Retribution, page 11
part #3 of City of God Series
Hanan saw them to the door and out into the courtyard, wondering what had gone wrong. Yeshua was no longer young, almost forty, and a man unusually intelligent. Yet he was victim now to the same foolishness that fell on other men when they came to power.
Yeshua thought his newfound power meant that he could do as he wished, that he could ignore the wise counsel of older men. He would soon learn.
A few months from now, bruised but wiser, Yeshua would be readier to listen to Hanan’s advice. Then he would put away this widow of his and do something about the young hotheads like Kazan who were pushing this city toward the abyss.
Chapter 13
Baruch
BARUCH WOKE BEFORE DAWN WITH his heart thumping in his chest. He had dreamed a dream of Brother Ari, and it frightened him. Brother Ari walked a narrow line before the throne of HaShem. On the one side stood the men of violence, whispering words of zeal. On the other side stood Baruch and the men of Rabban Yeshua, and they were silent.
This dream frightened Baruch. Brother Ari was in danger and Baruch had been silent. Yaakov the tsaddik would not have been silent. Baruch curled up to Hana. She stirred in her sleep and clutched his arm to her chest. Baruch held her until the pounding in his heart eased and he knew what he must do. He kissed Hana’s cheek softly and then rolled out of bed. He dressed quickly, pulling his four-cornered tunic over his head. He stroked the blue and white tassels of the tzitzit at each corner, taking comfort in their perfect symmetry. He wound a cloth belt around his waist, slipped on his sandals, and put on his tefillin. Hana and Dov remained sleeping.
Baruch eased open the door and descended the stairs. He took his sword from its hook on the wall and put it in his belt, then threw his cloak over his shoulders.
The voice of HaShem tickled his heart, stopping him.
No. This was wrong. Yesterday, yes, he had worn a sword on account of the bandits. Tomorrow, yes. Today, no. Today, he must trust in HaShem. Baruch put the sword back in its place on the wall. He lifted the thick wooden bar, unlatched the iron lock, and stepped outside into the morning chill.
Black night hung over the city like a shroud.
Baruch swallowed his fear, pulled the door shut, and locked it. He strode down the street toward the house of Brother Ari, wishing that HaShem had chosen some other man to be a tsaddik.
One street over, he met Brother Ari coming the other way. A sword dangled from his belt. “Shalom, Brother Baruch.”
“Shalom, Brother Ari.” Baruch waited, but Brother Ari said nothing on the matter of Baruch’s missing sword. Perhaps he had not even noticed.
They walked in companionable silence toward their synagogue. This was their custom and Baruch usually felt grateful for the silence. It was a time to enter the Shekinah—the Presence of HaShem—before the beginning of the morning prayers.
But this morning, the silence burned in Baruch’s ears, a fire, a storm. Today, to remain silent was sin.
Baruch slowed his pace and caught Brother Ari’s arm. “Brother Ari, there is a matter we must discuss.”
Ari turned and gave him a puzzled look.
Baruch wondered if he had heard from HaShem correctly. His throat tightened. He did not know what to say. Yet how could he remain silent longer, when the men of violence did not? No, he must speak. If he had heard wrong, he had heard wrong, but a man could do no more than obey the word of HaShem as he heard it.
* * *
Ari
Ari studied his friend. Baruch was not himself this morning. He had forgotten his sword and that was not usual, but Ari had his own and there was no need to mention the matter. The dagger-men would not bother two men, even if only one of them was armed.
“Brother Ari, have you given thought to the matter of Rabban Yeshua?”
For a moment, Ari could not think what Baruch was talking about. Then he remembered the day a year ago when Baruch asked him to pray on the matter of following The Way of Rabban Yeshua. Ari had not done so. Rabban Yeshua was a very fine man, but he was only a man. A prophet, yes. A healer, yes. A tsaddik, yes. But he was not Mashiach and he was not HaShem. He was a man and Ari would never worship a man, no matter how good. Especially not a man who symbolized the deaths of many millions.
