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From my hotel room balcony, perched high among the upper floors of the King Herod Hotel, it was difficult to enjoy a morning cup of coffee and the early edition of the Jerusalem Journal without pausing to absorb the sunrise over the slumbering city. My little sneak peeks resembled a schoolboy in class, making the teacher believe that I was really attending to my own paper, when in fact I was looking at cute little Susie’s work and stealing her answers. With boyish coy, I would pretend to be reading the paper, but all the while stealing a glance at the rising sun, drenching Jerusalem with a golden glow. After all, it wasn’t a sin was it to read the revered morning news and to enjoy the start of a gorgeous day, and, on top of that, sip a cup of freshly brewed coffee? Or was it? Now I find myself justifying to myself, why I wasn’t focused on the day’s news. There were some important things happening in and around Jerusalem and Judea in general that as a journalist I should have an understanding of. My publisher and my readers would want me to be on top of this info for accurate reporting in my articles.

One more scan of the horizon, and I’ll drag myself to the shower. As if playing a game, I once again peer over the balcony rail; it just seemed like a natural thing to do. Little wafts of smoke rising from small ovens making morning breakfasts for families starting their days, thin, wispy indications that life was resuming in this grand ancient city.

Maybe my game would hold a little more intrigue if I would just cut a huge slit in the paper enjoy the view through the hole. That way, if anyone were watching, they would think I was truly mesmerized by what I was reading.

What an idiot. Playing a game of only one player. I’ve been a journalist for many years, but maybe I’ve been in Judea too long.

As if on cue, the dreaded knock at the door startled me from my foolish daydreaming game. Like anyone whose is not expecting company or even to be disturbed, I jumped up out of my wicker chair, paper in hand, and strode toward the door as the enquirer pounded again.

“What do you want?” I shouted at the closed door.

“I have a special delivery for Steve Stanton,” responded the squeaky voice from the other side.

“Yeah, right!” I exclaimed

How could I have a special delivery, nobody but my publisher knows that I’m here, and he usually sends me an email. This is far too fishy to accept on the surface. All of a sudden I was glad for the intensive detective training I had received in my youthful desire to be a police officer. Sidling alongside the interior hinged side of the door, I took a position of the slimmest profile I could, so as not to present the intruder with too large a target behind the door. Now I wished I had lost those fifteen pounds that I had threatened to lose for so long.

Dredging up the deepest, fiercest voice I had in my repertoire of menacing voices, I drawled out in a stern tone, “Who is it from?”

“I’m sorry sir,” exclaimed the weak voice from the other side, “I can’t tell you. For one, there is no return address, and for two, we aren’t allowed to tell you if there was one. Some people have received special deliveries, and when they found out through the door who they were from, they were rejected and were sent back to the sender. So my management tells us that we are not allowed to tell customers who sent it for fear that we would have a warehouse of rejected deliveries.”

Now, I think I’ve heard them all.

Utilizing my newly discovered “fear voice” I responded, “Then leave it on the floor, I’ll get it later.”

That sounded good, maybe now he’ll simply walk away. Then I’ll retrieve the package.

“Sorry sir, you have to sign for it,” came the exasperated response. Now I was beginning to develop a picture in my mind about what this kid looked like. And it wasn’t looking too much like a threat to me. I’ve made enemies in my writing, including King Herod himself! He has had me followed and tracked. He’s had his snitches tag along with me on my assignments, acting like they were my “good buddies,” supposedly looking after my safety and, of course, best interests. However, they were highly paid direct conduits to the King himself. I have written some stinging points in my articles that could be construed by a King as “infuriateable” for want of the best, most descriptive word, I believe I have just invented it. With a high-powered adversary as King Herod, logic and safety dictate that I can’t be open to just anybody who knocks at my door, with a special delivery package.

Trusting my journalistic and detective instincts, I slowly slide over to the handle side of the door jamb, assuring that the chain was in place and that my right hand was ready and clear to swing if need be, I unlatched the deadbolt. Opening the door to just a slit revealed the opulent hallway of the hotel. The candlelight was awash with slices of low angle sunlight that were beginning to penetrate the room and overwhelm them. Standing back a few feet away from the door, looking down at the package in his hand, this teen-ager tapped his toes to an inaudible beat.

“Hand it to me through the slit son,” I said, forgetting that I was supposed to use my stern voice. Nevertheless, his innocent face disarmed me for a moment.

“You have to sign for it, too,” he responded as his squinting eyes tried to make out my face. With the darkened room as my backdrop, I was merely a shadowy figure through the barely opened crack between the door and the jamb. I thought I was being so clever, and then it dawned on me, that all he had to do was wait in the hall and to see me as I emerged heading toward the dining room. Sometimes, I amaze myself with the added drama and intrigue that I interject into my life.

