Читать книгу All Who Came Before - Simon Perry - Страница 7

Yudah was in no hurry. But then he never had been in a hurry of any kind and had gained too many pounds to start now. His eyes stayed with the brothers as he made an economic gesture towards his gate. “Now, let’s see what trouble you’ve brought with you,” he laughed, and touching Yeshua’s shoulder, carried his hefty frame towards the commotion. It was more than the depth of his voice. The strength of Yudah’s presence, like a tonic, continued to work its magic long after he had excused himself from their company. So present had he been to Yeshua, so inside this intolerable situation, and yet without condemnation or even shock, that a feeling of normality prevailed. Yeshua reclined, closed his eyes and, for the first time in an eternity, drew a breath unpolluted by fear.

Peace came likewise to the garden, with Yudah calming his new guest by waving his palms towards the floor. The conversation at the gatehouse was hurried but hushed, and Yeshua presumed that the agitated visitor was bringing news of events in the market place. The panic-stricken messenger, barely twenty years of age, looked awkward in his own body, which seemed far bigger than the person that rattled around inside it. His spirit and his manners of expression were no more under his control than was his physique, and all conspired to draw Yudah to share their panic. If there existed a negative version of all that their host embodied, it stood before him in the form of this young man.

“Well, we can’t be blamed for not planning this part of our journey too well,” Theudas yawned.

“Why’s that?” asked Yeshua, still transfixed by the gatehouse drama.

“Er—because we never expected to be making it.”

Yeshua turned to his brother and felt a burden lift as he chuckled through his nose.

“We shouldn’t have pulled this off. We should be dead by now. Who knows what we’ve got to face next!”

“What have we started?”

“I don’t know but if it’s revenge you want then perhaps we should stick around and see it through”

“See it through?”

“Er—Look at them,” Theudas threw his eyes across his motionless head towards the gate, as though Yeshua hadn’t noticed the scene. “This morning we watched an innocent man die . . . There’ll be repercussions, Yeshua. Look at Yudah!”

Yudah exuded confidence through every pore of his skin. He was clearly in authority over his conversation partner. His guest, already calmed, was now nodding carefully, Yudah waving his hands as though every object around him were awaiting his instruction. They were obviously not simply exchanging market place news.

“Yudah has always had a revolutionary streak about him, you know that. Who knows who he knows and what he might be suggesting? But we’re in this now, it’s our doing and we must honor our brothers by seeing this through.”

“Seeing this through?” Yeshua repeated. “We’ve played our part in this. The violence started before us and it will end long after us. Our job is done. An eye for an eye.”

“We may not have any choice,” Theudas shrugged as Yudah returned from his conversation.

“Sorry about that, boys,” smiled Yudah as he clapped his hands together. “Just getting an update on your handiwork. I look forward to hearing more about this. But first things first, what do you need?”

“Drink!” they replied in unison.

With that a young woman appeared, carrying a jug of water, several cups and a bowl of ripe fruit.

“You answer me before I call,” Yudah nodded with satisfaction. The woman smiled but did not withdraw as would be expected of a servant. He placed his hand insider hers and the two of them broke into a smile. “You don’t remember Miriam then?” asked Yudah, as his daughter took a seat beside him.

“But you are only ten years old!” Yeshua smiled, “or at least you were last time we saw you, which must have been years.” He thought it best not to inquire after the whereabouts of her husband.

“Fifteen!” she smiled. The only memorable feature to have survived intact the passage to adulthood was her long, dark brown hair. Her face carried hints of a past beyond reach of Yeshua’s consciousness. As she looked at him, he recalled her warmest trait. She had an air of mischief about her, poised always on the verge of a warm smile that promised to show itself at the next word to fall from your lips.

“Are you staying long?” she asked.

“No,” said Yeshua, oblivious to the disapproval of Theudas. “We’re heading back to Egypt at first light.”

“Never mind,” she smiled as her attention was drawn by Theudas’ discomfort with his brother’s hasty answer. “Hopefully it won’t be another fifteen years before I see you again.” With that she withdrew from their company, taking with her the smiles and attentions of all three men, before Yudah regained his more serious demeanor.

“Well, we have plenty of time, and you clearly need to spill your guts to someone so why don’t you tell me the whole story?” He had looked through Yeshua’s eyes and penetrated his Spirit.

Yeshua took a deep sip, wiped his lips and began. “You know my family, Yudah. My older brothers were always faithful to Moses and the Prophets. But it was only this year that we got as far as visiting Jerusalem. They wanted to offer sacrifices on the mountain where Abraham himself had consented to sacrifice his firstborn. They worshipped the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. ‘Adonai is our shield and stronghold,’ were the last words Yotham ever said to me. But there was no divine protection from the soldiers hidden in the crowds.”

