisee.
I would have to discuss this development with Simeon ben Shetah.
Our guests of honor had already found their seats, so I walked over and made myself comfortable on a couch between Simeon and Ezra Diagos. I nodded to the gentlemen at my right and left, then picked up my cup. Though I was eager to talk to Simeon, I thought I should at least introduce myself to my husband’s commander. Surely Jannaeus would not mind if I learned if he belonged to any particular sect.
I plucked a bunch of grapes from the table, then tossed a question to the military man. “So what do you think, Ezra Diagos, of our oral traditions?” I asked, barely glancing at him as I smiled at Simeon and his wife. “Should they be as binding as the Torah?”
“I must confess to being surprised you would ask such a question.”
I swiveled in time to see the commander check a fish for bones, then pop a piece into his mouth. A reluctant grin tugged at Diagos’s lips as he swallowed and leaned toward me. “Most women—especially wealthy women—are content to center their thoughts on their husband and children.”
“I am not like most women,” I replied with a smile. “And I was not born into a wealthy family. But I would very much like to know what you think. Do you believe our oral traditions are to be obeyed in addition to the written Law?”
The man bowed his graying head, then looked up at me. Something in his powerful eyes made my heart constrict. The commander was an unusually attractive man and did not seem offended by my admittedly blunt questions.
“Should the traditi
ons invented by men be followed with the same reverential obedience as the laws written by HaShem?” he asked. “I think not.”
“Then I take it you are a Sadducee.”
“I don’t like organized sects. I prefer to be true to my own understanding.”
“So you are . . . uncommitted?”
He chuckled. “I am a warrior. I obey your husband and lead my men. If I can do that faithfully, I will leave Torah debates to the scholars.”
From the couch on my other side, Simeon ben Shetah cleared his throat. “I see no fault in the commander’s answer, so long as a man has diligently studied the Torah, writings, and the prophets. Ezra Diagos is correct when he says men’s words do not have the authority of HaShem’s. But the Sadducees place far too much emphasis on free will, believing that men have the ability to control their own destinies. Does not the psalmist tell us that every day of our lives has already been written?”
I realized Simeon was attacking the Sadducees—and speaking loudly—in order to influence Jannaeus, who was talking with others on the opposite side of the room. But Diagos, apparently unaware of the rabbi’s hidden motive, continued with the discussion. “Our lives have already been recorded, because HaShem knows the future,” the commander countered. “He allows men to make choices. Just as He allows nations to rise and fall according to their actions.”
Simeon shook his head. “Can anyone truly do whatever he wills? Can you step outside and fly over the sea of Galilee? Can you create bread from stones? You cannot. Those who maintain that man is free to do whatever he wants are only deluding themselves.”
I glanced at Diagos, hoping he would not take offense at the Torah teacher’s comment. Though he had declared himself neutral, the commander was making an adequate defense of the Sadducees, even as the volume of the discussion continued to rise.
“‘Man tosses the dice,’” I quoted, smiling at both men, “‘but Adonai determines the outcome.’ Man and God act together. Surely we can all agree with Solomon.”
Both men nodded politely, yet the Torah teacher had not finished.
“What about life after death?” Simeon asked. “If my kind hostess will allow, I would remind my friend that when his child died, David said he would go to him one day. How can we go to the dead unless there is an afterlife?”