Drawing the envelope through the narrow opening, I thanked the young man. He stood there for another second, and then grunted some sort of Hebrew “You’re welcome,” or something of that nature, then turned and be-bopped down the hallway. I believe I was supposed to tip him.

Locking the door, I turned toward the balcony again while slicing open the envelope. Ripping it between the blue and red words that spelled “Special Delivery,” I removed the one-page document and saw that it was my new assignment. I scanned it for content, then abruptly tossed it on the bed and headed for a refreshing shower. I was quite surprised: the letter was from Roger Dalton, my boss and editor in chief of the World Observer Gazette, the paper that I write for.

I thought it strange that Roger hadn’t emailed my new assignment to me. Recently, it had been the primary form of contact between us. To send this by special delivery courier meant that he wanted assurances that there would be no miscommunication. The signed return slip would indicate to him that I had in fact received the letter and have acknowledged receipt through my signature.

I allowed the hot water to run for a while before I stepped into the shower. Several items were troubling me about this assignment. I wondered whether the Jewish messiah that has been promised for centuries, had really arrived? How will I know it’s that messiah? How do they know it’s their long awaited one? As I stepped into the water, the instant shiver down my back was a reminder that it took a long time for the hot water to get to a room on this floor. It also spoke of my intense thoughts toward all the questions that were starting to pop up. Not only am I wondering about this messiah, but also where did he come from? Was he a natural born Hebrew citizen or a foreigner?

I retraced the letter in my mind as the water finally got to a tolerable temperature.

(Personal note from me first, buddy)

Hey Steve,

I trust this letter finds you in great health and in genuine safety. Please forgive the extreme formality regarding this assignment; however, it comes from the very top. The men in the boardroom voted specifically to call on you for this assignment. They fully recognize you as our best and most thorough investigative journalist on the staff.

Steve, our sources at the Jerusalem Journal tell us that you are raising the hackles of King Herod again with your political remarks, please be careful. You remember the old adage about Herod’s reputation, “It’s better to be one of Herod’s pigs than it is to be one of his son’s.” Be careful not to rile him too much, he is a crazy one — quite unpredictable also. We need you; we need you in one piece and in good health. Good luck Steve, have fun with this and be safe!

Then I turned my thoughts to the formal assignment:

Special Assignment Notice

To: Steve Stanton, Jerusalem Bureau

From: Roger Darby, Chief Publisher

Mr. Stanton, word has it that there is quite a fuss about a Jewish messiah. It appears that much of the Judean countryside is exploding with the word that their messiah is alive and living in Judea today and walking around - somewhere. We are not sure how long this has been going on, where this ‘messiah’ lives or even exists, nor are we sure that this really is a messiah. If you establish that these rumors have merit, find out where he is, and what he is up to, get permission to tag along with him. Find out what he’s up to, where he’s headed and what is causing such a stir in Judea. See if he or his staff, if he is so organized, will allow you to embed yourself with him and his troupe, then file reports with us along the way.

We are taking a serious look at this. If it pans out to be a story, we intend on running it as you feed us data. It may become serialized. Bottom line: Just find out what is going on there and get back to us. Snoop around, uncover the truth, roll away stones, do what you have to do to get the story, but, be warned Steve, if our publication is perceived by the readership as being accomplices to, or found to be perpetuating any ancient myths, then we will pull the plug on the story. We don’t want to be seen by our readers as supportive of ancient lore or myths. Simply investigate and report the impact and its apparent affects on the profundity of the people of Judea. Watch out for Herod. He’s not to be messed with. Neither the publishers of the Gazette, nor the heads of state want to rankle Herod’s hackles.

Roger

It wasn’t a matter of where do I go with this one, but, where do I start? I love goals, especially ones that are just slightly out of my reach, but even as an award winner for my accounts of the Battle of Actium, this is already developing into a task that was going to tax all my award-winning capabilities.

Dabbing residual water from my hair, I could sense that my mental gears were beginning to swing into motion. Then it hit me. If anyone would know what this means it would certainly be Kahan, the maître’d in the hotel dining room. He always seems to have an uncanny insight with what’s going on in Jerusalem and the country in general. His reputation is well known throughout town. Need info; “Ask Kahan.”

Winding my way down the spiraled staircase to the dining room, I flipped through my notepad reviewing the questions that I had jotted down to ask Kahan. It seemed that one question would generate another three. By the time my notes of questions flowed over to page four, it was beginning to look like logic flow on a matrix chart. “If yes, then go to . . .” “If no then go to . . .”