“The crowds were the protesters, right?”

“Yeh, some protest to do with an aqueduct. The demonstration was outside the prefect’s garrison, near to the temple, and we had to weave our way through the crowds to make it from the temple to the city gate. The prefect was treating the crowds to a pep talk. But . . . as we were trying to push our way through, he called a magic word that must have been a hidden command for his soldiers.” Yeshua puffed out a long sigh as he shook his head.

“They were armed only with canes, hidden under their tunics.” At this point Yeshua stopped, realizing he had recounted this event to no one but his father. Unable to continue, Theudas took over.

“I don’t know how many they killed, I wasn’t even there . . . Yeshua got separated in the crowd . . . He didn’t find Yotham and Saul until it was all over.” Theudas made several false starts before continuing. The only detail of this story that really mattered to Theudas was the outcome. It was all that interested him, and all he could recall. “He butchered our brothers. Our innocent brothers. Simple as that.”

“How did your Father take the news?”

“As you’d expect. By the time we left he still hadn’t eaten.”

“What did he think of you coming here to do this?” Silence. “It goes against everything he always stood for.”

“And still stands for,” sighed Yeshua, shaking and then dropping his head in lament.

“So you came to Caesarea . . .” Yudah beckoned.

Theudas obliged. “A week ago. We watched the morning patrol for six nights, and then this morning . . .” He smacked his right fist into his cupped left hand.

“You can say that again,” muttered Yudah, who then widened his eyes for a second and let out a controlled breath through his puffed out cheeks. “Didn’t you think about what the prefect would do?” he frowned in thought, and smiled a humorless smile, teeth concealed, that expressed gentle disapproval.

“Why do you think we hit them in Caesarea? It could have been anyone from anywhere!”

Yudah chuckled. “Give your brain a chance, Yeshua. Think about what kind of man this prefect is. All he needs is an excuse to spill blood and the feast begins. He’s not that choosy about whose blood, or how much of it.”

Yeshua drew breath to answer his friend, but Yudah, wanting his point to stand, jumped in quickly by adding a veiled complement. “And targeting his own soldiers? I doubt that’s been done to him before.” The approval in Yudah’s expression was immediately eclipsed by a more somber tone. “You have plenty of admiration here in Narbata, but there are also plenty who would like to see you crucified for what you did.” He paused before continuing. “Can I make a suggestion?” Yudah took the silence as an affirmative. “Come to the synagogue this afternoon. Afterwards I’d like you to meet some friends of mine. One of them you’ll already recognize!”

“The synagogue? Come on, you know we don’t want anything to do with all that.”

“A rabbi’s sons afraid to go to a synagogue?”

“What, so we can listen to some hypocritical, self righteous egg-head bleating religious purity while the world crumbles around him?”

“If Yeshua goes into a synagogue the walls are likely to crack . . .” Theudas laughed.

“I think you’ll find our synagogue a little different from what you boys are used to in Egypt, even in Caesarea. Narbata is a rebel town. And Kaleb, the Pharisee from the market place this morning, has just been invited to speak.” One after the other, the brothers shrugged their shoulders in reluctant compliance. “Come straight back here afterwards, Miriam will let you in. I’ll need to linger a while, and will bring a couple of friends back with me.”

Yudah’s synagogue was smaller than the one the brothers had attended. A square hall, each wall about four feet thick and twelve paces long, with a cobbled floor underfoot. Even with so many bodies crammed in, its cool was a welcome relief from the Judean heat. The long central benches were packed with men talking in low and serious tones. The women’s end of the hall generated a more hurried brand of chatter, but all was swamped by applause as the young Pharisee entered. Whatever his status had been, this day had heightened it beyond measure.

The ruler of the synagogue stood and the congregation slowly quieted. On having everyone’s attention, he uttered a brief, opening prayer, concluding with words, which the whole congregation knew by heart, words which today reached a new depth as the crowds voiced them as one, “For Adonai is our judge, Adonai is our ruler, Adonai is our king. He will save us.”

Prayers concluded and the ruler turned to welcome the Pharisee to the platform. Kaleb, robed in dull white, was probably in his early thirties, but what he lacked in years he made up for in his presence. His eyes were bursting with a quiet energy that promised his listeners that, for better or worse, his coming words would evoke some kind of reaction. The attendant handed the scroll to Kaleb who in turn performed rather than merely read its contents, feigning disagreement with the prophet who penned them.

