The Harbinger, page 24
“And was there?”
“The writing on the seal was in a language I had never seen before. But I remembered the words of the prophet that day we first met on the bench, when he took the seal to examine it. He said it was Hebrew, but a different form of Hebrew—Paleo-Hebrew, an older version.”
“And did you know anybody who could read Paleo-Hebrew?”
“No. But I knew someone who studied Hebrew from biblical and rabbinical writings. I looked up the Paleo-Hebrew alphabet, then transcribed each of the letters into its modern Hebrew equivalent. Then I made a trip to Brooklyn. That’s where my friend was, an Orthodox Jewish man who ran a little bookstore, in back of which was a study, a library of all sorts of mystical Hebrew writings. That was his passion—finding meaning in mystical Hebrew literature. I figured he’d be the right one. When I told him the purpose of my coming, he closed up the shop and led me to the back room. We sat down at a bare wooden table surrounded by bookcases. He put on his reading glasses and began examining the transcription. After a few moments of silence, he began deciphering it:
“‘Baruch,’ he said. ‘It means, blessed. It’s the word that begins most Hebrew prayers.
“‘Yahu or Yah. It’s the sacred name of God, so sacred I shouldn’t be saying it, but so I did. So, Blessed of God.
“‘Ben.—It means, the son. Blessed of God is the son.
“‘Neri means light and Yahu, again, the name of God. So the light of God.
“‘Ha Sofer, ‘the one who declares or the declarer.’
“‘So what is it saying?’ I asked.”
“‘It’s saying: “Blessed of God is the son of the Light of God, the declarer.”’
“‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ I asked.
“‘How should I know?’ he replied. ‘You’re the one who gave it to me.’
“‘But what do you think it means?’
“‘It sounds like a blessing for a righteous man, a child of the light.’
“‘And the declarer . . . the declarer of what?’
“‘How I should know the declarer of what?’
“‘Have you ever come across anything like that before in your studies?
“‘I’ve come across many Hebrew blessings, but I don’t remember anything quite like this. You copied it from an inscription?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Maybe from an amulet or something?’
“‘Something.’”
“‘An inscription with a Hebrew blessing is not such a strange thing. It’s a blessing. So you have a blessing.’
“‘But what does it mean?’
“‘It means you’re a blessed man.’
“And that’s all he gave me.”
“So what did you make of it?” she asked.
“I didn’t know what to make of it. The translation really didn’t give me anything to go on. It didn’t seem to have anything to do with anything.”
“But now you knew what the inscription meant.”
“Yes. Now I knew what it meant and had no idea what it signified.”
“So what did you do?”
“I went for a walk along the Hudson. It was a cloudy, windy day. It was late afternoon. Halfway into the walk I decided to take a break. There was an empty bench nearby. It was, though I didn’t realize it at the time, the same bench on which the prophet was sitting when we first met. I sat down, took out the seal, and just stared at it as I pondered my lack of direction and my still unresolved burden. I was lost in thought for several minutes before I heard a voice from behind.
“‘Looks like a storm.’”
“The same words,” she said. “The same words the prophet spoke to you at the very beginning.”
“The same words and the same voice.”
• • •
“It does,” I answered, without breaking my gaze, without turning around to see who was speaking.
“What’s that,” he asked, “in your hand? Some archaeological artifact?”
“One of several,” I said, “each with a mystery.”
“And this one? Of what mystery does it speak?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It speaks . . . but it doesn’t say anything . . . nothing that means anything.”
“So you haven’t figured it out yet?”
“I know what it says, but I don’t know what it means.”
With that, the prophet came around to the front of the bench. “Still?” he asked.
“Still,” I answered.
He sat down. “It all began with that seal,” he said, “and right here.”
“But I still don’t know what it means or what I’m supposed to do with it all.”
“But you said you knew what it says.”
“Yes.”
“So tell me what it says?”
“Blessed of God is the son of God’s light, the declarer.”
“Who told you it said that?”
“A friend . . . a friend who specializes in mystical Hebrew writings.”
“Did you ever look in a mirror,” he asked, “and not realize that the man staring back at you was your own reflection?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe. Why?”
“Because you’re doing it now.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s possible to become too mystical and miss the obvious.”
“Then that’s not what it says?”
“If you took it piece by piece and with no context, it could be understood to mean that. But that’s not what it says.”
“Then what?”
“What your friend translated as Blessed of God is the Hebrew Baruchyahu from the Hebrew baruch, blessed, and Yahu, the Lord.”
“But that’s almost the same thing.”
“But it’s not a blessing. It’s not even a sentence.”
“Then what it is it?” I asked.
“It’s a name.”