Historically speaking, I have always been aware that for centuries the Jewish writings in their Holy books of the Torah, spoke of a coming messiah. Apparently, this savior was to be sent by God to be an entreaty between God and a sinful human kind. According to their holy writ, man had fallen from the graces of God, allegedly as far back in human history as the Garden of Eden.

However, to many, that seemed like some sort of excuse for modern man’s awful behavior. Sinful deeds done of man perpetuated upon other men, all with an alibi of some devilish influence, and some so-called “forbidden” fruit, an apple that Eve was supposedly to have eaten in the garden. Then, as the fable goes, an angry God shakes his fist at them and kicks them out of the Garden because they violated one of His “do-not’s”, and they get a godly eviction notice. As a result, the balance of humanity gets to pay for their misdeeds, and suffer God’s wrath forever. Does the human race have to pay for the sins of the original parents?

Therefore, to overcome this misstep on the garden path, man has created a mythical way to bridge the canyon of separation, the so-called division between God the creator, smug and prideful on one side, and man the creation, flippant and arrogant on the other side. Both with arms folded across their chests, God turning his back, saying that he can’t look upon his evil creation. Then man, snubbing his nose at a God, who would so capriciously create something then toss it aside, defiantly states that he doesn’t need a God anyway. However, as the fable goes, the plan was that God wasn’t going to allow man to flounder like that, straying aimlessly through history without hope of a greater outcome; in the form of some sort of “after-life,” where man and God can be rejoined in harmony.

Heaven is to be where man is lovingly grateful to God for his graciousness, and God, in return, gushing over repentant man who had apologized for his folly, and together they would stride through the universe happily ever after. The bridge to accomplish all that was to be a coming one, a messiah that would fill in the chasm between God and man, created by that ancient garden party apple strudel incident.

Meanwhile, all women of the Jewish faith were indoctrinated into believing that God would provide this all-encompassing savior from their very wombs. In addition, for many centuries, each woman would pray for and hold out hope that they could be the “lucky lady,” the chosen maiden, to provide the incubator for such a messiah. They could win the heavenly lottery, receive the golden touch from God, and announce to any one of them, that at any given time, typically at God’s choosing, the winner. I smiled as I retraced the story. God was going to use a manufactured item, such as a human, to save man from God’s own wrath of judgment and eternity in some oven box. I believe some would call that irony; I wasn’t quite sure what to call it. Is it mythical? Folklore? Or, ancient man’s way to appease himself with an artificial God?

Two more right turns down the stairs and I will be at the dining hall entrance. Already I could smell whiffs of breakfast foods wafting up the staircase. My mind was beginning to go into multitasking mode; smelling food aromas that were stimulating my saliva glands and poring over questions at the same time. Almost as if on cue, my left knee buckled slightly on its downward path to the next step. I felt the conspiracy developing. My mind was feigning exhaustion by virtue of being over taxed with aromatic smells, mingled with work, and the cooperative body parts that joined the conspiracy to weaken at opportune moments, causing me to focus on satisfying my human lust for food. Oh, geesh, now I have to fight the internal struggles of filling my gut with food, or laying out a logic trail to unravel this myth. For a fleeting instant, I wondered if this is part of what the apple incident created.

Stepping off the staircase landing, the panoramic view of the hotel dining and lobby area filled my eyes with instant colors and ostentatious opulence. I love this hotel.

Faithfully staffing the podium, Kahan was at his assigned post. Any patron could count on Kahan, diligent, suave and always the diplomat. Those qualities have earned him high honors and, knowing him, probably big tips.

As I approached, he seemed to have caught movement with his peripheral vision and looked up to see me coming toward him. His huge mustachioed face became animated as he offered his hand.

“Mr. Stanton, good very morning to you.” His English still needed a little work, but he was learning. I considered him one of my best students, albeit, not a full time one. I only really saw him at mealtimes, but the time that I have invested in him was paying off as he has become quite fluent in English. Even though his thick middle-Eastern accent caused many of the English words he spoke to sound so dramatic, his debonair appearance in his snappy tuxedo, and his “Always happy to see you” look on his face made up for what was lacking in verbal eloquence.

“That’s ‘very good’ morning Kahan.” I corrected, “A ‘very good’ morning to you Mr. Kahan,” I returned his greeting with the correct phrase.

His hands immediately went into the air and fell back along the sides of his face. Holding his face in his hands he playfully repeated his morning greeting with a sheepish tone, “A very good morning to you Mr. Stanton. I did it this time right, yes?”