“How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace, who bring good news, who announces salvation, who says to Jerusalem, ‘Your God reigns!’”

Kaleb’s voice was not nearly as cavernous as that of Yudah, but it was carefully furnished with a growl to maximize its authority. He read with dramatic poise and handed the scroll back to the attendant. A calm silence had seized the congregation as every eye was fixed upon the speaker.

“Today, this scripture has been turned inside out in front of your eyes!” He paced a few feet across the raised platform, as though he were exploring the Scripture itself from inside. “How detestable on these our mountains are the feet of those who bring bad news, who proclaim vengeance, who announce oppression, who say to us “Babylon reigns.”

“Babylon?” whispered Theudas

“He’s talking about Rome, you heathen,” his brother replied.

Kaleb threw his head back as he proceeded to justify playing with the words of Holy Scripture. “How dare we speak of ‘good tidings’ on this day of wrath, when the blood of our brother cries from the ground? This ground, our ground. Right down to the grains of dust, for centuries we have cherished this land that Adonai gave to us. But is it really ours?”

He scanned the room to make sure that his listeners were hungry for his next words. Yeshua scanned also, and felt like the odd one out. “When it is trampled under the hoof of heavy horse. When its fruit is taken to fuel armies and lavish feasts, while our people go hungry, is it really ours?” The preacher paused, and his voice began to tremble as he gestured towards the market place. “When a pagan sword force-feeds it with our brother’s blood? Is the land yet ours? We may live here but our hearts are still in exile, and our God does not seem to reign.”

The congregation murmured to register their disgust at the truth Kaleb was highlighting. “When we see heavy taxes forcing farmers off their land, Babylon reigns. When pagan symbols are carried into our temple, Babylon reigns. When soldiers roam freely, forcing us to carry their loads, Babylon reigns. When they take an innocent life, they deface the image of our God, and Babylon reigns. When pagan sentries guard the gates of our town, Babylon reigns. When we trade with coins marked ‘Caesar is Lord’, Babylon reigns.”

So young a preacher would not usually sail so close to the wind by seeming to contradict the words of a holy prophet. But Kaleb was using his current heroic status to full effect. He allowed silence to assert itself again, breaking it only to feed the hum that was filling the air. In a hushed and soft tone, he charged their expectation, “Brothers.” After another pause he continued in a stage whisper. “There . . . Is . . . No . . . King . . . But . . . God.” A wave of approval was rising rapidly, and with perfect timing Kaleb repeated the slogan with greater volume and passion, “There is No King but God.”

The congregation again irrupted into applause, cries of “amen,” and repeated shouting of this well-known slogan. Kaleb held a silence pregnant with phenomenal but restrained energy, frowning as he waited for the clamor to die down. “Babylon reigns?” He scanned the synagogue. “Babylon reigns?” he repeated, beginning to shake his head slowly as he slowly opened a floodgate of defiance. “Today I tell you this: Your God reigns. Our God reigns. There is no King but God.”

The Narbatans again gave way to shouts, this time with the cry for liberty, “Hoshannah,” finding its way into and occasionally above the clamor. Again, the preacher waited calmly until his voice could once more be heard.

“So where is his Kingdom? When will we see the Kingdom of God? When will our God reign in Jerusalem? When will the gods of Babylon bow before Adonai?

“People of Narbata, Israel’s God is returning to claim his Kingdom. This land can no longer bear the weight that crushes it. He will not allow this present injustice to go unchecked. We are on the brink of a new era, a new age in which all will see that there is no king but God. And we enter this era by sacrifice and struggle and force. You and I must live and breathe God’s holy law, so that we become the living enactment of his Scriptures. ‘Your God reigns’ . . . There is no King but God.”

Yeshua’s sheer discomfort at the Pharisee’s message did not immunize him to Kaleb’s charisma. The preacher was as riveted to his hearers as they were to him. He knew where he was going, and carried his congregation with him one step at a time. He was deeply connected to his listeners, communicating with far more than his words alone—but planting his words firmly in their hearts with the quiet force acquired either from his act of self-sacrifice or from some divine source. Whether this divinity was Adonai, the God of Israel or Hermes, the messenger of pagan gods, the Pharisee’s eyes discarded their frown and searched the synagogue roof to re-establish contact with eternity. The gaze itself carried with it the promise of supernatural wisdom.

“Today we are still a nation, and today we have a King. How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news. Who say to Zion ‘your God reigns.’ Whoever killed those soldiers in Caesarea brings us a reminder that our God reigns. Not that God will one day reign again. Not that God will reign in the future.” The frown returned. “Isaiah says that God reigns, today, here and now. Caesar is not God! Adonai is God!” The preacher left more room for silence.