“A name?”
“The name of a person . . . a person named Baruch.”
“Baruch.”
“And what your friend translated as the son is the Hebrew word ben, which, in this case, is part of the name, ‘Baruch, son of . . . ’”
“Ben . . . Son of . . . I should have known that.”
“And what he translated as God’s light is the Hebrew Neriyahu’ or ‘Neriah—the light of God, yes, but it’s also a name, Neriah. Neriah was Baruch’s father . . . Baruch ben Neriah.”
“Baruch, son of Neriah. So who was he?”
“Think of the seals, Nouriel. What was their purpose?”
“To seal or authenticate an important message.”
“And who used them?” he asked.
“Kings, leaders, government officials.”
“And who else?”
“I don’t know.”
“And scribes. Scribes used them because it was they who wrote the messages. After the name is a title: Ha Sofer.”
“The one who declares.”
“Yes, it can mean that as well, one who declares, who tells, who reveals. But what it means on the seal is the Scribe.”
“So Baruch was a scribe.”
“Yes.”
“And why is that significant?” I asked.
“Because Baruch is mentioned in the Bible, and because he wasn’t just a scribe.”
“What then?”
“He was the scribe of a particular prophet.”
“Which prophet?”
“The prophet Jeremiah. Baruch was the one who wrote down Jeremiah’s prophecies. Jeremiah would prophesy, and Baruch would commit the prophecy to writing. As it is written:
“Then Jeremiah called Baruch the son of Neriah; and Baruch wrote on a scroll of a book, at the instruction of Jeremiah, all the words of the LORD which He had spoken to him.”1
“So this is the seal of Baruch,” I said. “The seal he used to authenticate his writings.”
“It’s one of them,” said the prophet.
“I still don’t get it.”
“Still?”
“No.”
“Then answer the question I asked you.”
“Why I was given the seal?”
“Yes.”
“Because a seal has to do with a message?”
“But why you?” he asked. “Why was the seal given to you?”
“I have no idea.”
“What was Baruch?”
“A scribe.”
“And what is a scribe?”
“One who writes.”
“A writer . . . a scribe is a writer. And what are you, Nouriel?”
“A writer.”
“A writer.”
“What are you saying? I was chosen because I was a writer?”
“No,” he said, “you weren’t chosen because you were a writer. You were a writer, because you were chosen.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It was the reason you became a writer in the first place. It was all for this purpose, all for this time.”
“No. The reason I became a writer was because I . . . ”
“No, Nouriel. The Almighty has His own purposes. And why do you think each revelation came to you through a seal? It’s because of you. It’s because of your calling. You’re the sofer, the scribe, he who declares, who reveals. Do you know what that word also means?”
“No.”
“He who records.”
“As in he who records on a scroll.”
“Or, in the present case, he who records on a recording device.”
“This is too . . . ”
“The rabbis say that Baruch was born of the priestly line, as was Jeremiah.”
“And . . . ?”
“And what’s your last name?”
“Kaplan.”
“Kaplan, if I’m not mistaken, is a priestly name, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Indicating one who is born of the priestly line. So you too were born of the priestly line, and for this moment.”
• • •
“You must have been blown away,” said Ana, “when he started telling you all this. It must have blown you away.”
“I was . . . and it did . . . but it didn’t stop there.”
• • •
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“You know my name,” I replied. “Why do you ask?
“What’s your name?” he asked again.
“Nouriel.”
“No. That’s your middle name. That’s what you used when you started writing. What’s your first name?”
“Barry.”
“That’s what your friends called you. That’s what you wanted them to call you because you weren’t comfortable with your real name. Your real name wasn’t Barry. What was the name you were given when you were born?”
I hesitated in responding, but there was no way to avoid it. It came out softly, almost under my breath.
“Baruch.”
He was silent.
“My name,” I said, in a voice still soft but louder than before, “is Baruch.”
• • •
“Baruch!” she exclaimed. “He knew it all along! It’s as if you were chosen for it . . . even from your birth.”
• • •
“Your name,” he said, “is Baruch Nouriel. The name of Jeremiah’s scribe was Baruch ben Neriah—Neriah meaning, the light of God or the flame of God. Do you know what Nouriel means?”
“No.”
“Nouriel means the flame of God. In effect, it’s the same name.”
“What are you saying?” I asked, my voice now shaking.
“You, Nouriel . . . you are the final mystery. You’re the mystery looking in the mirror and not recognizing that the image is you.”
“You’re saying I’m him?”