“Yes, Kahan,” I responded as I came to a stop at his podium. “By the way, isn’t this the same place I saw you last night seating people for dinner. Don’t you ever go home?”

“Home? What is home?” His hands once again assuming their talking position, that of being thrust head high and making small parade waves as if they were dotting each syllable with accents.

“Kids are all crying, woman, she always telling me to do something. My brother comes over, and he tell me mother in Kafr-Nahum is having bad time. She walks with crooked back, and can’t walk so good. So, I stay at work. I get money to help her out and for my woman to buy falafel’s for the gangsters.”

“That’s ‘youngsters,’ Kahan,” He was making such good progress that I felt bad correcting his English. Especially while he was baring such an important part of his life, and besides, dropping some of the formality of the English language made speaking with Kahan fun and challenging.

“Oh, sorry so, Mr. Stanton,” responded an embarrassed Kahan. “Let me take you to the table.”

“You’re doing marvelous in English, Kahan, don’t apologize.” I placed my hand on his shoulder to re-assure him.

“Sorry is for telling you about my family, not my English. My English is getting better every day I learn from you, Mr. Stanton.”

I chuckled as we turned and headed toward my table. Tossing my notebook on the glass covered tabletop, I turned to Kahan and asked, “After I order, would you have a few minutes to come to my table? I have a number of questions to ask you?”

“Sure, Mr. Stanton, I am always available for you. My woman needs falafel money,” he responded with the not so buried inference that it would cost me to dig info out of him. However, if I were to get any info to start my background research, it will have to come from him. Besides, it is an expensible item. The publication allows me certain, well, expensible items, such as drawing information from snitches and in Kahan’s case, needy informants. So, why not help him and his family at the same time. I felt such a rush of power; there I was being so magnanimous in my justification of spending the company’s money and helping Kahan’s family at the same time. It actually felt good.

Either it was a slow breakfast morning or it was a holiday that I hadn’t recalled because the dining room was very bereft of movement. There was a couple enjoying their quiet conversation in the booth by the wall, and a business looking gentleman, reading the Journal, seated solo in the middle, but that was all. I thought it weird until I glanced at my watch. These weren’t the late breakfast crowd. They were the early lunch crowd. I was simply running late. I must not have realized how much time slipped away as I was developing my list of inquiries. Curiosity can cause a man’s brain to lose track of time. Not Kahans’ as I looked up to see him approaching me again.

“Mr. Stanton, please, I am ready to give answers that you have questions for.” I thought it somewhat cute that he was trying with all his might to sound so eloquent in his newfound language, and there simply were times, like this one, when I didn’t have the heart to correct him.

“Kahan, tell me a little bit about your religious background, Hebrew correct?” I thought that I should back into my questions slowly. Perhaps I assumed him more religious than he really was; I could embarrass him, or worse, offend him.

Standing next to me, he began his response, “Yes, Mr. Stanton, I am of the Hebrew faith. Jewish you can call it. I am not so good at being Jewish. I don’t pray three times a day, and I don’t go to synagogue as much as other good Jews do. But, I try to teach my family what I hear of Torah that was read to me. We learn rules to be good for God. What we’re suppose to do and not to do to make a happy God at us.” Kahan launched into his apology for his lack of religiosity as if he were confessing to his Rabbi.

“Okay, Kahan, I can appreciate, and really understand your desire to want to serve your God, and make him a happy God with you, and I can see that you aren’t really caught up in the religion of it all. However, from those Torah teachings, what do you know, and what do you remember of a coming messiah? Is there one expected? Do you think he is alive today? If so, where could a guy like me locate a guy like that? Where do they say he is supposed to live or even be from?” I found myself running through my list faster than he could answer. I finally motioned for him to take a seat, and he did.

“Mr. Stanton, please, slower. I must understand questions then make words to answer.”

I realized now that I was rushing him. I have to be deliberate as I speak, being careful not to sound mocking and injure his pride.

“Our prophets of the Torah teach us that there is to be a messiah that comes from the tribe of Judah. A mighty and awesome savior he is to be, hallelujah.” Once again, Kahan became his animated self, waving his hands skyward while looking up at the ceiling. He acted as if he were fulfilling some religious ritual and acknowledging something unseen that he was praising, “And he is to save us from our sins and make us with God, one.”

“Do you honestly believe that Kahan,” I asked with a sense of incredulity.

“Yes, Mr. Stanton, I do believe. I must believe. Look at man, he is ugly and mean, without a God’s message, we live with faces looking at ground. With God and his promise, we can now walk with faces looking towards, how do you call it,” pointing upward, toward the ceiling he looked at me for assistance.

