On the Mountain of the Lord

by Ray Bentley

  “I grew up knowing all the stories about how Jesus came from Nazareth and he lived all around here and taught around here and…” She lowered her voice. “Did miracles around Galilee—except I’m not supposed to talk about that part.”

  “No?”

  “No. My parents don’t like it. A Christian pilgrim gave me a Bible to read. I like the stories about Jesus. He seems wonderful!”

  Her face fell. “But my parents found it and took it away.”

  Jack didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, Rebekah didn’t seem to mind being the only one speaking. “Then I had a dream. A Jewish priest dressed all in white. Like a cohen from the old days, yes? In my dream he told me to not be afraid. That Jesus really was the Messiah. I asked him how I would know for sure and he said I should keep reading whenever I could.

  “Then I had another dream. The priest told me I should go to where the Christians are and learn all I could. So now whenever I can I come to Nazareth, or I go to Capernaum, and I listen to people talk about Jesus—like Pastor Seixas. I love it that he’s Jewish and also believes in Yeshua ha-Mashiach. Anyway, my friend called me and told me he was back. She has had dreams too, but she’s afraid to talk about them except to me. Okay, then. Tell Pastor Seixas I’ll see him next trip. Bye!”

  Before Jack could frame a coherent question out of the hundreds swirling in his head, she was gone.

  What did I just learn? Jack asked himself. “I guess it’s this: if a Jewish teenager isn’t afraid to tell a total stranger she’s been having dreams about Jesus—then why am I holding back from telling Lev?”

  Jack and Lev strolled through Nazareth in the early evening to the plaza located between the Basilica of the Annunciation and the Church of St. Joseph. “Really a carpenter’s workshop?” remarked Jack, pointing to the arched windows over the entry and the square bell tower alongside.

  “Who knows?” Lev admitted cheerfully. “There is a grotto beneath the church that was once used as living quarters or a shop sometime around Jesus’ day. Later there was a Byzantine church there and then a church that was destroyed during the Crusades. In the 1700s the Franciscan fathers bought the property from the Turks and rebuilt over the ruins.”

  “So what you’re saying is, nobody really knows.”

  Lev shrugged. “I guess that’s not the point. Joseph and Mary and young Jesus really did live somewhere in Nazareth. Remembering that reality is worth celebrating, even if the location is not exact.”

  Jack struggled to stay a modern, skeptical, nay-sayer—and couldn’t manage it. “Look, Lev,” he said. “I didn’t ask to talk because I wanted to go back to arguing. What I really want to talk to you about is—visions.”

  “You mean Rebekah’s?”

  “No—mine.”

  “You already told me about meeting—what did you say his name was—Elijah?”

  “Eliyahu, but no. That’s just the beginning. You remember when I asked you about the Jerusalem Syndrome?”

  “Still no bed sheets tied into togas, right?” Lev inquired.

  “Please,” Jack said. “I’m serious. I’ve seen—things. I know I wasn’t dreaming, okay? Or maybe I was, but I still think they mean something.” Jack’s tone betrayed some anxiety that Lev would not believe him.

  “Whoa! Okay, serious. We’ve known each other for—what—fourteen, fifteen years? In all that time I’ve never known you to be anything other than sensible and level-headed—maybe hard-headed is in there too—but if I was going to pick someone as a reliable witness, it’d be you.”

  Grasping both Lev’s wrists Jack said, “Thank you! I needed to hear that. Okay—here goes.”

  Jack proceeded to tell Lev what he saw of Adam and Eve being expelled from the Garden of Eden. “I saw grass wither and gemstones turn into geodes, like everything pretty just folded in on itself. Eliyahu said the way back in the garden was closed until someone was found who could reopen the way. He meant Jesus, right?”

  “If Adam couldn’t even keep just one rule, then justice wouldn’t be fulfilled until someone came who kept all the rules and paid for every sin from Adam down to today. Yep—Jesus.”

  “Okay, so I get that,” Jack said. “Then I saw the handwriting on the wall.”

  Lev waited for the punch line to the joke until Jack corrected him. “I mean, I really saw a hand, writing on my wall. I couldn’t read it, but I heard Eliyahu’s voice—I didn’t see him this time—telling me it means history is coming to a climax. Or something like that. And he told me some other stuff too. What’s it mean?”

