Jerusalem's Hope

by Bodie Thoene

  Gamaliel put a hand on Nakdimon’s arm. “This is, of course, a picture of temple sacrifice. On the Day of Atonement one goat, the scapegoat, is chosen by drawn lots and then set free. The other animal is sacrificed for atonement of the sins of Israel. Its blood is sprinkled on the altar. It has always puzzled me that Isaiah writes as though the atonement will be made by the blood of Messiah himself. See here, at the beginning of this passage . . . ‘so will he sprinkle many nations.’”

  Nakdimon considered the passage. “Yeshua said that Moses wrote about him. That if we believe Moses, then we’ll believe him. I’ve been thinking . . . The picture of sacrifice is also seen in Passover. The salvation of those Israelites who obeyed the command God gave to Moses in Egypt. When the blood of the lamb was sprinkled on the doorposts of the house the Angel of Death passed over.”

  Gamaliel hummed thoughtfully. “Yes. Passover.” He carefully rolled up the scroll and set it to one side. “What was it Yochanan the Baptizer called Yeshua?”

  “He said, ‘Behold the lamb.’” Nakdimon swallowed hard. “‘The lamb of God . . . who takes away the sins of the world.’” Nakdimon’s brows knit together as the significance of the messianic prophecies and their possible meanings tumbled through his brain.

  Gamaliel closed his eyes in thought for several minutes. When he opened them again he was pale and subdued. He warned Nakdimon, “Say nothing about this to anyone. If Yeshua of Nazareth is the Messiah, then the meaning of every prophecy will become clear. There’s no changing what is written even though we can’t understand it completely before its fulfillment.” The meeting was finished. “Go home. Pray. Study. Write down every word you heard. I think perhaps . . . everything he says means much more than it may suggest at first hearing. Search it out. Question everything. Ask yourself what he might have meant. Check his teaching against the words of Torah and the prophets.”

  Almost as an afterthought, Nakdimon mentioned the journey from the Galil. “I met three children on the road south. One boy worked as a link boy. A Sparrow. His name is Avel. He claims he was sent to Beth-lehem to deliver a message from Yeshua to Zadok of Migdal Eder.”

  Gamaliel sat forward with interest at this information. “Zadok, you say?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me what the message was.”

  Gamaliel considered the news. “We should have a word with this boy. And with Zadok.” The rabbi called out for Saul to bring quill, ink, papyrus, and sealing wax. “Zadok will bring him if I send for him. Your house? Two days?”

  On the crest of the hill Emet put Bear down and let him sniff the grass. Then, in a sudden burst of energy, the baby tore across the green expanse toward the forest.

  Blue Eye jogged behind, blocking his escape and herding him back toward Emet.

  Emet sank to the cool earth, clasped his knees, and surveyed the Valley of the Flock. Beth-lehem, City of David, looked much as it must have in David’s day. White brick houses clung to the hillside like sheep.

  Emet shuddered at the sight of women tending gardens on the terraced slopes. He was glad to have escaped women’s work. Now and then the shrill voices of young children rose on the wind.

  In the distance was Migdal Eder and beyond was the hated Roman aqueduct. Farther south, the menacing parapets of Herodium loomed over all.

  As Emet watched, the gate on the lowest level yawned open. A new shift of stonecutters marched from the gloomy palace of the dead butcher king.

  Emet ate his lunch and strained to hear the music of David. Instead he heard the rush of wind through the dark green branches of the trees.

  And then . . . there was something more. A murmur, barely audible beneath the sighing breeze. A voice? Voices? Emet recognized the urgent whisper of men’s voices from the thick copse of trees.

  How many? Emet counted three distinctly different tenors.

  “We’ll stay here awhile. The boy will be on his way and we can finish.”

  “What if he sees us?”

  “What of it? Judea is packed with travelers. We’ve stopped to shelter in the woods before traveling to Yerushalayim. That’s all.”

  “And if he tells someone?”

  “Tells someone there are men in the woods?”

  “Shut up. Doesn’t matter. Who will care?”