“You mean the sky?” I asked.

“No, what’s you call, in English, where God lives?” He struggled.

“Are you speaking of heaven?” I responded with a half-quizzical tone.

“Yes, Mr. Stanton, heaven, where God lives and will have us live with Him, too!” I wasn’t sure if he was excited because he had learned a new word, or that he was speaking of heaven.

“We can walk with face to heaven because we have hoped that we are not going to be left on world. God will come and take us to his house in, you say, heaven.”

“But Kahan, as I understand it, according to your prophetical writings, it is going to take a human, a savior, and a so-called messiah to accomplish this, right?” I asked in a rather statement tone of voice.

“Yes, that is my teaching,” Kahan said so matter-of-factly. “He is going to save the world by dying for it. At the Passover feast, we celebrate the time when my people are in Egyptian land as slaves, but God is mean to Pharaoh until finally he lets them return to their land of Israel. Angel from God tells Jewish people in Israel to provide sacrifice by killing Pharaoh’s lambs, and place drops of lamb’s blood on door, and if the angel sees the lambs’ blood, so it will not kill people inside. Good Jewish people in the house show to God that they want angel to skip their house, and not kill anybody in there. They have blood on door. So, angel not see blood on Pharaoh’s door and kills first born son of Pharaoh. Pharaoh gets very mad and sad for killed son and makes the prophet Moses take the people of Israel back to their homes. We celebrate every year Passover of angel on our homes. Some say that messiah will be like God sending His lamb for us. I am not sure how that will work, so I am not sure that messiah is real truth or not.”

“Well, Kahan, do you think he is alive today? Do you think he is out there living somewhere among your fellow man?” I motioned with my hand a generic “out there.” Kahan followed with his eyes and peered through the lace curtains to the street outside. Realizing that he thought I meant immediately outside, I reeled him back in.

“Kahan, I don’t mean, is he out there outside the hotel today. I mean is he in society today, will he be Jewish or Roman? What is the word on the street about his whereabouts, has anybody seen him, does he talk of himself as some messiah sent by God?”

The look on Kahan’s face told me that once again I was firing questions faster than he could process them and respond. “Sorry Kahan” I lamented. Slowing down but not amending my inquisitive tone. “I’m speaking too fast again, I’m sorry.” He has become quite accomplished in his second language, but not enough for me to rapid-fire questions at him.

His face lightened up at my apology, “So, tell me more about what you think. I want to get as much information as I can. Is he a messiah for just the Jewish people, or can a Gentile be received in his eyes, too?”

“Why you have so much interest in Jewish messiah?” he asked with consternation.

I paused for a moment. I didn’t want him to feel that I was belittling his religion. Moreover, I certainly didn’t want to make him think that I was going to make a spectacle out of his beliefs, “Well Kahan, it seems that there has been rumor and even conjecture, that means a lot of talk among people. They are saying that for the past twenty or thirty years, the Jewish messiah has been born and is alive and living in the world today. What do you know about that theory?”

I had almost forgotten that my breakfast plate was lying before me, granted it was getting cold, but I had Kahan’s attention and I didn’t want to lose him or the train of thought that we had established. In between our pauses, you could hear the slight rattle of silverware and glasses being cleaned and placed in their holding areas. Then I received a friendly reminder, as my stomach cried out “Eat!” I knew that I needed to, who knows what exploits the day was going to hold for me. But in the midst of my hunger, my instincts were saying, “Probe further, get in deeper, we’re really close to some answers here, don’t let go just to feed your face!”

My drifting must have been evident as Kahan attempted to regain my attention with his response. “Mr. Stanton, the prophets write in holy book about a town that is to be called special. Special because messiah is to be brought to world in this town, it is called Bethlehem. It is not far from here just go south of . . .”

I interrupted him, “Yes, Kahan, I am aware of Bethlehem and where it is located.” I realized that I was being a bit curt with him, “I’ve been there. But I don’t recall any anxiety or interest or undo hubbub about a messiah living there, are you sure it’s suppose to be Bethlehem?”

“Hub-bub? What is hub-bub?” Kahan asked with a questioning expression. His dry, parched skin wrinkled like a raisin that had dried in the sun. His years of working the fields of his father’s farm were like an irremovable tattoo on his face. Lines, that went from hairline to chin, crow’s feet around his eyes, all the telltale signs of age, and sun exposure. All became very predominant, especially when he had that questioning look on his face, or when he laughed.

