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Chapter Sixteen
The next day, which was the Sabbath, when we had all
awakened from a fitful night’s sleep, completed our morning ablutions, and
gathered groggily around the table where our bowls of yogurt and mugs of grape
juice sat, I remembered, without comment, that Michael was missing. It was over. Papa had done his best. I was convinced that I would never see him again. Simon, who must have been happy that
Michael was gone, comforted me nonetheless, by patting my back and nodding in
recognition, as I looked his way.
To be truthful, though, I felt relieved, and returned a clear-eyed
smile.
“Let us pray,” Papa said hoarsely, taking my hand.
“Make a circle,” ordered Mama reaching down to both
of the twins.
Simon took my free hand and then joined hands with
James. Making a face, James took
Joseph’s hand, as Joseph gently placed his fingers in Abigail’s tiny palm. Martha, like her sister, took Mama’s
hand, clasping Papa’s free hand to complete the circle so that he could begin
his prayer:
“Lord, we live in your shadow but are guided by your
light. Standing as supplicants
during the Sabbath, we accept your judgment regardless of its effect. We thank you for your blessings. It’s your wisdom that guides our
lives. You have entrusted Mary and
I with seven wonderful children.
Please watch over them in the coming days. Guide Joseph of Arimathea, who you have entrusted with
Jesus, our oldest child. If it’s
your will, please take charge of Michael’s troubled spirit and bring him safely
back to his adopted home.
Otherwise, let him live in peace.
Soften the hard hearts of our neighbors and protect us from our
enemies—known and unknown, who begrudge our happy house.”
“Amen,” we all mumbled.
Releasing each other’s hand, James and Joseph made
comic gestures, as if they had been ritually violated by their brothers and
sisters’ touch. Papa laughed
good-naturedly, as did Simon and I.
Mama shook her head reproachfully as she and the twins added bowels of
cut fruit to the table.
“You boys should be ashamed.” She wrung her finger.
“Jesus is traveling unknown lands with that strange man. Poor, confused Michael wanders hungry and
alone the Lord knows where. People
hate us for a good deed and resent our oldest son. And you mock Papa’s prayer with that pantomime!”
“Sorry Mama.” James hung his head, a grin still on
his face.
With the morning prayers of the Sabbath spoken, we
were at liberty to begin our meal and came at our yogurt and bread as ravenous
wolves. In less time than it took
Papa to peel a fig, we had finished, anxious to begin the new day.
Belatedly, Joseph mumbled his apology too, but broke into
giggles as he and James charged out the door. Simon and I followed, after giving Mama a quick hug. I could hear Abigail and Martha
tittering in the background, as Simon and I emerged in the yard. Papa and Mama could now have a peaceful
meal.
“Boys, don’t go beyond the orchard!” Papa called out
the window, a grin showing in his bearded face.
As Jews, we weren’t allowed to work on the Sabbath,
which made it was our favorite day.
One of the restrictions on this sacred day was not to travel beyond two
thousand cubits from one’s house, but our property was well within that range,
so my brothers and I included the surrounding hills as well. I knew my parents had been unhappy
about Michael’s absence, but I noted an airy feeling of relief in Papa’s
voice. Because the Roman guards
had begun patrolling Nazareth, he said nothing as Simon and I ran into the
front yard, exchanging questioning looks, as if to ask “Well, what do we do
now?” The truth was, we had all
played the same familiar games over and over and needed fresh ideas. In the distance, I heard James and
Joseph talking about Papa’s treasure.
The ‘lust for gold’ appeared to be infecting our older brothers, but I
tried pushing that thought from my mind.
I wanted to run carefree as Michael and I had done before he left. For a long while Simon had romped with
my gang, until Michael began acting strangely. Now, we were playmates again, as we had been before Michael
arrived, but minus my old friends.
Suddenly, however, as we loitered in the garden,
contemplating the morning sun we saw Uriah, of all people, walking down the
road. The moment of truth for the
rabbi’s son had come. How Papa
managed to talk Joachim into sending his son over here I would never know. I suspected Samuel, the Pharisee, had
something to do with it, but all I could get from Papa later when I asked was a
sly smile.