Baruch tightened his grip on Ari’s arm. “Brother Ari, you have walked with us during the day. When night comes, will you walk with us, or will you go another way?”
Ari felt his whole body going rigid. “What way?”
“The way of the men of violence. The anshei hamas.”
Ari recoiled with an almost physical pain. Hamas. That was a word no Israeli could ever love. It was the name chosen by Palestinian terrorists. In Arabic it meant courage, but in Hebrew it meant violence. No, he would never choose that way. And yet ...
And yet what was the alternative? The Way of Rabban Yeshua? In coming years, that would lead also to the way of violence.
“Ari, my brother.” Baruch gripped Ari’s arm and his voice burned. “Do not follow in the way of the men of violence. An evil time is coming, when all men must choose. You will follow the way of the men of violence, or else you will follow The Way of Yeshua. There is no middle way.”
Ari had never seen Baruch in such an intense mood. The sight unnerved him. Ari leaned against a stone wall, breathing heavily. “I have not said yes to the men of violence.”
“You have not said no to them.” Baruch’s eyes pooled with deep sadness. “And you have not said yes to Yeshua.”
“He was a good man,” Ari said. “His teachings were wise and—”
“He was the Pesach lamb and his blood atones for many.”
Ari said nothing. This again. He did not believe this foolishness. Yes, Rabban Yeshua had died tragically. Yes, he was a good and admirable man. No, his death had no magical properties to take away the sins of other men. For that, HaShem had given men repentance. If a man repented from his sins, then HaShem would forgive him. HaShem did not require a bloody sacrifice to persuade him to show mercy. HaShem was not a God of violence, but of peace.
Baruch seemed to read his heart. “Brother Ari, you do not believe that Yeshua’s sacrifice atones for many?”
“No.” Ari began walking toward their synagogue. They would be late if they delayed any longer. “I do not see why HaShem should require a sacrifice. A sacrifice is for the benefit of men. It does not influence HaShem.”
“Brother Ari, you are wrong.” Baruch hurried to catch up with him. “Sacrifice releases power. This is a deep principle of the universe, and even HaShem cannot change it. You did not know this, that sacrifice releases power?”
Ari thought about that. The sacrificial death of a good man could inspire love in another man. Hope. Courage. Mercy. Yes, there was power in sacrifice, of a sort. Power over men. But no, it did not require a sacrifice in order to raise up hope or courage or mercy in the heart of HaShem. HaShem had all those in infinite supply. “No, I think you are mistaken, Brother Baruch. Now let us hurry or—”
“The prophet says that Yeshua was wounded for our transgressions. By his stripes we are healed.”
Ari knew this verse. Jewish commentators applied it to the Jewish nation, suffering for its own sins. Whereas the Christians applied it to Rabban Yeshua who supposedly died for the sins of the whole world, for all men who would be born through all eternity. An infinite sacrifice by a finite man, a logical impossibility.
But this was not merely a matter of poor logic, it was a matter of deep evil. For many hundred years, the guilt for this sacrifice—the blood curse—would be laid on the heads of Jews by Christians. Torture, rape, arson, murder, all in the name of Christ. In coming centuries, it would become clear that the way of Rabban Yeshua was the way of violence, the way of evil.
Therefore, Ari could never follow Yeshua. To do so would be to dance on the graves of his forefathers, to shove the cross again down the throat of his dead father. Black rage rose up in Ari’s heart, and the heat of it burned him like fire.
“Come, let us go to the prayers.” Baruch pulled on Ari’s hand. “I am sorry, Brother Ari. I see that I have offended you and I ask forgiveness.”
Ari followed him toward the synagogue in despair. His life was shards again.
* * *
Ari
Ari strapped his tefillah to his forehead. The small black leather box held a fragment of Scripture inside, containing the command of HaShem to “bind these words between your eyes.”
Next, he wrapped the long black leather straps of a second tefillah around his arm and down to his fingers. The same Scripture commanded the faithful Jew to “bind it upon your hands.” The tefillin were a literal reminder of these commandments.