“Sorry Kahan, hubbub means commotion. Well let’s see, we haven’t covered words like this yet in your training huh? Allow me to describe it as a time when a number of people talk to each other so fast and so frequent, that it even sounds like they are buzzing, like bees. Hubbub is where a lot of activity develops around a story, or a rumor, that causes people to run around and tell each other, do you get it? Is that clearer at all?” I wasn’t quite sure how to define the word for his best cultural understanding. I thought of using the word gossip in the definition, but I wasn’t sure if he knew that word. I’ve forgotten where he and I had left off in our vocabulary lessons. Now my mind was in a hubbub, conjuring questions, framing them for his understanding and stirring up new thoughts, all the while my stomach doubts that my head was even still connected to my body because I still hadn’t taken a bite of breakfast. Well, guess now it’s more like lunch, a cold lunch at that.

“Mr. Stanton, you are correct, you have used many words just now that we covered not in our speaking, one word you do teach me is “confused,” and that I am.” Kahan spoke with a solemn and direct pattern. Choosing his words slowly and carefully, not mockingly, more like deliberate, so as not to make an error, as a good student speaks to his teacher to earn points. I found myself trying to break the hold his eyes had on me and looked away for a brief second, one way to take a mental breath without looking like I was exasperated. Interestingly enough, the young couple in the booth was still quietly enjoying their meal, but the man that was at the center table, reading the Journal, had slipped out. I thought it interesting that neither Kahan nor I had been distracted by any movement near our table. The man must have gone the other way. Yet Kahan, the consummate maître‘d, would have gone to bid him farewell and to hint at a tip.

“Sorry, Kahan. Let’s try it again.” Even I caught myself slowing down and speaking more deliberate again. “Let me take a bite first. My stomach is going to think my head is cut off.”

“What means this, head cut off? Mr. Stanton you make me confused again!” exclaimed a bewildered Kahan.

“You’re right, Kahan. Let’s get back to this messiah thing,” I wanted badly to take a bite but also realized that Kahan’s time was critical. I needed information, but I didn’t know how much time I had with him. “Who would know anything about this prophesy in Bethlehem? Is there someone you recommend that I speak to? Any leads for me, Kahan?”

“Yes, Mr. Stanton, because in the scroll of the ancient prophet Micah, he writes to us that God wants the messiah to come from Bethlehem Ephrata. It is little town south. Oh, that’s right, you know where it is. The Prophet Micah says that from this town comes the Judge of Israel, we call him messiah. I want you to know that many people have many thoughts about this; some say that messiah alive today and will come to toss away Romans and kings, to set up new kingdom run by God. Others, not so sure of that, say that messiah is not alive yet, but some new and greater prophet will arise, to bring peace to Israel and tell of God’s love for us. Others think that there is no God and that we all believe in fables.”

I was getting a sense that Kahan really knew more about this so-called prophecy and the prophet that was to emerge than he wanted me to know. His eyes lit up when he started to talk about him, and his voice went up a few octaves with excitement.

“Kahan,” I began, “how can I get hold of a scroll to read the prophecy for myself?”

“Mr. Stanton, I am sorry truly, but only Levi priest in temple or synagogue can read to you scrolls from Talmud or Torah.” His face became very stern, and his voice quite apologetic. This was a deep tenet of the Jewish tradition and of their religion. This material was not for just any curiosity seeker or passing journalist.

“Tell me who I can talk to get more information.”

Kahan thought for a moment. Then, as if he were telling me a family secret, he leaned over, and in a low voice said, “Then, please to see Amal at the Shepherds Bazaar in Bethlehem. He was lived there all his life, and he is more religious than I am. I know because he’s married to my sister. You call him my brother-by-law, yes?” His eyes brightened, as he was proud that he remembered the right legal description of his relationship with Amal. “He is always mad at me for not knowing my Torah better.”

I wanted so badly to correct Kahan’s English, I hated being a perfectionist, especially at times like this when I so badly wanted to perfect his English. We didn’t have the time to go to grammar class. So for now, I simply gritted my teeth, accepted the information and elected to pass on the badly needed lesson.

“Kahan,” I started, “if you knew that this messiah were alive and living somewhere in Judea today, would your life be any different?” Kahan looked at me; his face immediately tattling on his thoughts. The facial lines got deeper, his eyes squinted a bit. I felt like I had just injected him with vinegar. There was something telling in my tone of voice. Something that spoke of a more personal religious conviction, and now it was like I was challenging him. Even I couldn’t get over the seriousness of my own voice. I wasn’t really asking him about his personal convictions. If you want to end a conversation with a Jew really quickly, be a Gentile and question him about his beliefs. Now I was angry with myself. The tenor of the question was wrong. What I said, and what I intended were two different things. Now I feel that I have offended him.