“Hey, Uriah,” James called, while idling in the
shop, “better not come any closer to our house; you might get defiled!”
It what sounded
rehearsed, Uriah replied, “To make peace, I can visit you now that Jesus is
gone.”
“Who put you up
to this?” Simon sneered. “It took you long enough to come around!”
“No one,” he said in quivering voice. “It was my
idea.”
He was very nervous, actually frightened, as he
approached our house. In malicious
glee, Simon ran over and barred the gate.
James and Joseph, who hated Uriah almost as much as they hated Romans,
swaggered over to the entry path, arms folded and snarls on their faces, as if
they would not let him enter.
Considering what happened, I was tempted to tease him, myself, but Papa
had asked me to make peace with him.
Simon tossed dirt clods at him and James and Joseph taunted him with
insults until Papa’s shouted from the window, “That’ll be enough boys. It took great courage for Uriah to come
here.”
I removed the bar from its latch and silently let
him through the gate. James and
Joseph frowned severely at him before walking away. In comic jesters, Simon acted as if he had just made contact
with a leper. I remembered my
Papa’s request and realized begrudgingly that Uriah was, in fact, making the
first effort at making peace, so I patted his shoulder and nodded. When Uriah followed my ritual greeting,
we walked from the garden down toward the fig tree and bench in the front
yard. Mama called a greeting from
the kitchen window, as Uriah struggled for something to say.
“I-I’m sorry,” Uriah stammered.
“He’s a sorry piece of dung!” James shouted in the
distance.
I sensed that Uriah wanted to say more. I let his apology hang in the air a moment
before uttering, “All right.”
“Rabbi Joachim betrayed our family!” Joseph now
hollered.
Not having to work on the Sabbath, my older brothers
were descending into the orchard from the edge of the front yard, planning
mischief against my estranged friend.
From the back door, I could hear Mama warning them not to go into the
hills. I heard Papa shouting at
James and Joseph to behave. But I
knew that my brothers wouldn’t make peace with Uriah, as I felt compelled to
do.
“Sit down,” I told Uriah, pointing to the bench.
“Can I eat one of your figs?” he asked, looking
fondly up into the tree.
“Eat all you want.” I waved irritably. “You eat
everything else.”
Uriah gave me a hurt look, settled on the bench, and
began peeling his fig.
“We eat those to clean ourselves out.” I studied him
with contempt. “You need cleaning out Uriah, you lying sack of dung!”
Uriah’s
lip quivered yet he forced a smile.
I snarled at him and shook my head. I could think of nothing to say to him, so I just sat there
giving him my most unfriendly look.
Uriah ate another fig and then began whistling to himself as if he
didn’t care. I had tried to upset
Uriah, but I failed. To honor my
father, I should protect him against my brothers’ wiles. I could see Simon peeking around the
corner of our house. I didn’t know
where James and Joseph where at this moment, but I was certain they had
something planned. Before one of
them flung sheep dung or rotten grapes at Uriah, I would bring him into the
house, which should please my father very much.
“Come on, hurry!” I motioned rudely. “You wanna get
splattered with something?”
“What’s wrong?” Uriah’s eyes widened with fear.
“Quick!
I’m not kidding,” I cried, prodding him on.
Sure enough, as we ran to the house, green olives from
the orchard, propelled by the sling James had made from a goat hide, came
flying at my retreating guest. One
of them stung the back of Uriah’s neck as we scrambled into the house. Papa had opened the door after hearing
Uriah squeal. We could hear James,
Joseph, and Simon laughing in the distance. Papa suspected what had happened but waited until we had sat
down at the table before asking us what was wrong.
“Oh we were just playing,” Uriah chimed, though
there were tears in his eyes.
“Did James and Joseph ambush him?” He looked
squarely at me.
“Papa.” I looking plaintively up at him, “we don’t
want to get them in trouble. James
and Joseph already hate Uriah, and they don’t like me. Someday I would like to make peace with
them too.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” He gripped each of our
shoulders. “It took courage for him to come to our house. Do you forgive him, my son?”
