On the Mountain of the Lord

by Ray Bentley

  With the older man’s assistance the younger eased the burden from his back and dropped the wood with a resounding crash. “This is where we will build the altar, my son,” said the elder.

  “My son!” Jack remarked to Eliyahu. “Is that Abraham and—and Isaac?”

  “Yes,” Eliyahu confirmed. “Let’s get closer.”

  “Can’t they see us?” Jack worried aloud.

  “The stones here long ago took special notice of them,” Eliyahu said cryptically. “As yet they have taken very little notice of us. No, they can neither see nor hear us.”

  Eliyahu and Jack approached the protruding ledge that lay atop its surroundings like a stone table.

  “Help me gather what we need to build the altar,” Abraham addressed Isaac.

  While Abraham rested on the ledge, Isaac, his son, busied himself, locating and transporting large chunks of limestone from the ravines that slashed the hilltop.

  Jack tried to interpret what was on the old man’s face. What expression did Abraham carry? Was it fear? Grief? Determination?

  When a dozen pillow-shaped boulders were heaped beside the wood, Abraham instructed, “Rest now, my son, while I build the altar.” Carefully forming the structure side-by-side, row upon row, Abraham built his place of worship. While he labored, he remarked to Isaac, “This is the fourth altar I have constructed in this land. The first was at Shechem, beside the great tree there, when the Almighty promised me I would possess the land. That promise is made to you as well, my son.

  “The second altar was at Beth-el—the House of God. And the third was beside the terebinth trees at Mamre. You have heard me tell that story many times before, my son.”

  Isaac nodded vigorously, but Abraham continued with wonder and delight as if this were his first recollection of that day. “There the Lord and two angels came to me, and He promised me—you, my son.” Abraham bowed his head while he was still speaking. Involuntarily, Jack drew closer so as not to miss a single word. “He has promised me numberless descendants,” Abraham said. “But the truth is: all I care about—is you.”

  With infinite care Abraham selected pieces of wood to build a combustible frame above the level of the altar, until it formed a bed of timbers above pillows of stone.

  “All is ready,” Isaac noted. “But, Father, as I asked you before: where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”

  “And I told you, God will provide Himself the Lamb,” Abraham said.

  Jack wondered if he understood correctly. It sounded as if God promised to provide Himself as the sacrificial lamb.

  There was no time to ponder further, because Abraham continued, “Now bring the cords which bound the wood. Come up here on the ledge and stand beside me.”

  The young man made no protest when his father looped and knotted the rope about Isaac’s limbs and frame. Tenderly, gently, Abraham lowered Isaac so he rested on the wooden bed. With that done, Jack saw Abraham raise his eyes to heaven. He drew the short, curved blade from the belt about his waist and raised it high above his head.

  The gleaming sunlight flashing from the knife pierced Jack’s eye. Despite knowing the story—despite Eliyahu’s words—Jack cried out, “No! Stop!”

  The warning was unneeded. At the same moment as Jack’s anguished shout a voice from the sky thundered, “Abraham! Abraham!”

  The knife-wielding hand stayed aloft while Abraham replied, “Here I am.”

  It was not until the thunder boomed, “Do not lay a hand on the boy. Do not do anything to him,” that Abraham allowed the blade to fall from his hand to the ground. “Now I know you fear God because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.”

  A sharp bleating noise filled the silence when the words from heaven ceased.

  Abraham freed his son from the bonds of death and together the two moved past Jack and Eliyahu toward the sound; toward the edge of a precipice.

  There, in a clump of brush growing out from a rock fall, was a ram, caught by its horns in a tangle of brambles.

  The scene to which Jack was witness sped up then. The ram slaughtered and placed atop the altar. The fire kindled from the coals in the fire pot. The fragrant smoke spiraling to heaven.

  Abraham whispered, “The Lord will provide.” Then he shouted to the heavens: “The Lord will provide!”

  And once more the voice from above split the sky: “I swear by Myself, because you have done this and not withheld your son, your only son, I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies, and through your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed—because you obeyed Me.”