“No, you’re not him. You’re you. But you have the same calling.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“The sofer,” he said, “You’re the sofer. The one called to record, to declare, to make known, to make a record of what you’ve seen and heard, to write down the prophetic word, to reveal the mysteries that they might hear it, that a nation might hear it, and that those who will listen could be saved.”
“My dream . . . At the end, you entrusted me with the paper . . . with the message. You gave it to me. Is that what’s happening now?”
“So it is.”
“So I’m your Baruch,” I said, “and you’re my Jeremiah?”
“Something like that,” he answered.
“And I’m to write it all down?”
“Yes, and more:
“And Jeremiah commanded Baruch, saying, ‘I am confined, I cannot go into the house of the LORD. You go, therefore, and read from the scroll which you have written at my instruction, the words of the LORD, in the hearing of the people in the LORD’s house on the day of fasting. And you shall also read them in the hearing of all Judah who come from their cities.’2
“Jeremiah’s movements were restricted. He couldn’t deliver his prophecy in public, not in person. So he sent Baruch in his place so that the prophecy would be proclaimed publicly to all. So Baruch wasn’t only Jeremiah’s scribe but also, at times, his representative, his voice.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I too am restricted. So you must go and make known the message, to give them the warning and the hope. Take what you wrote down at my dictation, and let it be known. You are the sofer, the one who must make known.”
• • •
“He was appointing you,” she said. “The prophet was appointing you.”
“Yes.”
“And so that’s why you came to me?”
“Yes.”
“Because the message must be committed to writing and, through that, made known.”
“Yes.”
“In the form of a book.”
“Yes.”
“A book . . . yes . . . that would be your scroll. The message has to become a book . . . a book revealing the mystery behind everything . . . behind the news . . . behind the economy . . . behind the collapse . . . behind world history . . . the future . . . an ancient mystery on which the future of a nation hangs. . . . This is big, Nouriel. It’s beyond big; it has to get out. They have to hear it. Do you have any idea how you’re going to go about writing it?”
“No. I’ve never attempted anything quite like this. That’s why I came to you.”
“It’s so big . . . and deep . . . and critical. You have to do it in a way that they can hear it . . . in a way that the message can go out to as many people as possible . . . in a way they can grasp. You’re the writer, but I know what I would do.”
“What would you do?” he asked
“I would take the message and put in the form of a narrative.”
“What do you mean?”
“A story,” she replied. “Commit the message to writing, but communicate it in the form of a story . . . a narrative . . . have somebody telling it . . . a narration.”
“But it’s a prophetic message.”
“The Bible uses stories . . . pictures and parables to communicate messages of divine truth, doesn’t it? The point is to get the message out to as many people as possible. The story would be the vehicle, the vessel through which the message, the mysteries, the revelations, the prophetic word would go forth.”
“But if it takes on the form of a narrative, they might not realize that the revelations are real.”
“They’ll realize it.”
“And who would narrate it?” he asked.
“You,” she replied. “You’d write it just the way you told me. You’d create a character who narrates the account to another, just as you narrated it to me. Alter the details, change the names, make everyone into characters.”
“And what about the message itself—the prophetic word, the mysteries. How would all that be communicated?”
“Reveal it in the same way it was revealed to you . . . by the prophet. Put it all into the form of conversations, as they were to begin with, between the one character and the other. You recorded everything. It’s all there. Use what you already have. Transcribe the recordings. Let the prophet speak for himself, through his own words to you. And the message will get through.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“I wouldn’t take too long,” she replied.
“No.”
“Why don’t you ask the prophet?”
“I haven’t seen him since that day.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Before you parted, did he give you any last words of counsel or guidance?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
“And what was it?”
“At the very end of that last encounter, he led me over toward the water. The wind was now gusting wildly. There was definitely a storm coming.”
• • •
“So, Nouriel,” he said, “do you think you’re ready?”
“Ready?”
“To fulfill your call.”
“I don’t know, and I have no idea what to do.”
“You’ll be led, just as you were led to me.”
“But it’s not even my message. It’s your message. I’d just be a messenger, a go-between. If they asked me anything about it, I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“No,” he replied, “the message isn’t mine. All I am is a messenger, as will be you.”
“And if I needed help, would you be there?” I asked. “And how could I reach you?”
“I think you know better than that,” he replied. “You don’t need to reach me. The time of imparting is finished.”
“So I won’t see you again?”
“Unless He deems otherwise, no, you won’t see me again.”
The words hit me harder than I would have expected them to.
“You know,” I said, “I think I’m going to miss our meetings . . . and all the uncertainty.”
“The uncertainty?”
“Of not knowing when or where or how you’d appear next, and how it would happen to happen that I’d be there when you did.”
“Things will still happen to happen,” he said, “as you follow His leading.”