Ari took out his prayer shawl, his tallit, and draped it over his head. There was nothing he wanted more than to follow the commandments, to be a good Jew, a man of peace.
The voice of Shimon ben Klopas rose up like a song. “Baruch Attah, Adonai! Eloheinu, v’Elohei Avoteinu!” Blessed are you, O Lord, our God, and God of our fathers!
Ari found that he could not join in the words today. Something was burning now in his belly, a terrible realization. His work required him to meet men in every corner of Jerusalem, and therefore he had his finger on the pulse of this city of God.
Men of violence were rising up all over Jerusalem. Not merely Menahem ben Yehudah and his bandits. Ordinary, honest citizens. Brother Eleazar and his Sons of Righteous Priests were one of many hundred groups of angry young men preparing for war. A vast horde of priests seethed in the Temple, all zealous for Torah, all eager for HaShem to deal retribution against Rome. Many men who prayed with Ari in this very synagogue of The Way spoke with hatred in their voices of the Whore of Babylon.
Life under the Roman boot was becoming a living death.
In a few years, every Jew must choose between two unthinkable options. If they refused the way of violence, they would be crushed by Rome. If they chose the way of violence, they would become evil themselves.
An image formed in Ari’s mind. Years ago, when he was a small boy, he had received from his uncle Zev a long strip of paper, glued to form a loop. Uncle Zev was a teacher of high school mathematics and he had made a Möbius strip, a loop with a half-twist. Uncle Zev wished to teach Ari the peculiar topological properties of the Möbius strip, so he gave Ari two crayons. “Color the one side blue and the other side red, Ari.”
So Ari dutifully began coloring, first on one side, then on the other. His mother and aunts came to watch. Then a horrible thing happened. There came a point where blue met red on the same side. The task could not be completed, because the Möbius strip had only one side. Ari cried when he understood the trick that Uncle Zev had played on him.
Now he saw that HaShem had played a like trick. Good and evil were intertwined in this universe. There came a day in every man’s life when
he must choose whether to fight evil with violence, or to renounce violence and let evil overcome good.
That day was now for Ari.
He did not wish to join with the men of violence, but ...
... he did not wish to let evil triumph either.
HaShem had put a knot in the universe, and who could unloop it?
Part III
Queen of Heaven
Spring, A.D. 64
In her heart, she says,
“I sit as a queen,
and not as a widow,
and sorrow I will never know.”
Therefore, in one day the plagues will overcome her:
Death, sorrow, famine.
And fire will consume her.
For mighty is the Lord God who judges her.
Revelation 18:7–8, author’s paraphrase
Chapter 14
Ari
ARI AWOKE FROM AN EVIL dream, exhausted. A thin shaft of moonlight slid in through the window slits. From the angle of the light, he saw that the moon was still well up in the sky. Today was the third day of Pesach, therefore three days after the full moon, and therefore ...
Therefore it was several hours yet before daybreak.
For six months now, he had been wrestling with the knot HaShem had set for him. Would he join with the men of violence and make a stand against evil, or would he sit peacefully by and let evil destroy all that was good?
Ari sighed. His sleep had become shards now. A few hours per night, every night, with no relief. It would be so until he made his choice.
Ari rolled over and put an arm around Rivka. She lay with her back to him, sleeping soundly. He pulled her into the curve of his body and she snuggled closer in her sleep.
Sleep. He would give all his silver for one night of good sleep. But there was nobody to accept the money. Baruch had prayed for him, to no effect. Rivka also. Still, his sleep was shards.
Rivka mumbled something in her sleep. Ari realized that he was holding her too tight and released her. He put his hand on the narrow part of her waist, enjoying the simple delight that any man has in touching his woman. He put his face into her hair and inhaled its fragrance. She was all that he could ever want, but she was not enough.
Ari closed his eyes against the moonlight and thought of all the people in his life.