“Kahan” I almost sounded like I was whispering, “I am sorry. I wasn’t intending to cast any kind of aspersions on your religious beliefs. I wasn’t trying to challenge what you believe, every man is entitled to believe or not believe whatever they want to. All I wanted to ask, was on an intellectual level . . . I realize I have introduced you to some new vocabulary words here, we’ll cover them another time, but . . .”

“Mr. Stanton,” interrupted Kahan, “you and me be friends for a long time. You teach me English. It is a treasure to me. I do not hurt that you ask me, or as you say, challenge me, about my belief of messiah, I am very happy to tell you my belief. You actually give me reason to tell you about messiah. That make me happy. The Torah calls him the Prince of Peace. He will bring peace to the world. Everybody that walks the ground will know that he is messiah and everybody who has been good Jew and keep the sacrifices, and prayed, will make God happy, and they go to be with God because he smiles at them.” Kahan leaned across the table and in a lowered voice, looked squarely into my eyes and whispered, “Do you want to know the Jewish God Mr. Stanton? I would be pleasured to introduce him to you.”

Am I reading this wrong, or do I feel a sense that Kahan has taken this opportunity to strike while my interest is piqued? What a clever man to twist my apology of potential offense of his religion into an opportunity to proselytize me into his religion. Was I dumb, or was he that good?

“Kahan,” I said dragging his name out over three long seconds. “I am a journalist for the World Observer Gazette, I have been the bureau chief in Judea for many years. I report on stories and write articles. It is not incumbent, nor is it judicious for me to become assimilated into the local religion. On a more personal note . . .” His face became more serious, and he leaned even further across the table to hear me. Perhaps he sensed a punch line was coming, or even more hopefully, that I was about to acquiesce to his invitation and request to be added to the Jewish faithful.

“On a more personal note Kahan,” I repeated, almost nervously, because I had to deal with his face being only a few inches away from mine now, “I believe that there is a supreme being, a something that created us, and somehow has some sort of providential handhold on this world, albeit a rather loose one, considering all the grief that is going around. But, I still have time to work on whether I want that to be a personal God, where I would have to sacrifice innocent animals to appease him, or it. I don’t know Kahan. My mind is still working on that one.”

Now he had a madman’s look about him as he pulled back away from my face, but never released the grip he had on my eyes. “Oh, Mr. Stanton, if anyone can uncover truth, it will be you. I trust in you. I also trust in Jehovah, hallelujah. And between the two of you, I trust that both of you will find each other as you search for messiah.” I almost felt that Kahan had pulled out some apple crate and was preaching from it. He was compelling. I was almost drawn in to his animations. Then my stomach said, “Ahem,” and I excused myself from Kahan’s deep stare and glanced down at my plate. I figured that cold whatever’s would be better than nothing at all.

“Kahan, I must get on the trail to Bethlehem, and see Amal. First, I must recharge my energy and eat. Thank you so much for the info. As always I am with great gratitude for your service to my publication.” I’m not sure he sensed it, but my final comment was said in a dismissal tone, “Thank you so much, I have the info I need, and apparently even more, but I’m starved, please leave so I can eat, and think about my next step.” As he stood, his eyes sparkled again, his smirk revealed that he had achieved some inner goal, a victory of some sort that he was keeping to himself. With his hands flailing in the air, he tossed out one final comment, “You are very so welcome, Mr. Stanton. You ask me anything, any time, because woman need falafel money.”

“Yes, Kahan, I hadn’t forgotten that commitment.” What a subtle way of reminding me of the tip I owed him for information.

Horsing down the cold meal, I tossed my napkin on the table, got up, brushed the crumbs off my lap, and headed for the door. Kahan saw my approach and grinned at me. We had developed a keen friendship over my stay here, and it was always nice to see a friendly face such as his. But he had that smirky grin on his face. I bet he thought that he had planted some silly notion of his religion in my brain and that he was going to come in for the kill as a result. I felt almost that I was prey on the lam, and he was now going to pursue me.

“Kahan,” I said on last step up to the podium, while reaching into my pocket, “I left money on the table to pay for the meal, but there are two things I want to assure you of.” As I held up two fingers, his expression slid from a smirk to the look one gets when one thinks they are in trouble. “I have no interest in becoming a member of the Jewish family, or any other religious sect, and secondly, I cherish our friendship. Here is a little something to help the wife cook falafel’s for you and the children. May we always remain friends, and I trust your God will bestow blessings on you and your family today.”