  “Slow down. You’re still not crazy, okay? Let’s start with that. Next, let me tell you the same thing I told Rebekah: you are not the only one seeing visions or dreaming dreams. It’s happening all over the world, but especially here in the Middle East—to Muslims, especially.”

  Jack took that in slowly. “Don’t ask me to believe every story like mine—I can’t. We might be talking alien spacecraft and Bigfoot! You can always find true believers for just about anything.”

  “So let’s just concentrate on the handwriting,” Lev suggested. “Here’s what I think it might mean: you remember when we heard that chapel speaker at Baylor who talked about the End of the World?”

  Jack had not been impressed with that speaker. He dismissed the man’s talking points as quackery.

  Recognizing the resistance building in his friend, Lev said, “Stay with me here. Is it true that before the first atomic bomb, humans had no way to kill off the whole race?”

  “True.”

  “And now how many nuclear-armed countries are there? And whose finger is on what button?”

  Jack remained silent, listening.

  “And is the whole world interdependent like never before?” Lev continued. “I mean, the price of crude oil in Saudi Arabia determines whether a farmer in Iowa makes money or loses money on his corn, true?”

  “I think your economic theory is a little rusty, but go ahead.”

  “How much food is in a grocery store if it doesn’t get resupplied? I know, ‘cause I asked: three days, except for canned stuff. A couple weeks ‘til everything down to anchovy paste is gone and the shelves are bare.”

  “Your point being?”

  “The point is—the handwriting is on the wall,” Lev restated. “Politicians know it. Economists know it. It’s in no one’s interest to cause panic, but here’s the bottom line: the world has never been in as desperately dangerous a situation as it is right now. How many places around the world could be called ‘powder kegs?’ Here? Iran? North Korea? China, flexing its muscles in the South China Sea? Russia invading Ukraine?”

  Jack stopped objecting and just sat trying to take it all in. He also debated whether to share one more vision or not.

  “Look, Jack,” Lev said. “So far everything you’ve told me squares with Scripture and with what I know of the world. If you have no more visions then you can chalk it up to the Jerusalem—Experience we’ll call it. But maybe these messages aren’t just for you. I guess I’m saying, don’t discount them lightly. Pay attention and think them through—if you have more, that is.”

  “I—I’ve already had one more,” Jack admitted, and he proceeded to unfold the view from the Hungerford Bridge. “I thought it was grief or stress or I don’t know what. But it was horrible. London was in flames everywhere I looked. Up river. Down river. By St. Paul’s Cathedral. And individual, separate fires—like terrorist bombs.”

  “Nothing that’s happened yet,” Lev conceded. “A view of a future event. Jack, what else did Eliyahu say to you about the handwriting on the wall?”

  Jack screwed up his face with effort to recall the exact words. “He said, ‘Only those like the Prophet Daniel who seek to understand the divine plan will be able to interpret the words.’ ”

  Lev clapped his friend on the shoulder. “It sounds to me like you have been given some rare insights. So here’s what I know: you being here in Israel is part of the divine plan—whether you know it yet, or admit it
yet, or not. Keep watching what unfolds, Jack. Just keep watching.”

  Chapter Ten

  It was a few days after their return to Jerusalem from Nazareth when Bette stopped by the King David to tell Jack she would not be accompanying him that day; she had a meeting.

  “Do you have time for a Starbucks?”

  “There are no Starbucks in Israel,” Bette laughed as they exited the hotel.

  The fact she was a policewoman seemed an utter contradiction to the playful smile of this beautiful woman. “Not possible.” Jack glared at his iPhone’s Starbucks locator app. “How can there not be a Starbucks in Israel? Anywhere?”

  “Israelis don’t believe coffee should be served in paper cups, or slurped through plastic anti-spill lids while you walk around. Well, there is some of that,” she admitted. “But in Israel, proper coffee is an excuse to sit for hours and talk about. . .”

  “Politics?”

  “No! Life. Love. Children. Start-up companies. Theater. Music. Jack, your American-ness is showing on your face like a week without shaving.” She laughed. “Okay. So you want real coffee? Americano? Or Israeli, the way God created it? Come on. I’ll show you coffee.”