“Yes, Papa,” I nodded. “I’ve done what you said, but
I will not trust him—ever again!”
“Then you haven’t forgiven him,” Papa said with
disappointment. “To forgive without trust, is smoke without fire. What you have done is a mere gesture,
which you didn’t even do on your own.” “As a child,” he explained gently, “you
say and do foolish things. Uriah,
as a child, did something stupid, not evil. If he said he was sorry, forgive him unconditionally.”
How strange, now that I think about, that Jesus
would say the very same thing to an audience in Galilee. Papa made me ashamed, as Jesus would
one day make a multitude ashamed for its transgressions. Reaching over I took Uriah’s chubby
hand and shook it, a gesture I had seen Arabs do. My old friend responded by placing his free hand on my
shoulder, a Jewish custom. To
complete the greeting was the point when we took each other’s forearm, which I
had seen the Romans do. Without
speaking, I had accepted him back as my friend and he had thanked me. I was moved, beyond words, because of
my father’s goodness and for Uriah’s innocence. How could I blame my friend for what his father forced him
to say?
“Uriah,” I finally spoke, “let’s go find
Nehemiah. With that aunt of his,
he has few friends.”
“I expect he will be visiting you today too.” Papa’s
dark eyes twinkled. “Let bygones be bygones, as the Psalmist once said.”
“Jesus once said that.” I smiled brightly.
“Jesus probably knew the Psalmist.” Papa laughed softly.
******
Papa’s enigmatic statement haunts me even now. Did Jesus not say to the Pharisees,
“Before Abraham I am?” Long after
my days in Nazareth, I would come to understand that the fog Samuel had spoken
of on the day Jesus left on his odyssey, had lifted much more for my parents
than they let on. They had lived
in denial for many years, but it was like a man I once saw, who after seeing a
trained ape owned by Syrian merchant, shook his head and said, “such an animal
is impossible. It can’t
exist.” Deep down in their
sanctified hearts my parents knew better.
The plain truth, of course, was that none of us in the family of Jesus
wanted to share him with the world.
Such matters, however, were beyond my understanding and concern on that
day.
Jesus
trip with Joseph of Arimathea had shaken my parents greatly, but I was not
ready to begin the long, sad journey of growing up. Uriah had returned.
I wanted very much those moments to regain both of my lost friends and
return to the adventuresome spirit I once shared with Uriah, Nehemiah, and
Michael—the Nazareth gang.
As Papa promised, Samuel appeared on the road,
holding Nehemiah’s hand. So
fearful was Nehemiah of my family’s wrath, he cowered behind the Pharisee,
which left no doubt in my mind, who was behind the notion to make peace. Entering the house, as Mama held the
door, we stood in the kitchen, a shaft of light from the window striking
Samuel’s wrinkled face.
“Peace be upon the house of Joseph bar Jacob,” he
announced quite formerly. “I have in my presence Nehemiah bar Tobias, who
wishes to make peace with your son, Judah bar Joseph.”
Papa bowed, suppressing a grin. Though it was the name of the
patriarch, from who Israel’s Messiah would descend, I winced at hearing my
formal name. It was also the name
of Judah, the Galilean, who brought tragedy to Galilee because of his rebellion
against Rome. James, Joseph, and
Simon, who had snuck in the back door to eavesdrop on our conversation,
tittered in the background, and yet Papa pushed me forward. Uriah, who was apparently on the outs
with Nehemiah too, was also motioned forward.
“Come on,” Samuel beckoned Uriah, “your feud with
Nehemiah is an issue too.”
By jabbing his bony fingers this way and that, Simon
directed we three boys to stand facing each other in a triangle. For a moment hysterical laughter
erupted between the three of us.
Papa couldn’t help laughing, himself, at the comic
expressions of ashen-faced Nehemiah and goggle-eyed Uriah. Turning to the other boys, however, he
made scooting motions with his hands and told them to do their eavesdropping
outside. Clearly this was meant to
be a light-hearted affair in Papa’s thinking, but Samuel had a grave expression
on his face.
“Judah bar Joseph,” he spoke to me first, “do you
forgive the betrayal of your friendship by Uriah bar Joachim and Nehemiah bar
Tobias?”