  “He could report it. . . .”

  “There’s rancor enough in the valley between shepherds and masons. They’ll be blaming each other when it comes down on them.”

  At this Emet turned his head to search the woods for some sign of who was within. Tree trunks provided a united front, shielding the watchers from view.

  A sudden hissing called for silence as Emet scanned the trees.

  Had he imagined it? Or had he overheard a fragment of ancient conversation that had snagged on a branch to echo old words when the wind was up?

  More.

  “Have you seen enough?”

  “I’ve got the lay of the land all right. The tower . . .”

  “The tower . . .”

  “Before the moon is up . . .”

  “The boy is facing this way. I think he’s heard us.”

  Emet’s head snapped forward. A chill coursed through him. This was no antique scrap of syllables but a present-day exchange.

  Someone was up to no good.

  Emet’s voice shook as he called to the dog. “Blue Eye! Home!”

  “There. See? He’s leaving. . . .”

  “Leaving . . . back down the hill . . .”

  The tricolored dog nosed Bear toward Emet at the head of the path. Resisting the urge to peer over his shoulder at the menace, Emet slipped the noose around the black lamb’s throat and headed down to the stable.

  Lev was not pleased to see Emet return to the stable so soon. Nor was he impressed with Emet’s report.

  “There’s a jackal living in those woods!” Lev scolded. “You’re lucky it didn’t sneak out and eat that little black creature you’re so fond of!”

  “It was men I heard.”

  “One jackal’s the same as another.”

  “But there’s someone up there!” Emet pleaded.

  “It’s near Passover week. What do y’ think? They camp up there every year. Nuisance! Two years ago some dolt set fire to the woods. If it hadn’t rained a torrent . . .”

  “But they’re up to something.” Emet was certain he was correct.

  “So’s everybody up to something,” Lev spat in irritation. “I’m up to something!” He raised his hand as if to smack Emet across the mouth.

  Blue Eye growled a warning and stood stiff-legged to protest the hostile gesture.

  Lev lowered his hand. “So. Et tu, Blue Eye? Always taking the side of scrawny worthless things, aren’t y’? Well, just remember who feeds y’, dog! All right then. Tell this stump of a boy you’re so fond of to shut up or I’ll take a switch to him when the dogs are away!”

  Blue Eye sat down on his haunches, content to have Lev back off. Emet gave up. Why should he expect Lev to be impressed with anything he said?

  Lev didn’t care one whit that there were men lurking in the woods beyond Beth-lehem. Maybe Emet shouldn’t care either.

  ZEH DEVAR

  The synagogue at the fortress of Herodium had been declared unclean so long ago that Roman soldiers freely used it for dice and the practice of fighting techniques when the weather was bad.

  At the request of Oren, Marcus banned the games. The nearly forgotten Torah scrolls and copies of the writings of the prophets were removed from storage and once again made available for the stonemasons to study on Shabbat and during their off hours. It was good for morale among the guilt-ridden and much-maligned workmen. The synagogue became a house of worship where the outcasts of Israel could meet, study, and pray once more.

  Marcus was invited by Oren into the sanctuary. It had been scrubbed clean, Latin graffiti removed from the pillars. The place was, in fact, a beautiful structure.

  “I remember the stories of this palace from when I was young,” Oren remarked.
“My father told me that the future tomb of old Herod was more glorious than the tombs of Israel’s true kings. But it didn’t make Herod the true King of Israel.”

  Silence. Then Marcus asked, “Who is the true King of Israel?”

  “All that’s behind us,” Oren said. “Our King was meant to be from the line of David. Herod clearly was not. He had the genealogy records destroyed at the Temple the same year the star appeared in the heavens.”

  In a flash of memory Marcus recalled one of the anecdotes he had heard about the madness of Herod the Great. “Thirty-some years ago. In Beth-lehem. A rival king being born and . . .”

  “I was a boy. A great star appeared. We used to sit up on the roof to watch its progress. I remember it! I was five or six that summer. Everyone said it meant something wonderful. A king born in Israel to save us all. But nothing came of it . . . except it pushed Herod further into madness and cruelty.”