  Bette lengthened her stride and wove through the crowds in the open market place. Her eyes continuously scanned the crowds and her walk projected self-assurance. It was, “No-big-deal-but-don’t-mess-with-me.”

  Jack was grinning for the first time in a long time. She led him away from the babble of shoppers and through an alleyway to a tiny hole-in-the-wall café. The air of the courtyard was heavy with the smell of coffee grounds and intrigue. Bearded old Jews played chess at a small table in the shade of a large tree. Their espresso cups were ceramic and the thick black liquid had long ago cooled. The opponents stared, unmoving, at the chessboards. Maybe they had been there all day. Maybe longer.

  Bette pointed at an empty table in the shade. “My treat. Border Police discount. Sit, tourist,” she commanded. She disappeared into the café, which was a shallow vendor’s stall. When she emerged with two steaming cups a few minutes later, neither of the chess players had moved.

  Bette nudged the cup toward Jack. “Here you are.”

  He gingerly sipped the strong, bitter brew. Grounds settled in the bottom of the cup. “Hmmm. Strong. Really…”

  She lifted her chin slightly and challenged, “Mud in the bottom. Israeli-style. If you gulp it down fast it gives you the shakes. So—” she inclined her head toward the serene chess players. “You can tell they’ve been here several hours.”

  “Well, it’s different, for sure. But I didn’t know there was a country in the world left without Starbucks.”

  “We have McDonalds. We have American-style shopping malls. But Israeli brew has truth serum in it. You don’t finish a cup without a personal reveal. A game we play. You tell one truth and one lie. Then your opponent guesses what is true.”

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled sheepishly. “I—don’t know…”

  “Okay. I’ll go first.” It was clear she enjoyed watching Jack squirm. “I am Wonder Woman’s cousin. I lived in the United States for a year. Okay? Guess which is truth.”

  Jack shrugged. “Wonder Woman’s cousin? I’d have to guess that’s a lie.”

  She gave a hearty laugh. “Wrong. Second Cousin, to be exact.”

  “I’m impressed. I should have known. Really. You have a family resemblance.”

  “In my family I am called the shorter version of Miss Israel. Second cousins. Family is important. My family: father, mother, and two younger brothers, are in Singapore. My dad’s on a diplomatic mission there. Okay. So your turn.”

  Jack sipped the brew and winced. “I like Israeli coffee. I think Wonder Woman’s cousin is—beautiful and a bit intimidating.”

  She softened. “Well, Jack, intimidating is good. Depending on who I intimidate. I hope one day you will learn to like our muddy water. And there is another version of this game. I ask you a question and you can either lie or tell me the truth. And I guess which.”

  The uneasy feeling returned to the pit of his stomach. “I’m feeling a little nervous.”

  “Caffeine. That’s all. Makes you nervous. You are drinking too fast.”

  “All right, I’m in. Shoot.”

  “No ring. Have you ever been married?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long pause.

  “That’s it?” she probed. “No detail?”

  “One question at a time. My turn—so can you introduce me to Wonder Woman?”

  “I’ll even get you her autograph.”

  “I like this game.”

  “And why aren’t you married now, Jack?”

  “My wife—and our baby boy—they were. . .an accident.”

  “Oh, Jack.” The smile faded. “I’m—so very sorry. Pushy. I am pushy. That’s truth for sure. I didn’t mean to. . .”

  “Yes, you did mean to. And it’s fine. It is a terrible truth in my life. One I don’t talk about—hardly ever—but you’re assigned to me. You need to know a little personal stuff. I guess.”

  She checked her watch. “I am truly sorry and I’m late for a meeting. Sorry again. I shouldn’t have.”

  “Maybe you are pushy. Okay, wait. Gotta give me my turn.”

  “Sure. Ask me.”

  “What’s a nice girl like you doing in this racket? Bodyguard? Or tour guide? I mean you’re carrying a what? A Beretta?”

  Bette tucked her chin and the slight smile of superiority returned. “Glock, Jack. And someone had to train Wonder Woman. Okay, gotta go.”