  A gust of wind tossed a handful of dust into Jack’s eyes. Blinking furiously, he wiped them clear—but Abraham, Isaac, and Eliyahu were gone. Jack found himself on the edge of the precipice above the Western Wall, staring down at thousands of Abraham’s—and Isaac’s—descendants.

  “On the mountain of the Lord it will be provided,” he muttered.

  Instead of being fearful about what they would think, Jack was so ready to discuss his vision of Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah he could hardly wait. Lev would help him understand what he saw. So would Amir.

  He had some reservations about telling Bette.

  As always, Jack wished he still had Debbie. She would have listened. She would not have concluded he needed to see a shrink. She would not have said anything about him succumbing to Jerusalem Syndrome.

  Then again—what if he was? Could he be going crazy?

  It was not a dream. Jack was not awakened from sleep, realizing past experiences were recreated in his imagination.

  This was different. He was fully awake, taking in the sights and sounds of Jerusalem’s Temple Mount, and then he was—somewhere else. Some when else, too. And he returned from that journey—whatever that word meant in this context—to find he was in the same locale, only not exactly.

  In the vision, he crossed the limestone ridge to look down the far side. Looking down at the Western Wall plaza meant he really had walked from the eastern rim to the west. Was it possible it was some kind of waking dream? Jack could think of no way to resolve the question, but there were parts of the encounter he could explore.

  Did anyone see him cross the mountaintop? Did he appear to be in a trance—and did he seem to be talking to himself?

  All of this was was why he asked Lev to see if Amir was available.

  Jack and Lev, together with Bette, met Amir guiding a group of American pastors beside the ruins of the Pool of Siloam. “The pool was first built during the reign of King Hezekiah,” Amir said. “It was needed to store the water brought by tunnel from the Gihon Spring in the Kidron Valley; the main source of water for Jerusalem.

  “The spring arises at the foot of the Mount of Olives but finds its way here to the foot of the Temple Mount, after watering gardens and orchards along the way.”

  Mountains and trees again, Jack thought. Am I hearing a pattern or just inventing one?

  “The pool was rebuilt during the time of the Maccabees,” Amir continued, indicating the excavated stone steps leading downward. “Then destroyed by the Romans in 70 AD and eventually lost from view beneath four meters—thirteen feet—of mud. It was only rediscovered in 2004. As you know,” he said, acknowledging Jack with a wave, “it was here the man born blind received his sight. Jesus daubed mud on his eyes and then sent him here to wash—Siloam means ‘sent.’ Since we think their encounter was somewhere near the Temple, it was surely a test of the blind man’s faith to find his way from there to here—more than a mile down what was a steep descent. Please take all the pictures you wish.”

  Leaving his charges happily snapping photos for future sermon illustrations, Amir joined Jack and the others. “Welcome!” he said, hugging each of them in turn. “How is your pilgrimage?” he asked, addressing Jack.

  “I didn’t know I was on one.”

  Smiling but ha
lf serious Amir replied, “Everyone who comes to Jerusalem is on a pilgrimage. Some of them know it before they come, some learn it while they’re here. And some figure it out later.”

  “If people go on pilgrimages to get answers to their questions,” Jack said, “then count me in.”

  “Just give me a moment,” Amir said. He spoke to an assistant, then returned. “The group is going to tour the archaeology tunnel near the Western Wall,” he said. “They’ll be busy for at least an hour. Let’s find a place to sit.”

  Not far from the ruined pool was a small park. Ringed with trees, a pair of benches gave the quartet a place to chat in comfort.

  “What’s up?” Lev said when Jack seemed hesitant to begin.

  “Okay, here goes: Tell me about Shechem.”

  Lev and Amir exchanged curious looks. “As in today’s location?” Amir inquired.

  “Or in Bible times?” Lev added.

  “Abraham’s day.”

  “All right, Shechem,” Amir said. “Thought to be near Nablus in the West Bank.”

  “Jacob’s Well, where Jesus met the Samaritan Woman,” Lev added.

  Jack frowned as if not hearing what he expected. “And Bethel?”