“Yes, I do,” I answered, wishing he would call me
Jude.
“And you Uriah and you Nehemiah!” He gripped my two
estranged friends shoulders, giving them a fierce bird-of-prey look. “Do you
acknowledge your betrayal of your friend Judah, beg his pardon, and swear by
Father Abraham never to lie or cheat against Judah again?”
“Yes!” they both chimed with wide, unblinking eyes.
“Very well,” he intoned. “Let us pray. “
Both Uriah and Nehemiah were terrified of the
Pharisee, who belonged to an order, Papa once explained, that was of higher
rank than rabbis, though of inferior spirituality in Judea and Galilee. This rule, of course, no longer applied
to Samuel and Joachim, after our rabbi rejected Papa’s oldest son. Now Samuel was not only of higher rank
but the spiritual superior to Joachim in our eyes. Samuel’s reference to Father Abraham, Papa would tell me
later, was the old man’s invention, since oaths not made to God were forbidden
in the Torah. Yet this fact, and
the playful manner he made Uriah and Nehemiah show repentance, endeared him to
us.
The prayer he uttered after this was unrelated to
this ceremony and totally unexpected.
“Lord, guide these children in the path of
righteousness,” he intoned croakily. “Deliver them from the temptations of a
wayward friend, yet give them the fortitude to keep a confidence if it means
saving that friend’s life. When
more than one soul sets upon a path, one may choose good and one may choose
evil. Remind the restless spirit
that friendship does not outweigh the soul. God is first; man is second—over wife, husband, brother,
sister, and friend. Until the
Messiah comes, make us ever watchful for those sent by the Evil One to cause us
to sin. Cause, by your power,
their demons to depart, but keep us save from their design. We thank you for delivering us from
evil. Guide our separate paths, alone,
or with friends that share the light.
Amen”
“Amen,” everyone, including my brothers under the
window, uttered under their breaths.
The reference to both Michael, my two friends, and
myself was plain—Michael (the wayward friend), Uriah and Nehemiah (who betrayed
a confidence), and myself, (who was sorely tempted by a friend). On the one hand, the religious teacher
was saying be true to your friends but, above all, be true to God.
Mama, who had been eavesdropping, as were my
brothers, came forward with great joy in her blue eyes. James, Joseph, and Simon peaked over
the windowsill, their eyes still twinkling with mirth. With Samuel’s coaxing, all of my old
gang, except Michael, grasped each other’s hand, and recited the Shema (“Hear O
Israel, the Lord is One. . .”) though I don’t know why.
“Aren’t we suppose to say that at our Sabbath dinner
tonight,” inquired Uriah afterwards. “Papa said in the synagogue ‘worse than no
prayer is a prayer spoken wrongly, at the wrong time.”
“Uriah,” Samuel wagged a gnarled finger, “your papa
is beginning to sound like a Pharisee.”
With that pun uttered, everyone, except Uriah,
erupted into laughter. Without
realizing it, Samuel had become part of our family, replacing all the
grandfathers passing away over the years.
Though his servants could create a great banquet for his private
Sabbath, he chose to share this day in our humble house with us. Mama asked my friends to stay too. Uriah explained sheepishly that his
father had not yet made peace with our house, but Nehemiah said his Aunt
Deborah had traveled last month to Jerusalem to do some shopping, which meant
he would gladly accept Mama’s offer.
Everyone, including my brothers, who charged into the house, looked at Nehemiah
in disbelief. The fact that
Deborah had left her nephew alone for so long was outrageous. It was immediately obvious that poor
Nehemiah was being neglected by his crazy aunt. On close inspection, I noticed the wrings under his
eyes. He looked thinner than ever,
and his skin was a pasty color.
Mama saw the same signs.
She embraced the emaciated boy, decrying his treatment as a sin against
God. Papa, however, insisted on
going over to Deborah’s house to see for himself. Nehemiah remained with us, as Uriah bid us goodbye. The smell of herbs and stew wafting in
his nostrils, caused Uriah to cry out as he exited “Oh if only Mama cooked
lentil stew!”