  A sign in the heavens? A star? A king from heaven born to redeem the suffering world? Marcus knew that in the lore and legends of Rome such visions had been seen and written down. Always, however, they related to Rome’s pantheon of gods, and often to human rulers. Could myth be truth in this case? He waited to hear more.

  “I can show you in Scripture. Everyone learned it well.” The stonemason shyly opened the first scroll of Isaiah. Scanning the page he found a place and began to read:

  “Behold, a virgin shall conceive and bear a son and shall call his name, Im manu’el. That is, God-with-us. The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light . . . For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. . . .”

  Oren scanned the rest silently for a moment. At last he raised his face to Marcus. “This was supposed to be our promised Messiah.” He shrugged. “Some have said he’s alive. In the north. The Galil. Yeshua of Nazareth. Have you heard of him? Many are saying he’ll come to Jerusalem this year.”

  Marcus didn’t admit he had seen Yeshua or that he believed if any man could be the king and savior of a hurting world it was Yeshua of Nazareth. To speak such a thing aloud would be tantamount to treason against Rome.

  Some phrase of Roman poetry stirred in Marcus’ mind. “I’ve heard this prophecy before . . . something like it. An oracle recorded by our poet Virgil.” He closed his eyes and remembered the stern face of his tutor during recitation. Then he spoke the words aloud to Oren:“Now comes the time sung by Cumae’s Sibyl,

  When the wheel of ages starts afresh.

  Now is the virgin made herself known

  And the reign of Saturn on earth;

  Now is a child engendered by heaven.

  Smile, chaste Lucina, at the birth of this boy

  Who will put an end to our wretched age,

  From whom golden people shall spring.

  Now does your own Apollo reign!”

  Oren stared at him in amazement.

  Marcus had heard those stanzas applied to the Emperor Augustus, the god-man who had brought the golden age to earth.

  There were other supposedly miraculous occurrences connected with Augustus, but everyone rational understood them to be political propaganda.

  Nobody had ever seen Augustus raise the dead.

  Besides, Marcus thought, it was possible the verse of Virgil had been lifted from the Isaiah scroll and adapted to fit Roman religious belief. Yet it was clear that there were those in Rome who expected a god to be born of a virgin and to reign on earth. To a certain degree they, like Marcus, would comprehend the meaning of the son of God taking human form and coming as a king.

  “Messiah. King,” Marcus said. “The Caesars of Rome claim they are sons of gods. Though I’ve yet to see one heal a cripple or raise a little girl from the dead. Rome won’t appreciate anyone who is capable of these things.”

  “Then you’ve heard of him?” Oren stared at him intently.

  “Who hasn’t heard of him?”

  “I’d like to hear him teach. For myself, I mean. See the miracles. I’d given up hope until I heard . . . all the stories. Do you think it’s possible?”

  Marcus considered his words carefully. “If he is what people say he is, God help him. There’s not a more stiff-necked nation in the empire than your people! And if the sons of Herod the Great are half as jealous as their father was, they won’t take kindly to competition. Herod Antipas made his position clear when he executed Yochanan the Baptizer, didn’t he? And as for Rome’s pantheon of sons of the gods, they’ll resent him, surely.”

  “But if he is the Messiah, they won’t be able to harm him,” Oren stated.

  “Well, there’s a test for you then. But I don’t suppose it will keep them from trying.”

  Emet watched the glowing orange ball of the sun sink rapidly toward the west. The late-afternoon sky was a pale blue, daubed with translucent white smears of clouds.

  The boy was anxious to get his next chore completed and wished it would start soon. He, Ha-or Tov, and Avel were to take an evening meal to the shepherds on the far side of the valley. The longer their departure was postponed, the darker the return journey would be.

  Despite Lev’s derision, since hearing the voices on the wind, Emet was afraid of what . . . or who . . . lurked on the hillside. Fear of ridicule made him draw back from sharing his concerns with anyone else, but in Emet’s heart a shadowy dread grew.

