The Book of God: The Bible as a Novel

by Wangerin Jr. , Walter

  “Yes, yes, I did.”

  “Why would you change my mother’s wishes?”

  “How long do you think a people should live with grief, Joseph?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Always? Do you think Rachel would want us forever to grieve?”

  “No.”

  “And your brother, how long should he be sorrowful? He will never be able to remember his mother or his birth. Do you think his mother would want him to go in gloom through the rest of his life?”

  “No.”

  “No, surely she wouldn’t. But Benoni means The Son of My Sorrow. And Benjamin means The Son of My Right Hand. Joseph, your mother was sad for a little while, and now she is sad no more. She named the birth. She named the pain. She named the moment and the coming of her son, and we will remember the name, you and I. This will be a covenant between us, together to remember the name Benoni and all that it stood for. She named the birth; let us name the boy. Why shouldn’t your brother bear the brightness of his mother’s more lasting character? Why shouldn’t he carry her confidence into his life and into the world? Her right hand. My right hand. Our…

  “Oh, Joseph, hush,” Jacob said. “My dear son, all is well now. The Lord is with us. Hush, hush.”

  For Joseph had taken his father’s hand and had laid the palm against his face, and now the older man could feel the wetness on his boy’s chin. Joseph was crying.

  So then they held each other, smelling Rachel’s scent. And Jacob talked long into the night telling his son of the past, his love for Rachel, his wrestlings with God, his trust in the Lord God, the behavior that the Lord loves—and the covenant that had kept them safe through all these years.

  ONE MORNING WHILE JACOB and his household were sojourning in the valley of Hebron, he called Joseph to himself and said, “My son, even your baby brother is smiling today. It’s time to put your sorrow aside. Be busy. Talk to others. Listen to them. Share interests.

  “Come, now,” he said with cheer. “Your brothers are pasturing the flocks at Shechem, several days away. Go there, Joseph, to see whether it is well with them and with the flocks, then bring me word again.”

  In fact, it was the season for pleasant weather, after the rains but before the summer sun grew hot. And old Jacob knew from his own experience how pleasant a lazy trip north could be.

  He sincerely wished to lift the spirits of his son; and he felt he was succeeding when Joseph came to say good-bye, wearing his gorgeous coat. It filled Jacob’s heart with gratitude to see his son dressed thus. Yes, the coat had been an extravagance; but as long as it made the lad happy, it was worth the cost.

  “Go safely,” Jacob said, kissing Joseph and noticing that they stood on a level now. The child had grown as tall as his father.

  “I will,” said Joseph. Then he called out, “Where’s my big brother Benjamin?”

  Leah brought Benjamin out, and Jacob watched with tenderness while Joseph rained kisses on the baby, causing him to bark a husky laughter. Then the whole company was laughing, Jacob and Joseph and Benjamin and Leah.

  Yes, yes, grief was coming to its conclusion.

  “Good-bye, Joseph. God be with you, my son. Good-bye.”

  “And with you, Father. Good-bye.”

  SEVEN DAYS LATER, when the ten grown sons of Jacob returned from Shechem, Joseph was not among them. No, they hadn’t seen him. They swore they hadn’t seen Joseph anywhere since they had left Hebron more than a month ago.

  On the other hand, they’d found a coat. A coat with long sleeves, very similar to Joseph’s. Stiff with dried blood. It had been torn violently in three places.

  “Father, can it be Joseph’s coat?”

  The old man took one look at the riven cloth and began to howl. “My son! My son!” he wailed. He tried to smooth the garment with the flat of his hand, then gathered it up and buried his face in it. “My son has been devoured by lions,” he cried. “Surely Joseph is torn to pieces!”

  Jacob rent his robe and put sackcloth upon his loins and mourned many days.

  Reuben and Simeon and Levi and Dinah—all his children, one by one—came to his tent and tried to comfort him. But Jacob refused to be comforted. He said, “No, no—I will go to my grave lamenting Joseph, lamenting my dear son Joseph.”