Rivka. Please, HaShem, give her peace from those who call her the witch woman. Teach her to hear your voice.
Racheleh. HaShem, let her grow up into a woman who loves you, whose life is not shards.
Baruch. May he be a true tsaddik to his people and live many years in peace.
Hanan ben Hanan. Ari did not know what to pray for Hanan. The man was evil. For no reason Hanan hated a monster called Kazan. Yet Ari had promised Rivka to pray for Hanan. HaShem, please you will give peace to Hanan ben Hanan and reconcile him to his enemies.
Ari sighed. He did not know if such prayers were foolishness, but they passed the long hours until morning, and they brought peace to his own heart. Whether HaShem would answer any of his prayers, Ari could not say, but HaShem could not escape hearing them.
* * *
Ari
After the morning prayers with Baruch and the brothers of The Way, Ari had breakfast at home, played with Racheleh for an hour, and then went out. It was a fine spring day and the streets bristled with people, many of them visitors for Pesach. Ari felt glad that this year, there was no prophet or wild-eyed leader to harangue the people and make a disturbance. If such a man meant to attract a following, he usually came at Pesach or Sukkot. And he always met a quick and violent death. His followers soon forgot him, fading into the background until the next zealous fool came along.
Ari walked quickly through the streets. Near the Hasmonean Palace, a blind beggar lay in a ragged heap against a wall, calling out for alms in a half-hearted voice. Ari gave him a few lepta and kept walking. In the square, many young men stood in little circles, talking and keeping sharp eyes out. As he walked by them, he heard many whispers of “Ari the Kazan,” felt many desperate looks piercing his back.
He knew what these men wanted. They were day laborers, men who needed work. Men who had worked on various construction projects in the Temple. Men now unemployed, because the Temple was finally completed. After more than eighty years of continuous work, the massive renovations begun by Agrippa’s great-grandfather were done. The chief priests had proposed a new project on the Temple Mount but Agrippa refused to permit it, on the grounds that the Temple was truly finished. As a result, a fourth part of the city was unemployed, and these young men had little to do but stand in the square all day and hope for work.
Ari hired as many as he could on various construction projects in the New City, but what could he do for so many thousand men? Times were hard just now, because the first rains last fall had been meager, and the second rains in the spring also failed, and so Judea had entered its second year of drought. Money was tight and food expensive, and this made a dangerous combination. The city was ready to burn, if the slightest spark struck it.
Ari hurried through the square and down past the market to the southern side of the Temple Mount. This was the short side of the Temple Mount, and yet still it was three hundred meters long. Near the center were the public baths, standing before the enormous Huldah Gates that led up into the Temple Mount. On the far side of the baths, the long row of steps continued the full length of the mount.
Towards the eastern end, at the foot of the stairs, stood a small man with wispy gray hair and a thin beard and a small crowd of students. Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai.
Ari hurried toward him. Rabbi Yohanan was standing, which meant he had not yet begun to teach. As a schoolboy growing up in Haifa, Ari had heard about this man. In coming centuries, he would be given the honorific title Rabban Yohanan and he would be credited with founding rabbinic Judaism, with saving his people from devastation after the war that was coming. But in this year and this city, he was merely Rabbi Yohanan, a Torah sage like many others, teaching a few students and attracting little attention.
Rabbi Yohanan was a man who made no secret of his distaste for the young and zealous fools who dreamed of war with Rome. According to Rivka, Rabbi Yohanan would lose all popularity and most of his students during the war. Therefore, Ari felt attracted to this man. Such a rabbi was a man who saw far and was not fooled by the winds of zeal that blew through the city. Such a man might be able to loose the knot in Ari’s mind.
When Ari reached the group of students, he took a seat on the topmost step. Most of these students were very young, ranging from thirteen up to about eighteen. A few in the front row were Yohanan’s disciples, twenty-something young men who might someday be rabbis themselves, men who attached themselves to Rabbi Yohanan, immersing themselves in his mode of thought. Ari did not know which of these would survive the war that was coming.