  “Not far from Shechem,” Amir said. “Jacob dreams of a ladder to heaven.”

  “And Hebron?” Jack inserted abruptly.

  “Jack,” Lev said slowly. “You want to tell us what this is all about?”

  “Not yet. Hebron?”

  “The other direction,” Bette contributed. “Thirty kilometers south of Jerusalem. But still also part of the West Bank.”

  “Abraham is buried there,” Lev said.

  “Ahh—Abraham,” Jack repeated with a nod. He felt as if he’d finally received the response he’d been awaiting.

  “Wait,” Amir said, tapping his nose with his finger. “You just came down from the Temple Mount, yes?”

  Jack and Lev concurred.

  “So,” Amir said, ticking off locations on his slender fingers. “Shechem, Bethel, Hebron—and Mount Moriah. The four places Abraham built altars to the Almighty.”

  Even though he was seated Jack felt the earth spinning. There was no way he knew that information previously, but he heard Abraham say it to Isaac. “Abraham really is connected with all of them?”

  “And all are related to two promises the Almighty made to Abraham,” Lev said. “One about how numberless Abraham’s descendants would be. The second about him possessing all this land.”

  “But right now, none of those spots are in Israel?”

  “That’s what the Palestinians say,” Bette responded. “All in the West Bank, but all connected to Abraham. Jack, what is this about?”

  Swallowing hard, Jack resolved to discuss his vision, even if he sounded crazy. “Up there,” he said, gesturing toward the Temple Mount, “I saw Abraham about to sacrifice Isaac. I don’t mean ‘saw,’ like in my imagination. I mean ‘saw,’ like I was there in person.”

  Lev and Amir exchanged a glance. Bette’s face was expressionless, impossible to read.

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “Go on,” Lev encouraged.

  “I was there with Eliyahu—Elijah when we were on Mount Carmel. And, you remember, the man I met my first night in Jerusalem. The one who said, ‘On the mountain of the Lord it will be provided.’ ”

  “Same words used by Abraham,” Amir noted, lifting his sunglasses to study Jack more carefully.

  Jack nodded. “I heard about the altars from Abraham too. Anyway, when I—came back—I saw all of Abraham’s descendants. I mean, Jews really are everywhere in the world now, right? Too many to count; like the stars?”

  The trio of listeners agreed.

  “But those promises to Abraham are only half fulfilled,” Jack said. “Millions of descendants, but not in possession of the whole Promised Land. The locations of his altars. The West Bank is the heart and soul of the Promised Land.”

  “Jack,” Lev cautioned. “Be careful, you’re starting to sound like me.”

  “No, it’s just. . .” How to explain when he didn’t really understand himself? “I’ve been thinking about mountains and trees,” he said, as if that clarified anything. “Is there more in prophecy about mountains and trees or planting on mountains—something like that?”

  “How about Jeremiah?” Amir suggested. “Chapter thirty-one: I have loved you with an everlasting love. . .you shall plant vines on the mountains of Samaria.”

  “Like where, for instance?”

  “I’m going to the Jewish settlement of Ariel tomorrow,” Lev said. “It’s in the mountains of Samaria. I’d love for you to join me and meet Lon Silver, the founder.”

  “Is it near anything we’ve been talking about?”

  “Maybe midway between Shechem and Bethel,” Amir said after consulting Bette.

  “Perfect!” Jack said. “I need to see it.”

  “By the way, Jack,” Lev said, laying his hand on his friend’s arm. “No, I don’t think you’re crazy.” He looked to Amir for agreement and got it. “I really believe what the prophet Joel says. . .”

  “Old men will dream dreams and young men will see visions?” Jack quoted.

  “That’s the one.”

  “One word of caution,” Amir added. “John says in his first letter: ‘Do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, because many false prophets have gone out into the world.’ ”

  “Not sure how equipped I am to do that,” Jack countered.

  “Whatever you see or hear or experience, tell us about it,” Lev offered. “It has to match the rest of Scripture, or something is off.”

  “Got it,” Jack said.