  III

  BUT ΓIN THE SAME DAYSwhen the old man began to mourn the death of his son, Joseph was walking among the camels. He went in the midst of a caravan which followed an ancient trade route southwest along the coast of the Great Sea past Gaza, then west across the northern portion of Sinai to Goshen and into Egypt.

  He went manacled neck and ankle. He was chained in line with twenty other men of several languages and various countries. His feet were bleeding.

  His captors were not wicked. Nor were they merciful. They were merchants. Together with other goods—gum and balm and myrrh—they meant to sell the sleek young man at a profit. They had purchased him for twenty shekels, a reasonable price for a healthy male; but Egyptian coin would increase the investment, as long as he was healthy still when they got to that country. Therefore, they did not begrudge him bread. All their slaves improved in the passage. It was a matter of pride.

  JOSEPH HAD ACTUALLY FELT happy to see his brothers and their flocks spread out in a valley below him. They had been a surprising vision as he came over a grassy rise—and the lightness of his spirit at the sight had likewise surprised him. Yes, he had been lonely too long, too long mourning his mother.

  “Brothers!” he called, grinning and waving. “Brothers, I am here!”

  As he descended the slope in a little trot, he saw that they were gathering together and looking his way.

  But they were not smiling.

  Naphtali said, “The dreamer.”

  At this distance Joseph couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that Naphtali had spat the word. His mouth looked twisted. Then Dan shouted with bloody savagery, “Let’s see what becomes of his dreams,” and Joseph slowed his step.

  Two of the brothers, then three, then five broke from the group, running as fast as they could in Joseph’s direction. All of the brothers were shouting now, all ten of them. Joseph’s throat tightened. It felt as if he were in a dream. He absolutely could not move, trying and trying to make some sense of the moment.

  Then his brothers were on him, whirling him around and ripping the long coat from his body. Someone hit him a solid blow to the side of his head. Joseph observed the impact and the pain with astonishment. There was meaning in that blow. Someone struck him in the small of his back and he crumpled. Then they were dragging him by his legs over dirt and rock, and then the earth opened up beneath him and he was falling. He hit bottom in an echoing place. He made an odd croaking sound. The wind was knocked out of him. He couldn’t breathe. He glanced up and saw a small hole, the heads of his brothers blocking sunlight, then sank into unconsciousness. He was in a cistern. The thought accompanied him into the utter darkness: I’m in a cistern. But I am not dead. I am in a cistern. O Lord, be with me now.

  JOSEPH HAD NOT DIED. Instead, he was sold to slave traders; and two months later he found himself standing on a whitewashed platform, listening to the foreign tongues around him. The platform was surrounded by men with neat beards, trimmed to an oiled tuft at the chin. Some had side-whiskers from ear to jaw, but no one wore the sort of cheek-bushes he was used to. Men must pluck their hairs. And everyone, it seemed, bathed. Joseph couldn’t smell sweat. People wore white linen in this country, a fabric as supple and smooth as human flesh. A marvel, nothing at all as rough as the wool he knew.

  Clearly he was in a marketplace.

  And those that stood on the platform were for sale.

  To the left of the platform Joseph saw a small operation which caused him to become excited. Egyptians sat on chairs: here was a man sitting up on a chair behind a flat surface of wood. A table. And on that table was unrolled another sort of fabric altogether, stronger than linen. The man was making marks on that fabric with astonishin
g speed. For every slave sold, he would dip an instrument in black water, then form a series of swift, exquisite shapes on the fabric. Joseph peered more closely: the instrument was made from a rush that had been cut on a slant and frayed at the end, a brush for black ink! Joseph had heard of writing before. His father had explained to him the anonymous marks in clay and old stone. But this was a miracle of speed and simplicity, and it delighted him.

  Before the bidding began for him particularly, Joseph realized one other wonderful fact about the man who wrote with rushes: that he was himself a slave.

  Therefore, when the auctioneer asked him what skills he could perform, Joseph answered by pointing at the scribe on his left. “That,” he said. “I can do that.“ In his soul he said, Or if I cannot do it, I can learn.

