Jerusalem's Hope, Page 3

  Nakdimon stretched his hands out to the embers. How would he tell Gamaliel these things? How could he put this into words?

  No. There are no words!

  All the books in all the world couldn’t hold what Yeshua had done. How could Nakdimon attempt to explain? If only he could offer a glimpse. So much! So many touched, moved, changed!

  We had better get it right. . . .

  LO

  The wind died as morning approached. Stars dimmed. The sur face of the lake became placid, a mirror of reflected pastels.

  This was the first dawn in Emet’s new life. It was teeming with unfamiliar murmurings and the clamor of awakenings.

  At the southern tip of the Sea of Galilee, the trio of boys stopped to watch the golden blade of morning slice through the darkness.

  “Is that heaven, then?” Ha-or Tov cried, turning away from the painful brightness.

  Avel replied, “Just the sun. Coming up like it always does.”

  “Don’t look at it,” Emet warned. “It will burn your eyes, and you’ll be blind again.”

  For hours they had traveled through a monochrome world awash in moonlight. Their shadows had fallen on the road that skirted the eastern shore of the lake. Campfires of other pilgrims on the way to Jerusalem for Passover had dotted the countryside and caused Ha-or Tov to swivel his head at each manifestation of light. Yet only now, as colors intensified, did Ha-or Tov stop in the middle of the road and refuse to continue until he could absorb it.

  “This may take a while. We might as well eat.” Avel offered the bag of loaves to Emet.

  Emet didn’t reply. He was too busy trying to sort out the resonant hum in the air as the world opened its eyes. Far away a rooster crowed. A dog barked and was answered with the whistle of its master. The bleating of sheep mingled with the sounds of human conversation. And how many different birds called from tree, or vineyard, or brush? Emet couldn’t keep it all in his head. He covered his ears with his hands.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Avel consoled him. “After a while you won’t notice it anymore.”

  “But I want to hear it!” Emet protested. “All of it! I have to figure out what each thing means!”

  “Suit yourself.” Avel retrieved a piece of bread. “It was easier going when you were deaf and Ha-or Tov was blind.”

  Emet dipped into the bag. He observed Avel, the mourner. His friend was changed, as if he were not the same boy. Before, Avel’s eyes had been perpetually downcast. It had made it difficult for Emet to read his lips. But now! Avel gazed peacefully at a hawk circling above them. Sun shone on his golden hair. His lips curved in a slight smile.

  Then Emet turned his attention to Ha-or Tov. Before last night, Ha-or Tov had shuffled when he walked. When Ha-or Tov was blind, his face had been perpetually turned skyward, wagging back and forth, as if he were sniffing the air for a hint of what might be around him. And before, when Ha-or Tov had sat on the ground, he’d swayed like a sapling in the wind. This morning, Ha-or Tov was focused, perfectly motionless as he drank in visual wonders.

  Emet was likewise absorbed by a mystic harmony drifting over the countryside. It occurred to Emet that somewhere among the bird conversation was the voice of Yediyd the sparrow. Surely the bird was twittering to friends and relatives about how Yeshua of Nazareth made him alive after Kittim, once the leader of the link boys, had crushed him. This was a comforting thought for Emet. That a creature as insignificant as Yediyd had beat the cruelty of the sparrow killer!

  “Is the air always like this?” Emet asked.

  Avel scratched his chin, as if not comprehending the question. “I like the smell of the country air. Better than Yerushalayim, I think.”

  “No. I mean always singing? So . . . full?” Emet asked.

  Avel munched the bread. “The noise you mean? Louder in some places. Yerushalayim is much worse. Every smell has a sound.” Avel nudged Ha-or Tov, including him in this discussion. “And every sound has a color. The people! Everyone talking at the same time.”

  Then, without explanation, Ha-or Tov gasped and groped for a boulder to steady himself. He began to quiver. “The rebels of bar Abba! All of them with eyes that see! I didn’t know what that meant before! When everything was blank I was safe . . . invisible. But if I can see them, they can see me! From far away . . . they’ll recognize us!”

  So the sense of peace they had all felt in the presence of Yeshua came abruptly to an end. Emet was afraid. Ha-or Tov was absolutely correct! Emet eyed Avel, the one who always knew where they were going and what they should do. Yet Avel had no answer to such a problem.