  The little café in the West Bank city of Nablus was on a narrow street lined with pottery shops, fruit stalls, and vendors in soccer balls and plastic toys. T-shirts, printed in black Arabic lettering on Hamas green, proclaimed: Nablus—City of Martyrs. At the far end of the shopping area a green-domed mosque loomed overhead, but the mosque was dwarfed in its turn by a hillside crammed with ten-story apartment blocks.

  Inside the café, the air was layered with blue tobacco smoke and lazy conversation. The tables near the entry were more desirable and were in use, but the restaurant was mostly empty. In a back corner a couple shared a table with plates of roast chicken, rice, pita, and hummus.

  “So, brother,” Rafa Husseini said. “Are you having trouble keeping track of your Dr. Garrison?”

  “Not at all,” Faisal said, pushing back from the table. “How did your meetings with him go?”

  Rafa shrugged. “Stupid of those Hamas oafs to let their tunnel be discovered. But Garrison is a typical, western unbeliever. He is ready to blame Israel for everything.”

  “That attack near Damascus Gate was even worse than the tunnel,” Faisal complained. “Young, stupid hotheads! At least they directed their assaults against the police and not tourists. But it is unfortunate Garrison witnessed it.” He picked up the rubber tube of an argileh resting on the floor and took a long drag of smoke.

  “Not necessarily,” Rafa argued. “Our goal here is to convince him to report that the Jewish settlements need to be abandoned and Palestinian sovereignty enacted. He must believe that nothing short of granting all our territorial demands will bring peace. To that end, all unrest is good. Take the Noble Sanctuary for example—nobody with any brains thinks the Jews would be stupid enough to rebuild their Temple. But just the rumor that they might sends thousands of rioters into the streets and millions of dollars of donations into our treasury.”

  “Too many of our people want to live in peace with Israel,” Faisal complained. “They see the prosperity of the cursed Jews and wish to share it, instead of working toward taking it all.”

  “What if Dr. Garrison experienced violent unrest even more closely?”

  Faisal rubbed the amber-colored mouthpiece of the hookah on the sleeve of his jacket. “You don’t mean kill him?”

  “Certainly not!” Ra
fa exclaimed. “That would be a disaster! He is, after all, an American, and we dare not risk angering their government—not the one in power now. But if Garrison experienced the seething anger of Palestinian unrest—if the random but unquenchable resentment against the Jewish treatment of Palestine were, shall we say, emphasized?”

  “I think I know exactly how and when,” Faisal returned, nodding. He drew in, then aimed a precise arrow of smoke at the ceiling. “Leave it to me.”

  “Be careful,” Rafa urged. “He must not be seriously injured.”

  “Leave it to me,” Faisal repeated.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I met Lon Silver years ago,” Lev said, leaning forward from the backseat of Bette’s Corolla. “He’s one of the original founders of Ariel and has been its mayor—I don’t know—four times?”

  “Five,” Amir corrected. “I looked it up. And an MK with Likud,” he added, naming the conservative political party with whom Silver had been in the Israeli parliament.

  Just south of Route 5, Ariel sprawled across the Samaritan hills. “Elevation here?” Jack inquired.

  “Six hundred meters,” Bette said. “About 2,000 feet.” Guessing Jack wanted more information she continued, “Part of the territory captured by Israel in the Six Day War, but there was no village here then. Ariel was built on barren land.”

  The directions Amir provided took them southeast into the hills and away from Ariel University and the city center. The dirt road that curved away from the highway was lined by olive trees, with vineyards just beyond them.

  Wheeling the Corolla next to a parked tractor, Bette shut off the engine. A man in a blue work shirt and blue Levis with a wrench in his hand arose from kneeling beside the tractor. As soon as Lev emerged from the back seat the mechanic shouted, “Lev! So good to see you, my friend!”

  Lev and Lon exchanged hugs. Amir got thumped on the back, while Jack also received an unexpected bear hug. “Welcome!” Lon said.

  Instead of a hug, Lon extended a cordial handshake to Bette, accompanied by what almost appeared to be a bow. “Shalom, Officer Deekmann,” Lon said. “And well done for what you did at Huwara. Come! Come with me.”