Kahan’s face immediately perked up again. He knew that our friendship was deeper than any slight attempt at proselytizing, and that, because I asked for his God to bless him, he regained that face of hope. That driving petroleum called ‘hope,’ that fuels man’s desire of saving one another from an eternity in a place called hell, and the wrath of a supposed gracious God. If He was so gracious I thought, why are we so scared of going to hell just because we don’t always do His do’s and don’ts? Oh well, I muttered to myself, as I dropped his falafel money inconspicuously on the center shelf of the podium. I didn’t want any one from the hotel management to see me handing him money and risk getting him fired.

“I’m off to Bethlehem, Kahan. Let’s see it’s which way again?” I teased, but he didn’t pick up on it.

“It’s south just of Jerusalem about . . .” He caught himself, “Oh, Mr. Stanton, you joke at me right?” Waving an accusatory finger he continued, “That is not nice of you . . . thank you for the falafel’s, and say greetings to my sister and brother-by-law, Amal.”

“I will Kahan,” I found myself chuckling under my breath. I believe it helped to ease the situation.

Returning to my room, I found the stairs to be a bit more of a challenge. Just as I placed my left foot on the fourteenth floor landing and began my natural left turn toward my room, I saw a figure darting away from the door to my room and quickly bolted down the hallway towards the other staircase.

I tried to pursue him, or it, but it was too fast, and I was too full. My door appeared to be secure. No sign of a break in. I slowly unlocked and opened it. A slight creak that could be heard from Jerusalem to Rome, pierced my ears—well, there goes the element of surprise! An initially quick glance around the semi-darkened room revealed no present intruder. Working my way to the drapes, I was able to retract them in a quick fashion spilling light into the darkness, but I was thankfully alone.

The door had closed by itself as I wandered over to the closet to get my bags when there was a knock at the door. “Not again.” I murmured aloud. “Who is it?” Like I really expected to get an answer.

There was another, more forceful pounding. I sidled up to the hinge side of the door again and called out, “What do you want?” I barked.

“I am looking for Steve Stanton.” By his strong accent, I knew he was a local, but I couldn’t imagine what he could want.

“It depends. What do you want?” I hoped I was convincing him that I was a rough, tough guy even though I wasn’t convincing myself.

“You have forgotten something at the breakfast table; I have brought it here for you.”

I quickly scanned the room trying to imagine what I could have forgotten. “What is it that I forgot?” I asked.

“An envelope with a letter in it,” Was his reply. I didn’t remember taking any letter with me. He continued, “Sorry, I should tell you that it hasn’t officially been handed to you yet, in case you were wondering.”

I was wondering.

“Okay, give me a second.” With that, I slowly opened the door to see a huge, middle-eastern man standing in the hallway, wearing what I would say was the cleanest and the whitest garment in all of Judea. His hair was neatly trimmed, as was his beard, but his face was deadpan serious. “Mr. Steve Stanton?” He asked.

“Yes, I am Steve Stanton,” I replied with words that were dripping with curiosity.

Pulling his right hand from behind his back, it revealed that he indeed had an envelope. I saw no markings at all on the outside of the envelope and questioned, “Are you sure that is for me?” I asked, but not receiving it in my hands.

“Yes,” he said and dropped the envelope in my hand. Immediately he said, “You’ve been served,” turned and walked away.

“What is this, a summons, or a subpoena,” I jokingly asked as he briskly strolled down the hall. Just as he started down the steps, he gave me a quick glance, shook his head and disappeared. I was in the same position I was when he handed it to me.

“Herod has had enough of me now, so he’s suing me huh?” I yelled down the hall, tossing in a sarcastic chuckle for effect. Turning toward my room again, I began to open the letter.

Well, it was indeed an official document, but it wasn’t from King Herod. It was a court document, too, but it was announcing my marriage dissolution with Susan.

I knew that she had been unhappy for some time now, but I thought we had been getting through so much of it together. I read down further, hmm, states that her grounds are for “Irreconcilable Differences,” and that the defendant was not financially providing adequately, or to a level that she was accustomed to. The rest of the terms were perfunctory. The judge even noted that “since the respondent did not notify the court within the allotted timeframe, it is hereby considered dissolution without contest, and is herewith granted.” With an added twist of my wrist, I tossed the envelope and petition onto the bed, walked to the window. As I looked outside, I chuckled aloud in an incredulous, half-question, half-statement tone, “I’m divorced now?”

I spent the next few minutes shaking my head and staring at the splendor and glory of Jerusalem without really seeing it at all. My head was spinning through a cavalcade of memories. So many special moments with Susan and now there will be no more.