Papa and Samuel followed Uriah out the door, Papa
asking Uriah to please extend the olive branch of peace to his father, the
rabbi.
“Nay,” cried Samuel in a gravely voice, “give
Joachim the tree to sooth his miserly soul!”
The sound of their laughter left no doubt that they
were being sarcastic. Samuel
despised the rabbi. I could not
imagine Papa and Joachim ever making peace. I had mixed feelings about welcoming Uriah back as my friend
too, but I felt great pity for Nehemiah.
How could I ever have blamed him for what he said with that woman in his
life?
******
After seeing Uriah off, Papa and Samuel visited
Deborah’s house. What they found
made for quite a story when they returned. Nehemiah was understandably relieved that this she was gone. With great anticipation, we waited to find out what they had
found. When they appeared on the
road, Mama motioned excitedly from the kitchen window for someone to unbolt the
door.
“Mad as a bat!” exclaimed Samuel, looking around the
room.
“And she accused Mariah of being a witch!” Papa
shook his head.
“Deborah’s not behaving like a witch, Joseph,”
Samuel wagged a finger, “she’s practicing the old religion. She’s a pagan. In her deranged mind, she must think
she’s a priestess.”
The report provided by Papa, with Samuel’s
annotations, made us all shudder at the thought. Ethan, a reclusive elder and one the chief antagonists that
night Mariah’s house was set afire had shaken his staff at them as Papa and
Samuel entered the house. The
inside of Deborah’s house looked similar to portions of Mariah’s villa before
the fire: furniture was in disarray, there was garbage in some of the rooms,
but in place of the signs of blasphemy on the walls, she had built a shrine in
one room, a sacrificial alter in the middle of the floor, with horn-like
protuberances on each end to capture the blood. Nehemiah was shaken by this report, but also seemed relieved
that he might not have to go back there anymore.
“That crazy old Ethan,” Samuel explained in a
wavering voice, “raised his staff and called upon the Lord to punish us for
trespassing Deborah’s house, and yet in the same breath he told us a very
strange thing.”
“Yes, yes,” Papa quickly added, “he told us that she
wasn’t coming back for a long time.” “You aunt became ill,” he spoke delicately
to Nehemiah, “and you’ll be staying here with us for awhile.”
Jumping up and down with glee, Nehemiah hugged
Samuel, as if he had just told him the best news. Samuel could not help cackling under his breath. Papa, who expected some sign of grief,
was caught off guard by this reaction.
As Nehemiah grinned happily around at the group, I sensed in a very
grown up way, that the dark, unfriendly path with his aunt, after the death of
his parents, ended here among the family of Joseph. I wasn’t sure if it was, as Jesus would say, the Lord’s
will, but I knew that the Lord’s spirit filled our house. Nehemiah promised us that, unlike
Michael, he would never runaway.
With misgivings my brothers reached out in greeting to our new
“brother.” My parents, in sincere
ritual, joined in hugging the boy.
Though I was happy for my friend, I could understand James, Joseph, and
Simon’s disappointment that there would be one more adopted child for our
parents to worry about and one more mouth to feed. More importantly was the fact that as children, themselves,
they shared with me the irritation and—yes jealousy—at Mama’s willingness to take
in any stray waif and call him her own.
That evening, as we ate our Sabbath meal, we
understood by the polite conversation skirting the main subject, that Papa and
Samuel had no intention of explaining to us what Ethan had told them at
Deborah’s house, but we knew. It
didn’t take spiritual illumination or revelation to understand, as Samuel
extolled the virtues of the Sabbath and keeping it holy, that Nehemiah would
never have to worry about his crazy aunt again. Deborah had probably dropped dead. The exact words Ethan said to Papa—she would be gone a long
time—prove my hunch. Late at
night, as I pretended to sleep, I heard Papa confess to Mama that Deborah had,
in fact, died in Jerusalem. A
passing merchant delivered the message during a stop in Nazareth. Unfortunately, he had delivered the
message to the wrong person. Old
Ethan, unlike Mariah was not a witch, nor like Deborah, did he fancy himself to
be a priest. Ethan fancied himself
to be some sort of prophet, though he was, Samuel assured him, like Deborah, as
mad as a bat. Mama laughed at this
characterization. The story of how
she died in Jerusalem and exactly what the merchant was doing in this village
outpost was garbled in apocalyptic imagery that made it sound blasphemous to
Mama. “The important thing,” she
replied in a less subdued voice, “poor Nehemiah will not have to go back to
that awful house!”