  Avel contemplated the southward flight of the hawk. “We’ve got to be careful. If only we had wings!”

  Emet asked, “Should we hide? Travel in the dark?”

  Avel drew a breath and stuck out his lower lip. “Yeshua said we should go south. Straight to Beth-lehem. Find the man Zadok, he said. The Tower of Migdal Eder. I’m for going ahead. Getting to Beth-lehem quick as we can.”

  Ha-or Tov added hopefully, “Maybe Zadok will protect us from bar Abba and the rebels.”

  Emet pictured Kittim, the cruel young rebel who had crushed the tiny Yediyd under his foot! Kittim was searching for the three fugitives from the rebel band. And he would kill the boys if he found them. “Can Zadok save us from the sparrow killer?”

  Avel said, “Kittim enjoys hurting people. He’ll do what he can to hurt us. So . . . pass the bread.”

  They divided the barley loaf in thoughtful silence.

  Since Yeshua left them they had traveled several miles along the broad eastern highway and far into the hill country of the ten Greek cities of the Decapolis.

  “Even if we hide until sundown we’re not safe anywhere,” Ha-or Tov worried aloud. “Especially not here.”

  “But why?” Emet asked.

  “The people who live here aren’t Jews,” Avel explained to Emet. “Or if they are Jews, they’re rotten Jews who speak Greek and don’t mind pagan temples and the like.”

  Ha-or Tov added gloomily, “The rabbis in Judea say this place . . . the very dust of a heathen country . . . is unclean! Demons live here. People worship gods which aren’t the Lord. They burn babies in the arms of Molech here. Touching the ground defiles you. Like a grave with a putrefied body in it. Pus and oozing guts and the like.” He accidentally dropped a chunk of bread, snapped it up, blew off the dust, and passed it to Emet.

  Emet winced at his friend’s unconcern. He considered this information with alarm. It had been better not knowing such facts. Yesterday a walk along the highway east of the Jordan River had merely been a tramp along a dusty road. If he had dropped his bread yesterday, he wouldn’t have worried about it. “Then why do we stay on this side of the river?”

  “Because we have to go south to the ford. We can cross into Eretz-Israel there. Then we’ll be in Judea.” Avel gestured toward the blue ribbon of the Jordan flowing through the valley below.

  “Can’t we cross now?” Emet pleaded.

  Avel expounded. “Not until we go along farther. Crossing over here would be as bad as the Decapolis. That’s Samaria on the other side of the river.”

  Ha-or Tov contributed, “Every Samaritan is like Kittim. They hate Jews as much as Romans hate Jews. Maybe more. Samaria really stinks. Defilement and death, the rabbis say.”

  “How do you know this?” Emet sniffed.

  “Because I begged at the gate of a rich man. I heard the rabbis talking when they came in.” Ha-or Tov mocked them, “‘Quick! Get me water to wash the dust off my feet! I walked through a Samaritan village! The dust from a Roman horse is on my sandal!’” Ha-or Tov shrugged and resumed the lesson. “You pick up a lot of details when you’re blind and nobody thinks you’re listening. What I didn’t understand I asked the gatekeeper and he told me. There’s one single country where a good Jew can walk without worrying. That’s Eretz-Israel, The Land God gave to Israel! And when a good Jew goes outside The Land he can’t even bring heathen dust back to ming
le with the dust inside The Land. And when he makes pilgrimage to Yerushalayim, he’d better not carry any dirt from outside the land back into Eretz-Israel on him! The Land of Israel is holy, see? Yerushalayim is more holy. The Temple is the holiest. Understand?”

  “No.” Emet wondered if such rules existed or if Ha-or Tov was making them up.

  But Avel confirmed these astonishing facts. “He’s right. One speck of dust from outside.” He gave a low whistle. “Really bad. And this place? The Decapolis. Greek. Ten cities built by the followers of Alexander, the Greek general. Crammed with shrines to pagan idols. The worst. It’s polluted.” Avel corroborated the tale in its entirety.

  “What will happen?” Emet’s eyes stared. “If we catch pagan dust on us, I mean?”

  “Poof! Fire and brimstone!” Ha-or Tov indicated the incineration of the unlucky traveler who carried particles of soil from outside The Land into the Holy City. “That’s why the rabbis are always washing.”

