by Tracy Groot
Raziel inclined his head. “That is reasonable. Every person is different.”
James frowned at him. “But you are supposed to be a leader. I have never heard of a Zealot leader like you.”
“Perhaps you think I should be a brawn-without-brains camel driver? Would that better fit your idea of a Zealot?”
“That’s not what I—”
Raziel waved him silent. “You are not alone. Any brute with a club in his hand is a Zealot. Anyone considered rebellious is a Zealot. If you are sick and tired of foreign rule and wish to do something about it, you are a pillaging Zealot. Nothing more than a brigand infesting the hillsides. Full of hatred for anyone who does not look like you or worship like you.”
James shifted in his seat, not from impatience this time. He had never heard a Zealot speak this way.
Raziel spread his hands, a reasoning gesture so like Joseph. “By those definitions, no, I am not a Zealot. The Zealots merely come closest to what I believe. I do not care what I am called. It would not change who I am or what I believe.”
“What do you believe?” James asked, surprising himself, because suddenly he wanted to know.
The light in the gray-green eyes sharpened. Raziel lifted his chin and fixed James with a mesmerizing gaze. “I believe, above all, in the God of my fathers. I believe he is for Israel, not against. I believe in our land, that God intended it for us, and to us it must return. To not actively pursue the return of the land is to sin against God with our indifference. And I believe, James, in our people. I believe in their passion, be they Pharisee, Sadducee, Essene, Zealot, am ha-aretz. I believe, James, that these many passions of Israel can be united into one. I believe in unity.”
It was no wonder the man could command the following that he did. James wet his lips and swallowed. No, he was not like any other Zealot he had known.
“How can we be united?” James began doubtfully. “Is there such a thing as two Jews who agree? There are even divisions in our divisions.” It was part of Jewish heritage to not agree. James half-smiled, ruefully and with affection. It was said that to ask ten Jews the same question would get you eleven different answers.
“I believe it is possible to be one in purpose,” Raziel said. “Find me a Jew who does not believe this land is Israel and belongs to the Jews. On that point, we all agree.”
“Yes, but the method of regaining our land . . .”
Raziel leaned forward eagerly. “Ah, now you see it. ‘Come, let us reason together.’ Therein, James, is the heart of our problem: How do we Jews become one, one enough to overthrow foreign rule and regain what the Romans call Palestinia? I believe it can be done; further, I believe it can be done in the middle of our personal differences.”
James shook his head. “Whatever else you are, you are crazy.”
Raziel’s brows lifted. “My hope comes from your own brother. He has a personality to capture a crowd, but I tell you, any lout can do that. It is his philosophy! It very nearly mirrors my own. He is what separates me from the Zealots.”
James tried to muster a response, but Raziel continued, edging closer, his fists balled in passion as he spoke.
“I keep waiting for him! He is so close, I . . . when I listen to him, I am stirred with what I hear. His words are full of power. He—” Raziel visibly calmed himself and continued with a quiet eagerness. “He embodies our people, James. He has the gentleness of an Essene . . . the discipline of a Pharisee . . . the confidence of a Sadducee . . . the passion of a Zealot. And because he is daily with the people, mingling with those most would rather forget, he is every inch of him an am ha-aretz.”
“You say you are waiting for him. What are you waiting for?”
Raziel sighed and placed his hands in his lap. He studied them a moment. “I am waiting for him to be our liberator from without. If he is to be our liberator from darkness within, as he proclaims to be, he must first be our liberator from without. Can the heart be saved if the body is destroyed?” He gestured to the scrolls on the bed. “One of these scrolls is an account of the Maccabean uprising. Our people were nearly destroyed from within by the Greeks. Corruption of the soul. But with the Romans we face a danger more immediate. We face the annihilation of our race.”
“But they have not declared open war on us. They do not wish to destroy us, only to dominate us.”