“Brothers! Take up your inheritance! His Kingdom is here. Our God reigns today!” At this point the frown lifted again, and Kaleb looked towards the heavens, apparently trawling his memory. “In the market place this week I saw a small boy with his mother. The boy was crying, shouting, stamping his feet. He wanted to eat one of the apples his mother had just bought. He was making such a fuss, that he could not hear his mother saying, ‘Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin—here it is!’ The child was so worked up that he could not see his mother holding the apple before him, and carried on crying, ‘I want an apple.’ All he had to do was reach out his hand and take it! The only thing making him wait any longer was his own tantrum.”

“Friends. We long and we cry and we demand God’s Kingdom. But he is holding it out in front of us. All we need do is take it. He has already given it to us. We must simply take it. Our God reigns!” Kaleb paused to allow his illustration to percolate.

“Babylon has spilt innocent blood in our town today. And this afternoon . . .” Kaleb paused, drawing deep breaths to gather his emotion. “. . . This afternoon, we hear he has done the same in the towns of Dor and Aphek.” Gasps of disgust echoed around the synagogue, while the Egyptian brothers cast each other a despairing glance. “Brothers. Here, now, today, the lives of our oppressors are being taken. On our own doorstep the soldiers of Rome are being taken. The might of Babylon is challenged. The Kingdom of God is coming. Not everyone can attack a soldier, but I support those who do.” The congregation remained silent. “The centurion says that those who support these people must share their fate. Then let us all share it together.”

Across the synagogue a number of heads nodded quietly. Yeshua, terrified though he was by the implications of this Pharisee’s rant, found himself reluctantly warming to Kaleb if not to his message. He looked down at his own fidgeting fingers, only to discover in his hands the figurine of the small boy. Whoever it represented, this carving undermined Yeshua’s confidence that the morning’s deeds were worthy of anyone’s support. The Egyptian was transported back to the market place, and for a moment the screams of the grieving child swamped the preacher’s own voice. Kaleb’s message brought little comfort for his hyperactive conscience.

Regardless of how convincing his message was, Kaleb’s oratory skills, combined with the selfless part he had played in this day’s horror, had succeeded in keeping the crowd hooked on his every word. He approached his conclusion with measured rhetoric.

“When we came here this afternoon, did we come singing ‘Caesar is our judge, Caesar is our ruler, Caesar is our King and Caesar will save us’? Children of Abraham, throughout your lives you have sung this hymn of Isaiah. It is part of who we are. Allow it now to beat its rhythm through your being, as we celebrate together, for . . .” with that, he lifted his hands and with one voice the congregation filled the synagogue with familiar words,

“. . . Adonai is our judge, Adonai is our ruler, Adonai is our king. He will save us.”

Kaleb’s was the right message for the right time. A people whose anger and despair was an open wound had heard what they wanted to hear: a call, issued in word and deed, to defiance and sacrifice, with the promise of divine blessing. Adonai’s endorsement of the Pharisee’s message had been witnessed in his deliverance at the market place. For Yeshua, the atmosphere was as stifling as the afternoon’s thick humidity. As the service ended Yudah disappeared into the crowd while the brothers pushed their way out to seek the peace of his garden.

The Egyptians returned to the welcome of Yudah’s daughter, Miriam. “Thank you,” said Yeshua as she gestured them to enter. Theudas’ attempt to conceal his yawn was no more successful than Miriam’s attempt to conceal her amusement at it. But this wordless exchange released the brothers from the lingering influence of that pharisaic frown. The weight of the day’s events that pressed down on these Egyptians, whilst not being removed, was nevertheless lightened by the atmosphere of Yudah’s home and its hostess. But Miriam offered no escape from the realities that crowded in on them, which only made her comfort all the more valuable.

“I haven’t seen Yotham and Saul since I was a child, but I remember them well . . .” Miriam said warmly as she touched Yeshua’s shoulder, “. . . and I treasure that memory. I can only imagine how you must feel . . .” She dropped her head. “How your father must feel.” She lifted her gaze to Yeshua. “How is he?”

Ely of Alexandria was distraught at the loss of his elder sons, and saw the vengeful quest of Yeshua and Theudas as the loss of his younger sons. He had begged them not to leave Alexandria before having had chance to grieve properly, but Ely’s pleas were ignored. You can’t spend your whole life preaching about justice, Yeshua had reasoned, and then complain when your sons go in search of it. Justice would be the gift that Ely would receive on his sons’ return to Egypt.