  “Then why are we traveling this way?” Emet wailed in horror as he gawked at his dirt-caked feet. Defilement and contamination! Surely he would end up a pile of ashes!

  Avel replied, “Because if you’re on the east side of the Sea of Galilee, like us, you can’t go south to Beth-lehem and Yerushalayim any other way. You go through Samaria, you’ll get your throat cut. So you go through this part of the Decapolis and cross over Jordan into Judea farther south.”

  Since existing borders required travel outside The Land to get from Galil, in the north, to Judea, in the south, this condition of righteousness didn’t seem particularly fair to Emet. His brow furrowed.

  Was this why bar Abba’s rebels hated Romans so much? Dust touching Roman toes was changed into evil! And was this why the Jewish religious sorts stamped the dirt from their sandals when a Samaritan or a tax collector in the pay of Rome passed by? This explained the reason no respectable Jew ever entered a building where a Gentile resided!

  The world had become a lot more complicated. How many more regulations would he have to learn to be a good talmidim? Emet wondered.

  Emet picked at the barley bread and stared at the contaminated brown earth of the Decapolis and a budding almond orchard in a swale nearby. It was a pretty plot of ground, even if it was heathen. He was sorry Yeshua had not taken them with him across the waters. Why hadn’t Yeshua picked them up and carried them back to Galilee on his shoulders? Away from this polluted land! Safe from bar Abba’s rebels and from the reach of Kittim, the sparrow killer! They would have been safe with Yeshua, wouldn’t they? Instead the Master had sent them off on this dangerous journey to Beth-lehem.

  What if someone from bar Abba’s band spotted them on the way? Surely even the rebels would be traveling on this road south to Jerusalem for Passover! Kittim, the sparrow killer, had ears! He would hear the boys talking and hunt them down even in a crowd! He would slit their throats with the razor-sharp blade of his knife!

  Emet felt alone and scared.

  Then Ha-or Tov presented an equally disturbing thought. “Kittim is on this side of the river! I’m sure of it. He’ll see us and kill us.”

  “He’ll have to catch us first,” Avel vowed. “And we can run fast now that you can see where you’re going.”

  Then, an octave beneath the chatter of fowls and a braying donkey, Emet sensed something frightening. His head snapped erect as the voices of men in angry conversation approached. “Listen,” he hissed.

  “I don’t hear anything.” Avel frowned.

  “Travelers! Coming this way! I want to go now,” Emet warned, pocketing his breakfast. His heart quickened with terror. “I want to go to Zadok in Beth-lehem, where maybe we’ll be safe! The place Yeshua told us to go! We shouldn’t wait! I don’t want to be outside The Land anymore. It’s not safe!”

  Ha-or Tov shushed Avel’s protest that they needn’t be in such a hurry. “Emet’s right. I hear them. Men coming down the highway. Arguing about . . . something. They’ll be upon us soon!”

  Avel listened a second longer, clearly straining to catch what his companions recognized so plainly. Then Avel’s face blanched. “Is it bar Abba? Or Kittim?”

  They wouldn’t wait for the answer. Emet leapt to his feet, and the three boys sprinted down the highway.

  Nakdimon ben Gurion shifted his muscled bulk on the hard, unyielding ground and wished he were at home in Jerusalem. Even rest on this journey wasn’t restful.

  He had completed his mission to the Galil. He had seen the miracles, questioned the Teacher one-on-one, and witnessed that marvelous feeding of an army with a handful of bread and fish.

  What summary would he give to the leaders of Israel about Yeshua of Nazareth?

  Every detail about the Master would doubtless reach Jerusalem ahead of Nakdimon. The pilgrims traveling to the city to celebrate Passover would spread the news.

  What would they say?

  Praise was the thing Nakdimon ben Gurion heard from the thousands of pilgrims along the highway that led from Galilee south to Jerusalem.

  Praise for teaching! Praise for healing! Praise for bread! Praise for what would be!

  Doubtless they would add ecstatic speculation to their report: Praise for the coming rout of Romans and half-breed Samaritans! Praise for the slaughter of the profane and the cheaters and the oppressors of the poor! Praise for the restoration of fortunes, land, and freedom! Praise for Yeshua of Nazareth, who could raise a dead little girl in Capernaum. He must now raise an army to march on Yerushalayim!