  High, thin, blade-shaped clouds pierced the pale blue skies above Jerusalem. There was no perceptible breeze at ground level, but aloft the spearheads flung themselves at the Mountains of Moab.

  Walking in a garden area along Sultan Suleiman Street, Jack was deep in thought as he paced beside the walls of Old City Jerusalem. He left after Bette’s departure without giving much regard to where he was going.

  Jack needed some alone time. He had heard a great deal about prophecy and the Jewish claim to this land and this specific place, but he remained unsure what his report should contain. Just because religious Jews and some Christians think God gave Abraham the deed to this hunk of earth doesn’t make it so, he mused. The history of this tiny fragment of the world shows it’s always been an object of conquest. And whoever holds it makes the rules, until somebody bigger and stronger takes it away from them. But is that how it must always be? Is that how it should be in the Third Millennium? Despite dreams and visions and voices, Jack remained unconvinced that prophecy was a factor valid enough to be considered. I better not let Lev hear me say that. He would want to lecture me again.

  Jack was approaching Damascus Gate. The stone structure, easily recognized by its square, crenellated battlements atop the arched portico, was a tangible supporter of Jack’s thoughts. Rebuilt by Muslim overlords in the 1500s, it was a Crusader passage dedicated to the martyrdom of Saint Stephen, and before that a main Roman-era entry to their provincial capitol, Aelia Capitolina. Only back. . .way back. . .before all that conquest and possession had it been remotely Jewish. ‘Til 1948, Jack thought. Or was it ’67? He’d have to look that one up.

  Damascus Gate was not only one of the primary entries to the Old City, it also marked a boundary between the Muslim Quarter to the east and the Christian Quarter on the west. Not far from the portal was an Arab street market. The pavement thronged with a mixture of tourists and Old City residents out to do their shopping, like the young Palestinian man toting a shopping bag just ahead. The man checked his wristwatch.

  A staccato popping sound came from beyond where the gate loomed. It interrupted Jack’s thoughts, but it wasn’t until he saw a uniformed female Border Police officer racing toward the noise that he recognized it as gunfire. Jack stood frozen in place, unsure which way to turn. There were no doorways nearby to duck into.

  As the Israeli officer passed by, the Palestinian male thrust his hand into the shopping ba
g. It emerged with a lime green, ceramic knife clutched in his fist. He attacked the policewoman, shouting incoherently, and stabbing her in the back and neck.

  At that same moment Jack was tackled from behind. Would his next sensation be the pain of a blade across his throat and then blackness?

  “Keep down!” hissed Ghassan.

  “Help her! Help her!” Jack urged as he saw blood streaming from the prostrate form of the young woman. The assailant continued a frenzy of slashing and stabbing.

  “Down!” Ghassan ordered.

  An enormous boom next to Jack’s right ear deafened him.

  Out of the corner of his eye Jack saw Ghassan firing his pistol at the terrorist. A trio of Israeli Border Police raced forward, heedless of their own safety.

  A bullet ricocheted off a nearby stone wall and struck a Palestinian woman. She cried out and fell in a heap of spilled bread and scattered dates and olives, clutching her leg.

  Another shot whined overhead. Ghassan fired until his clip emptied.

  Just as suddenly as it began, the attack ended.

  The Palestinian was dead, shot multiple times.

  His knife lay on the pavement next to his victim. She was the pallor of the stones amid jagged scarlet wounds and pools of crimson gore.

  “Help her!” Jack cried. “Please, help her!”

  Roughly Ghassan dragged Jack to his feet and hustled him back toward the hotel. “Help her!” Jack ordered feebly. His legs didn’t seem to work well and he was suddenly grateful Ghassan was helping him stay upright.

  “We don’t know if this is over or not,” Ghassan growled through gritted teeth. “My duty is your safety. Anyway, others are already tending to her.”

  Later that day the television news reported the female officer was seriously wounded at the hands of an eighteen-year-old attacker. Two more terrorists sprayed the area near Zedikiah’s Cave with bullets before they were killed.

  In a prepared statement Hamas, the Palestinian government of Gaza, denied the action was carried out by ISIS. Hamas took full credit for the deed. “The attack in Jerusalem is new proof the Palestinian people continue their revolution against the occupiers and the intifada will continue until complete freedom is achieved.”