“Tell that to the thousands who have already lost their lives. Tell it to their families. Have you lost a brother to Roman domination? Have you lost a cousin or an uncle? I make war with words, young James. I go to Rome, and I try to make my voice heard. The Romans make much of being a people of decency, of great reason. It is not so. Do you know what they call their mighty Publicani, the ones to whom we pay our blood in tax?” He lifted his hands and fluttered his fingers mockingly. “‘The ornament of the state, the strength of the republic. The most upright and respected of men.’ I have heard it with my own ears! Such vile lies that I tremble and look to heaven to see whether God will not immediately consume them with fire! These upright and respected men employ the publicans, James. They employ the ones who squeeze blood from rocks. Usury and corruption! Our bellies are full of it; we stagger from it. Upon the backs of the Jews are the scars of their great reason and decency.”
James gripped the ball-in-a-cage. One who ran with Jesus was a publican, a tax gatherer ranked by the rabbis with harlots and heathen, with murderers and highwaymen. They were not even considered Jewish. Justifiably so. No decent Jew could do what they did. The publicans worked for the Publicani and usually received a percentage of what they collected, so their methods of collection were often cruel indeed. And publicans could arbitrarily name someone’s tax; that person could appeal it by law, sure, but only a fool did so. The judges were paid by the Publicani too.
James himself had witnessed a woman, a grandmother, quietly plead with a publican who must have had a previous glimpse of the old woman’s granddaughter. He named the tax to the woman, waited while she blanched and stuttered, then murmured a solution. By the look of horror on the old woman’s face, James knew the suggestion was to give her own granddaughter to the man as a mistress. James had been young at the time, but not so young that he did not understand what shameful thing the publican suggested. What he remembered most vividly was the rage on the face of his own father, who had stood in line behind the woman, and the way Joseph had dug into his own purse and slammed the price of the granddaughter on the table. James remembered the rage on the face of Jesus as well; he had gazed at the publican with the same furious contempt as his father. The old widow had kissed the hands of Joseph, weeping her thanks.
Joseph did not get off easy for his kindness. The publican, cheated from his pleasure, charged Joseph twice what he originally owed for his own household. Worst of all, Joseph could not pay; it took two years to work off that tax, a debt that had become a personal loan from the scoundrel publican himself. And interest . . . the last bitter bite was that interest on this two-year debt took another half year to pay.
God of Israel, why a publican? Why did Jesus choose a publican? How could he align himself with the worst of humanity? Raziel was still speaking, and James tried hard to bring his thoughts about. But so much had happened this past week, so much to drag forth questions long dormant. Did not the proverb say, “He who goes with him will be like him”? How could Jesus blacken his reputation by choosing one of them? How could he bring to nothing Joseph’s act that day long ago?
“It is no wonder the rabbis and the leaders do not like him,” James said beneath his breath. He felt the smolder of his gut on his face, but if Raziel noticed he did not say. The older man continued in a harangue all his own.
“The Romans poke and they prod, and like Antiochus Epiphanes, they will drive us into a corner and demand of us that which we can no longer accommodate. Antiochus, may God erase his descendants, did the same. Concessions were made by our people, here a little, there a little. Then he did the unthinkable, and our people could bear no more.”
James looked away in discomfort. What God-loving Jew did not know the story? How Antiochus pushed the Jews, perversely demanding ever more until he did the unthinkable. In smug arrogance, he entered the Temple—a pagan, marching into the Holy of Holies—there to offer upon the altar a pig for sacrifice to his demon god. Then he wanted the Jews, whose first command from their God was to have no other gods, to do the same: He demanded that the Jews themselves offer pigs to his gods.
Raziel intoned, “One arose who said, ‘No more.’ Mattathias the Maccabee rose in holy indignation and said no more. What courage he and his sons displayed, may their memories be blessed to a thousand generations, to rise as King David and say to Goliath Antiochus, ‘No more!’ But today we face something worse than Antiochus. We face the end of our race with the Romans. We thought that Rome delivered us from the Greeks . . . but it was only a matter of time. Out of the cook pot, into the flames, and Jews, once again, are made guilty. Guilty for wanting their own land—what God himself gave them! Jews will always be guilty in the eyes of the world. It will never end.