  The Kingdom of God had come. Did Yeshua not say so?

  Nakdimon considered again what he had witnessed and heard. What truth could he carry back to Jerusalem for his uncle, the renowned Gamaliel, who sat with Nakdimon in the chamber of the Sanhedrin, the council of seventy elders of the Jews? How would the religious leaders take the news that the people flocked to hear a lowly carpenter from Nazareth who was manifestly more than that description encompassed?

  Nakdimon surmised that whatever their reaction, it would not be favorable to Yeshua. The holy man, like his cousin Yochanan the Baptizer, would be in danger if he came to Jerusalem.

  Yesterday at the beach Nakdimon had warned Yeshua’s talmidim to keep their Master far from the crowds, far from the Temple, far from Jerusalem and Judea until Passover was over and the mobs returned home. Thousands of lambs would be slaughtered for the seder. Nakdimon didn’t want the blood of Yeshua mingled with the blood of the flock! There would come a time in the future when the gentle Rabbi could enter the city, but emotions were too hot and high for him to come now!

  There was, of course, the unresolved conflict brewing over the use of Temple funds to pay for Governor Pilate’s aqueduct. The issue of Korban money supplying Roman stones to rise across the fields of Beth-lehem would surely lead to riots in Jerusalem this year. People had bled and died for the sake of much less significant religious violations than Roman canals built with sacred coins.

  Nakdimon stood slowly. His back ached. He cleared his throat and scanned the hundreds of travelers near smoldering campfires all around him. There were rebels among the pilgrims, he knew. There were possibly hundreds of swords waiting for the cry to battle. And the Romans would swoop down. Jewish heads would fall like unripe melons on the stones of the Temple Court unless the crowds could be kept calm.

  This much he was certain of: Yeshua would not be the one to call down judgment and slaughter. But his presence would certainly be used to rally the foolishly eager.

  Nakdimon hoped Yeshua’s talmidim had the brains to convince the Rabbi that his attendance would simply add fuel to the embers of resentment already smoldering against the high priest and the Roman authorities!

  And what had Nakdimon personally taken away from his encounter with Yeshua?

  How long had he been knocking at Hadassah’s grave? Wishing she would come back to him and the children? Angry at her for leaving him alone with six young girls and one infant son to raise alone? Mourning her death a hundred times a day?

  Yeshua had
given him hope that he would see her again, hold her again. One hundred years would pass, and all of them would be reunited in tangible form. They would smile and talk and touch one another’s hands and say, “So this is what it means. . . .”

  For Nakdimon that hope of a life to come was more important than the bread or the healing or the possibility of Yeshua as King over Israel.

  The future. Yes. Someday, perhaps, that would be reality.

  But for now there was life to live. Insurrections to quell. Government to preserve. Peace to cling to. For the sake of his children Nakdimon accepted that Gamaliel and the rulers of Israel must consider Yeshua in the context of what was expedient. The Sanhedrin and the high priest might be unsavory and corrupt, but they were also responsible for the survival of Israel in an uncertain political reality. Yeshua could tip the balance toward revolution against Rome. If the people proclaimed him king it could mean the ultimate destruction of Israel and Jerusalem.

  For this reason Nakdimon hoped Yeshua would stay far away from Jerusalem during Passover.

  Roman centurion Marcus Longinus and his commandant, Tribune Dio Felix, had ridden all night. By so doing they had managed to reach Caesarea Maritima on the Mediterranean coast just as dawn was breaking. Long before the salt tang in the air alerted Marcus that their journey was nearly finished, Felix had already issued orders: “No ceremony this time! No stopping to bathe or for dress uniforms! Governor Pilate must hear the report on Yeshua of Nazareth without delay!”

  As travel-worn as Felix was, the enforced haste was worse for Marcus. The centurion had not changed clothes since his previous appearance before Pilate. His beard itched, the rough cloth of his homespun tunic stuck to him, and his eyes and ears were plastered with the chalky dust of the wind-whipped Galil. In every respect Marcus looked more like one of the rebels he’d been assigned to pursue than a Roman officer; more like a Jewish brigand than one of the masters of the universe.