  Ha-or Tov sat on the edge of the stone wall, dangling his feet as they waited for the baskets of provisions. He appeared totally unconcerned with the approach of darkness. As he said, after living in its totality for so long, night was a mere inconvenience and nothing more.

  Avel teased Emet about his nervousness. “We’re surrounded by thousands of sheep and a hundred shepherds. The stonecutters go back to Herodium at night and the Romans go out on patrol. What’s scary in any of that?”

  Rejecting the notion of taking Avel and Ha-or Tov into his confidence, Emet substituted, “It’s the jackal. There’s still a jackal out there.”

  Ha-or Tov considered this. “It’s plenty light right now,” he said, gauging the angle between the sun and the horizon.

  “But it won’t be on the way back,” Emet argued. “What if it grabs us?”

  Zadok approached with three wickerwork containers of food. After handing the larger ones to Ha-or Tov and Avel and a smaller one to Emet, he extracted something else from the folds of his robe: three leather slings, their straps cut down in size to fit young boys.

  “If you’re to be shepherds,” the white-haired man said as he offered the weapons, “y ’ must practice with these. An accomplished slinger can hit a mark at a hundred paces. Good protection from jackals . . . or other creatures.”

  Emet was confused. Did the old man somehow know about the voices on the wind? If so, he said nothing further.

  “No hitting sheep with these,” Zadok instructed sternly. “Practice against trees and rocks and remember: a slingstone can kill a man if it hits him in the head.”

  The three apprentices agreed to be careful, indicating their understanding of the gravity of the new tools.

  “It was from near this very spot,” Zadok continued, “that the youngest son of Jesse of Beth-lehem . . . it was David, who was later our king . . . set out to watch his father’s flocks.” Zadok’s words stopped as his face turned toward the setting sun. Emet wondered what extraneous thought about a shepherd’s son had disturbed the old man’s concentration.

  Shaking his head, Zadok returned to his lesson. “In his day David killed lions and bears with one of these.”

  “At my age?” Avel asked.

  “Only a little older,” Zadok returned. “And then he struck down the giant Philistine warrior, Goliath of Gath. One stone to the forehead was all it took.”

  Avel and Ha-or Tov immediately searched the ground for suitable rocks for their slings.

  Emet continued to watch Zadok. How was it poss
ible that such a battle-scarred, gruff elder could at times display a side of such understanding of boys?

  “Off y’ go, then,” Zadok said sternly. “No dawdling! I don’t want you falling into a pit because y’ got lost in the dark. And the night watch won’t like it if you spill their suppers either!”

  The night was the thickest Emet had ever experienced.

  That was the only word he could think of to describe the sensation of the darkness. He could almost touch it.

  Or, more correctly, he could sense its touch on him.

  A surreptitious caress on his cheek, the barely felt lifting of the hair on the back of his neck. And sounds! So many sounds! Too many! The air moaning with the wind. The breath of sheep kneeling in sleep on the slope. The hum and tick of insects. Things creeping in the brush. And the murmur of men’s voices carried in dark octaves of sound.

  The journey was full of broom brush that mimicked bears and boulders that appeared as lions. But none of these was as terrifying as the writhing, groaning blackness itself.

  Patting the fold of his robe where the sling was lodged didn’t comfort Emet. The one thing that would help would be to get this duty completed, rejoin Avel and Ha-or Tov, and, as quickly as possible, return to the safety of Zadok’s house.

  They came to the hilltop above the Valley of the Sheepfold. Standing beside a chalky boulder as big as Jerusalem’s Dung Gate, Avel said: “Here’s where we split up. Emet, you go down there, to the watchmen in that canyon. Then we meet back here.”

  It sounded like a reasonable plan. That is, until the darkness closed in around him without any watch fire being seen, without any hungry shepherds eager for their supper.

  When Emet looked back, he could no longer see the boulder that was the sentinel of safety. He thought then about retreating, about running up the slope all the way to the meeting place.