“But, James . . . we did not remain silent. We did not keep still. Judah the Maccabee rose up after his father, and for a time deliverance was won. Others came after, and with brave Hasmoneans like Alexander Jannaeus, deliverance remained. Then we gave it all up because we could not agree among ourselves. The land that was reclaimed with precious blood was lost—” Raziel drove his finger to the sky—“lost to the Romans!
“I say, let your brother rise up now, and as surely as I stand before you, God himself shall rise with him! Time grows short, James. Rome grows impatient with our ways. They have only Jewish pretenders in power. No Jew in power today represents the heart of Judaism. Not one! I would take one passionate am ha-aretz over Herod’s pig family any day.”
Raziel fell silent, but his words continued to hiss and pop, like a fire pit doused with water.
A corner of James’ mouth came up. Jesus shared the same sentiment about Herod the philanderer—called him a fox. Herod’s brothers, who ruled over the other provinces, were not much better. James could not think of a single Jew who had less than contempt for those in power today. Some of the Sanhedrin, they were good, to be trusted. But not these rulers. They were not for Israel. They were for themselves.
“Your brother steps into a time when we have never needed a great leader more. He needs to wake up to see it, for the sake of our people! Jerusalem is a dry box of tinder, and Passover is only a month off. Jewish nationalism will be at a peak—now is when your brother must lead. James, your brother is good, but he is young. He needs to be reminded of the valor of the Maccabees. He needs to—” Raziel drew his balled fists to his chest, then continued more quietly but with no less earnestness.
“If he is allowed to continue on his course, James, he will die, and we will look for another messiah.” Raziel raised his hands and let them fall into his lap. “There it is, and it is the truth. He will end up on yet another Roman cross, all for nothing. Have we not learned from Judas of Galilee? His trouble to defy Roman taxes earned him and his followers crosses, crosses that lined the highway as warning to others. Jesus needs to use not only his heart but his head. All he has to do is say the word, and he will have the backing of thousands! We all watch him, James. From the Sanhedrin to the am ha-aretz.” Raziel put his palms together, finally pleading. “We sin against God by refusing to pull together. In your brother is great hope.”
Raziel stood suddenly to gesture at the curtained passageway. “Did you see all of those people out there, James? Good people! Innocent people! People who scrape for a living and have good hearts and an honest faith in the One True God amidst people who worship gods who are not gods. These people are the ones who do not much care what is played out daily in Jerusalem and Rome. They are concerned with bread for the table and shoes for the feet; they are concerned with scraping together the next tax. They don’t think much about what goes on in Rome . . . but I care about them. And your brother cares. We are the ones who have gifts from God to lead.” Raziel came close to James and crouched to gaze into his eyes. “But we cannot lead if we refuse to be united.”
“I wish my brothers could hear you,” James said before he could stop it. These words, this passion . . . here was more sense than he had heard since Joseph was alive.
The light in Raziel’s eyes could kindle a brush fire. “I wish only one brother could hear me.”
James pulled back, mostly from reflex. So many had wanted an audience with Jesus, as if James could personally grant one. But no one before had spoken like Raziel.
“You give me much to think on,” James said slowly. He rubbed his hand absently over his belly, thoughts gusting. Before he could begin to put them in order, Raziel took his seat and pulled it close. He put his hands together, touching his fingertips to his lips.
“Talk to him, James. He will not listen to me. I have tried. I will go to my grave knowing I did what I could. But you . . . you could be the one to make him see. I have heard that your father was a good man, respected by all in the community. Annika speaks so well of him, of his goodness and how he tried so hard to raise his children to walk in God’s ways. What would your father say today? Would he approve that his son does not take his leadership gifts to the lengths God intended? James, I feel great pride in Jesus, as if he were my own boy. I think many Jews do. He is a young man with great passion and great wisdom who is simply misdirected. He needs fatherly advice. You know it, James, I see it in your eyes. I appeal to you, as a father to a son.”
James looked away. Why did he—how did he know?