I wondered sometimes whether my parents were
deliberately candid in their conversations or simply very indiscreet. I have overheard many important secrets
as I lay on my pallet feigning slumber, especially from Mama’s lips. The night before last, as I watched
them moving about the kitchen before retiring for the night, I heard Mama
fretting about Joseph of Arimathea’s motives for taking Jesus with him on his
journey throughout the empire and unknown reaches of the world. I agreed with her instantly, and I
almost cried out when she complained to Papa that Jesus was an idle curiosity
to that bored, rich man. What
other reason could there be? She
argued. Jesus was still a child
and should not be exposed to the dangers of the world. Papa, however, sensed a greater reason
for Jesus’ trip, more important than any motive that Joseph might have. This was the Lord’s business, he told
Mama, not ours. Joseph’s journey
would prepare Jesus for his confrontation with the world. Shaken by this statement, I craned my
ear for more, but my parents retired for the evening, and, when the door shut
behind them, took their conversation to the next room. I know now what Papa meant by
‘confrontation,’ but he couldn’t have known what that might be. . As I write my chronicle, I recall my fear for Jesus because
of his boldness against the Pharisees, priests, and scribes. When asked why he must defy both civil
and religious authority, he simply replied to his disciples “it’s God’s
will.” His confrontation with the
world as Papa called it back then, would finally get him arrested by the
Sanhedrin then condemned to the cross.
As a child in my parents’ house, however, my only concern was that Jesus
would remain safe on his journey and come home to us, the same, good-natured
brother that had left.
Tomorrow, I knew with certainty, would be an
interesting day, which was enough for me.
Would James, Joseph, and Simon accept Samuel, the Pharisee’s,
peacemaking ceremony between Uriah, Nehemiah, and myself? Or would Nehemiah, the new addition to
our family, merely become another target for their pranks? Was Uriah truly repentant or was it
simply that he had no other friends?
And what about the alter they found in Deborah’s house? What would old Joachim say about
this? As if anything my family did
could compare with that! Tonight,
as I contemplated tomorrow, I recalled overhearing my parents discuss the
rabbi’s continued slander in the synagogue against their oldest son. I gathered already that Joachim was
jealous of our family’s elevation through its friendship with Samuel, the
Pharisee, and his famous nephew Joseph of Arimathea. A feeling of pride swelled in my chest. I had learned recently that Papa was
descended from a great king and that three magi had brought my infant brother
valuable gifts. Though I know
better now, I found this hard to believe.
Even today many Nazarenes, who knew Jesus, believe this story is a
legend. Most significant to me as
a child, however, was the continued presence of the Romans in Nazareth, who
were protecting my family and our town.
Our family had gained great importance because of its protection of a
widow and the eccentricities of its oldest son. Cornelius had taken a liking to us but had only contempt for
the small-minded folk in this town.
All of this and more had been discussed in the kitchen late at
night. Was everything I overheard
a mistake or by deliberate design? I have stored up much information in my mind that didn’t seem
as important to me at the time.
All this time it appeared as if my inquisitiveness and prodigious memory
were, as the merchant had been for Jesus’ future, merely instruments of the
Lord.
From my pen to the scroll, comes the thought that Jesus great advocate, Joseph of Arimathea, as Joseph’s uncle Samuel, already suspected that Jesus was the Messiah, but it was not the Messiah I know today. Jesus has redefined this great word. Everything that was but another mystery to be solved—a wondrous game as I lay on my pallet that Sabbath—is so plain to me now. That night, however, the thoughts of Roman legionnaires galloping past our house was carried with me into slumber, all other mysteries and grand secrets being stored away, as I found myself dreaming once again of my great white horse, long flowing cape, and long sharp spear.
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