  And if anyone had questioned him further, wondering how he knew the scribe was a slave or where he got the gall to say he knew the crafts of a nimble mind, Joseph would without hesitation have answered: “The Lord is with me.”

  IT HAPPENED THATthe man who purchased Joseph was a figure of importance in the land of Egypt. His name was Poriphar, “the one whom Re has given”: Re, the sun-god of the Egyptians.

  Poriphar held the rank of captain, commanding Pharaoh’s personal guard. He carried—perhaps as a mere honorific, perhaps as a fact—the title “Eunuch,” though he was married to a woman who was, said the royal gossip, both young and vital. Poriphar himself, despite his power, was not a physically imposing presence. On the other hand, his tiny eyes were shrewd and sure, as accurate as darts and as dangerous. He rode through the city, well-oiled, sweet-smelling, bejeweled, and revered wherever he went. He returned to a house built high above the river, a proud palatial edifice of marble-white walls, interior courtyards, many rooms, fountains outside, baths within, latticed windows to shape the light, and floors inlaid with bold mosaic. But the beauty above hid an official cruelty below. The captain of Pharaoh’s guard was also the lord of his prisons, and Pharaoh’s prisons were the basement chambers of the captain’s house.

  At Potiphar’s insistence, every slave and servant wore linen as rich as his own. He wanted his household to reflect well upon his position and his evident generosity. Joseph, therefore, regularly washed his entire body with warm water and dressed himself in two pieces of clothing: the first an undergarment worn at all times, a long soft shirt tied about the hips; the second an elegant, close-fitting cape for wearing in public places.

  In fact, Joseph seldom needed the cape. Poriphar kept him close to home because he genuinely liked the Hebrew.

  This slave smiled. There was nothing cringing or fawning about him, but with good health and a glad disposition he would look his master straight in the eye and smile. What other slave was so peaceful in his position as to befriend the lofty Potiphar? None. And besides all that, it was a handsome, manly smile.

  Joseph learned to write Egyptian as well as he spoke it, because he learned both skills at once. And swiftly—before the end of his first year in this master’s service—the Hebrew had proven to be more than competent. Many accountants were competent; few were also trustworthy. On impulse, once, Potiphar asked Joseph to inventory the goods of the household. When he was done, nothing was missing, not so much as a finger’s breadth of wheat from the bins; but measures that had been falsified on previous lists now came to light. The Hebrew slave revealed these thefts without criticism or self-righteousness. He managed to make it a proper, impersonal report.

  Therefore, Potiphar appointed Joseph to be overseer of his entire household. And then he was delighted to discover that his properties, his harvests and investments, and even the transactions of the household, prospered.

  “How is it you succeed so well?” he asked the slave. “And how can you take such pleasure in my prosperity.”

  The Hebrew replied with a smile, “God is with me.”

  GOD WAS WITH HIM. And this, to him, was the proof: that even as a stranger in a foreign land, Joseph had come to enjoy the daily routine of his life.

  Early in the morning he entered the room from which he conducted his master’s business. There, looking out an eastern window, he did as he had seen his father do—he gave thanks to God. Then he removed his cape, sat down in an Egyptian chair before an Egyptian table, mixed the inks and cut the rushes for his writing.

  Within the hour Potiphar would arrive to discuss the day’s projects, to receive reports, to give advice, and to ask for it. After their conference, the master left for Pharaoh’s court, while the slave stayed home and worked. So went his days. So passed the seasons, wet and dry.

  Soon Potiphar’s wife also began to bring various small tasks of her own into Joseph’s room. He always rose to greet her. She always gave him a dead-level gaze and a thin smile. Though Potiphar was short, his wife was exactly Joseph’s height. She would let him hold the tips of her fingers a moment, then she said, “Come, come, no need to be so formal.”

  But Joseph was never anything less than formal. It was more than his natural manner; it was a conscious choice. Often he went out to make purchases for the household. “Here is my seal,” Potiphar had said to him. “If you think we need it, buy it. I trust your judgment.” And since he acted in his master’s name, it seemed right to act in self-effacing formality.