“James, listen. Judah the Maccabee fought back. Mattathias and his sons, they fought back . . . and they won. Look at the similarities. Mattathias and his five sons. Joseph and his five sons. Perhaps it is history playing itself out again. Perhaps we are given a chance by God to make it right this time, to take back our land and make a lasting peace, one to endure for the generations of our people. James, listen—Joseph is here no longer, but God help me, unworthy as I am, I am here. Ready to do what I can, to offer everything I have. It comes to this: We Jews will either be assimilated or annihilated. That, and soon. Now is the time, James.”
James found he was nodding but stopped. No, no, he could not agree yet. He could not commit to anything. Confusion and frustration made him scrub his nails in his scalp. How was it he even considered the words of this man? And yet . . . in three years . . . this one spoke James’ heart like no other.
James dropped his hand into his lap and sighed heavily. He said quietly, “I don’t know what I can do. Jesus knows his own mind. He does not listen much to others, even his own family. But—I will think on it.” He swallowed. “I will speak to my brothers.”
Raziel sat back. “Do what you can, James. It is all God ever asks of us.”
James rose and suddenly felt uncomfortable at his leave-taking. He managed a weak half smile at Raziel. “When I came, I wanted to kill you.”
Raziel rose too and returned the wry smile. “And now, perhaps, we depart as friends? Only God.”
“Only God.”
“I will be here until dusk tomorrow night. Contact me if you and your brothers come to a conclusion that we can, perhaps, discuss.”
James nodded and started for the passageway. He stopped when he realized he was still holding the ball-in-a-cage and went back to place it on Nathanael’s bundle. He wiped his hands on his tunic, glanced at Raziel, and went through the doorway. He threw a last look over his shoulder at the older man, who stood holding apart the curtain. When James would see him next, he did not know. Oddly, he had a feeling he would miss him.
Raziel watched until James disappeared around the corner at the end of the passageway, then let the curtain fall back into place. He had not lied to the lad. For this he was grateful, though he would have lied if he had to. The cause was everything.
Raziel turned from the doorway, fingering his beard. Well, where was the harm in his speech? That b
oy needed a little passion in his life. He needed a chance to get his focus off himself. Raziel had watched what went on in those dark-brown eyes. James had listened and had put good hard reasoning to harder issues. Raziel had seen it hundreds of times; he had seen minds change course through words Raziel himself was inspired to say. He knew his gifts. It never failed to exhilarate and to humble him. What power in the spoken word!
What power, too, in the unspoken words. Raziel could not help but chuckle as he began to gather the scrolls together. If James had pressed him for the reason for his presence in Nazareth, what would he have told the boy? Seek James was not a sensible option.
He had left Kerioth in a hurry, in a flush of confusion, unsure of where he was going, only knowing he had to go. He had sensed that the name was far off, and he’d packed for the journey as if it would take a week. So it did. He was slowed on the way by early pilgrims heading to Jerusalem for Passover. Hostels were filled, inns were filled; Raziel often had to inquire for a home to stay in, or put up a tent and risk it on the roadside.
He never once dreamed that the James of the mystical injunction would turn out to be the younger brother of Jesus the Nazarene.
Oh, he had heard young Jesus speak, on several occasions. All he told James was sincere, though Raziel, in truth, had long given up on the man from Galilee. Jesus had an authority in his gifts that Raziel knew all too well; Jesus knew what he was about. He would no sooner give up his mission than would Raziel himself.
Raziel folded up the tripod chair and set it against the wall. So, one who ran with Jesus was a Zealot from Kerioth? That was news to him. Ah, let James think there was a plot to strong-arm Jesus to nationalism. No harm in it. He hoped it would make James face reality. Think on important things. Maybe even prompt him to join the cause. To do what his brother would not. Such a pity. All those powers.
He sighed. No, Jesus himself would not be Israel’s messiah—not the messiah they needed. Either way, the poor fool would earn himself a cross for being different, for stirring up passion, and Raziel hated Rome even more for it. He liked that lad, liked his revolutionary ideas and his kind and compassionate ways, and he did not want him to die. For the inevitable fate that awaited gentle Jesus and his followers, Raziel would one day make Rome pay. Yes, they would pay. But he knew better than to try again with the turn-the-other-cheek peace lover from Nazareth.