“Not well,” Theudas answered, jolting his elder brother out of the thoughts that had left Miriam’s question unanswered.

“Sorry,” said Yeshua as he shook the thoughts from his head. “He’ll be okay when we get home. He’ll know that justice has been done and his grief will be lessened.”

“Well,” she smiled provocatively, “when you go back to Alexandria, be sure to take our love as well as your justice.” For a moment, her smile evoked in Yeshua the discomfort that only a prophet could awaken. “Now!” she grinned, having noted their relief at escaping the synagogue. “After surviving the sermon of Kaleb the Pharisee, I assume you’re both ready for the vine of Yudah?” Miriam’s question was accompanied by a smirk of sympathetic frustration with the sermon she hadn’t heard, although she looked as though she had endured it a thousand times before. Her smirk became a smile as she withdrew to bring refreshments.

Furnished with a cup of wine, the brothers found their garden bench and breathed relief at escaping the commotions of the outside world. Miriam perched herself lightly on a large stone, pulled a jasmine leaf towards her nose and inhaled as though her true life-energy were contained in the plant. Although mesmerized by the sight, Theudas was unable to restrain his tongue.

“Yeshua, how come she’s allowed to miss the synagogue and we’re not?” he grinned.

“You sound like you’re talking to my father!” she smiled.

“He sounds more like he’s talking to ours!” Yeshua cut in.

“Theudas! If you went because you were forced,” she added, “perhaps you shouldn’t have gone at all!”

“Maybe,” he laughed. “But I’m asking about you! What are you doing, here, waiting upon us? The whole town’s in crisis?”

She eyed the brothers, content to say nothing immediately. She allowed a lark singing beyond the courtyard’s walls to punctuate their conversation as though she had pre-ordained it. “Someone needs to look after our liberators,” she grinned, unconvincingly.

“Miriam,” Theudas tried again. “What are you doing here?”

The woman’s energy left her with Theudas’ question. She took another breath of jasmine, emptied her lungs and screwed up her eyes as though staring into the sun. “Believe me,” she said, “it’s a long story, and you have more pressing matters to discuss—or at least you will when my father returns!” She stood, faced away and lifted her head. Yeshua shook his head at his brother before Miriam turned again to speak softly to them whilst shaking hers. “Don’t get dragged any further into our troubles here.” With that, she excused herself from their company.

“How do you feel now?” asked Yeshua after a moment, not forgetting his brother’s invitation to ask this question again once wine had appeared.

“Bloody stupid.”

“I’m not talking about Miriam, you pagan. I’m talking about this morning. You remember, we killed a couple of soldiers, a few more people were killed as a result.” Yeshua’s laugh was devoid of any joy. “Can you remember that far back?”

“I don’t know . . . ” he shrugged and frowned.

“Well get your mind out of your loincloth!”

“I don’t feel anything.” Theudas grinned, and then shut up. Yeshua knew the best way to keep his brother talking was not to respond. Silence was intolerable to Theudas, and he broke it after only a couple of seconds. “I thought I might feel relieved, or guilty, or something. I just don’t feel anything.” Yeshua still refused to respond, and after a pause Theudas continued. “I guess it’s because we’re still in the middle of this. Sitting here in the same luxury we enjoy at home. But really . . .” he glanced at his elder brother and paused, “. . . we’re at the eye of the storm. Yudah will be back soon with his bandit friends, probably with some scheme to get us crucified for the good of Israel.”

“While Yudah watches on with admiration you mean.” Theudas’ face contorted at his older brother as Yeshua continued. “He’s a great guy but he’s only ever been an armchair revolutionary. He likes the idea of rebellion, probably as a distraction from his real life. It probably reminds him of his roots.”

“That’s hardly fair!”

“Yeh, well look around you Theudas. His father was a farm laborer. You and I were born into our comfort; Yudah built his from nothing. A real revolutionary does not build this life for himself.” Yeshua used his eyes to point around the garden. “Yudah’s genuine enough, and he’s well connected. But in his heart he’s no rebel.”

“Well, I’m glad about that. And I’m certainly glad we bumped into him.”

“It’s who we bump into next that bothers me.” In his mind, Yeshua scanned the countless weathered faces he had seen in the synagogue, wondering how many brigands were baying for Roman blood. Or was it his blood they wanted? His mind’s eye settled only onto Kaleb and his one memorable sentence. He sighed to himself before continuing. “We have caused too many deaths . . . in Aphek, in Dor . . . in Narbata.”

“Well, our escape route’s cut off anyway. You may as well accept it. We’re still in the thick of it. I think that’s why I still don’t feel anything,” he added, with another yawn. “Except tired.”