  In a self-effacing formality, then, Joseph always waited until his master’s wife was seated before he sat again to write.

  She was, however, a perplexing woman. Clearly, her eye was lit with an interior intelligence. She could comport herself with a majestic dignity. Yet sometimes she would, exactly like a child, jump up the moment Joseph sat down, forcing him to rise again with embarrassment. It seemed to him she was testing the truth of his courtesy. He could be patient for whims of his mistress, of course; but it interrupted his work.

  One day while she was sitting some distance away from his table, the woman began to murmur words so softly he scarcely heard them. He thought she was singing to herself. But suddenly he caught the words, Hebrew, lie with me, and his ears burst into flame. Joseph did not look up. Maybe he had imagined the phrase, for as soon as he heard it, she fell into a perfect silence. And after a moment she rose and left the room.

  Joseph released a long, trembling sigh.

  Three days later they happened again to be in the room alone.

  Potiphar’s wife said, “Joseph?”

  He looked up.

  She was gazing at him from dead-level eyes, the lids made green with malachite. “Joseph,” she said. “Lie with me.”

  He gaped. Her neck was extraordinarily long, her throat naked.

  Softly she said, “Did you hear me? Do you understand?”

  Without a word he stood up, pulled on his cape, walked out of the room and through the courtyard and out of the house altogether.

  When she entered the room on the following day, precisely at her usual time, Joseph rose as always to greet her, but he kept his eyes cast down and he did not take her hand. Neither did she reach for his. Nor did she sit. There was a servant standing at the door. She dismissed him.

  So then they stood alone, his eyes lowered, hers burning the flesh of his forehead.

  “Joseph,” she said, “do you know what I want?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Then why did you walk away from me yesterday?”

  Now he looked at her. He wished he weren’t panting like a child, but he had to speak: “My master,” he said, then paused to breathe. “My master trusts me with everything he has—everything, my lady, except yourself, because you are his wife. How, then, can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?”

  Potiphar’s wife said nothing. Her lips drew thin and tight across her teeth. Her silences could be terrible. Perhaps she would leave now. Instead, abruptly, she sat. Joseph sat down, too. He tried to write. But every time he flicked up his eyes, he saw that she was staring at him in a cold silence.

  Then she was gone. For ten days Joseph worked in his room alone.

  But on the afterno
on of the eleventh day, the woman appeared in the doorway, her hair loose, her eye unpainted, bright and wild. “Slaves,” she hissed, “know nothing of gods and sin! Don’t you ever pretend to be better than me!” She strode into the room. Joseph started to stand. She rushed at him and grabbed his undergarment at the shoulders. “Lie with me,” she cried. “Hebrew, lie with me!”

  Joseph rose up and pushed her backward. She fell against a cabinet filled with scrolls. But she was clinging to his garment. It ripped at the seam and came off. Joseph stood for an instant completely naked, then he leaped from the room and ran out into the courtyard blinded by his shame.

  “Get off me! Get off me!” The woman was screaming inside the house. “Help! Help! The slave is trying to rape me! Help!”

  Joseph whirled around. He saw Poriphar’s wife stepping calmly through the doorway, though her mouth was open and she was making a powerful screaming sound. In her hand was his undergarment, in her eyes a cold, emotionless ice.

  All at once there bounded from the door behind her four large Egyptian men, very angry. Joseph didn’t try to run. Where would he go, naked? Nor did he fight back. He was beaten to the ground. He was struck on the back of his skull with the flat of someone’s sword. Gratefully, then, he passed out.

  JOSEPH AWOKE IN Potiphar’s basement—the prisons of the captain of Pharaoh’s guard.

  The walls were thick. The rooms were narrow and dark and mostly bare. There were many such rooms, a labyrinth of rooms inhabited by men of every rank. Joseph discovered a hidden community of unfortunate men, none of whom knew when he might be released since there were no fixed sentences. There was only the whim of the powerful people upstairs.

  But even the netherworld was arranged like the world in light: prisoners who came down from high positions were served by prisoners who came from no position at all.