The Shekinah glows all around Yohanan. His eyes pierce me. “Who are you?”
I do not know how to answer. The village says I am the son of Yoseph, but I wish to be more than the son of a tekton. Abba said I am the son of David, but when men speak of the son of David, they mean Mashiach, and I do not know how to be Mashiach. Imma says HaShem is like a father to me, but when men speak of the son of HaShem, they mean the king of Israel, and I do not know how to be king of Israel.
“I am … the son of Adam.” My words sound foolish in my ears. When men speak of a son of Adam, they mean any mortal, any son of man.
“What brings you here, son of Adam? Are you a prophet? You have the look of a prophet.”
I shake my head. “I am not a prophet. I never heard any word from HaShem. All my village says I am a tsaddik.”
He studies me, and a muscle flickers in his face. “If you are a tsaddik, why should you immerse with the immersion of repentance?”
“I did not come to repent, and I did not come to immerse. I told you already, I came to ask for a word from HaShem.”
“Who are you to want a word from HaShem?”
I do not know who I am. That is my problem. I will never know who I am until I know my blood father. My wish to know my blood father burns in my chest like an open flame. My mother will never tell me, so I came to ask the prophet. But now he asks who I am, so even he does not know.
The prophet cannot tell who is my blood father, or how to remove the smirch, or how to redeem Israel.
My quest is all for nothing.
Yohanan’s eyes look deep inside me. His gaze is sharper than any blade. “HaShem says you are a lamb of the heart of HaShem.”
I stare on him. “What does that mean, to be a lamb of the heart of HaShem?”
Yohanan shakes his head. “How should I know? I told you what HaShem says. If you wish to know what HaShem means, then you should immerse and ask him yourself. If you are a tsaddik, you will hear a word from HaShem.”
All at once, I am desperate to immerse. Not the immersion of repentance. The immersion of zekhut. The immersion of HaShem.
I feel in my heart that this is how I will know my blood father. I feel that if I do not immerse, I will die, for my loneliness weighs on me like a mighty stone.
I feel the Shekinah pressing near.
I kick off my sandals.
I lay down my waterskin.
I throw down my pack with my cloak and my food.
I unwrap my belt and put it aside.
I step down into the river.
I push my way out to the level of my neck.
I pull my tunic up over my head.
I immerse.
The water closes over my head like a grave.
I am alone in a great sea, more lonely than I ever was. ‘HaShem, speak to me now. Speak to me or I die!’
The Shekinah comes nearer. I feel its heat like an iron-man’s flame. It singes me. Scorches me. Burns me with fervent heat.
I am in a big agony, but I press in. ‘HaShem, who is my blood father?’
My soul is on fire. I am destroyed.
I push closer. ‘HaShem, speak to me!’
The fire grows to the brightness of many suns.
I stand before the Throne of HaShem.
And HaShem speaks. ‘Who are you, my son?’
‘Some say I am the son of Yoseph.’
‘You are the son of Yoseph, but you are more than the son of Yoseph.’
‘Some say I am the son of David.’
‘You are the son of David, but you are more than the son of David.’
‘Some say I am the son of Adam.’
‘You are the son of Adam, but you are more than the son of Adam.’
‘Then who am I? I beg on you to tell me whose son am I?’
HaShem rises from the Throne. ‘Look on me, son of Adam.’
I do not look on him. It is not permitted for a son of Adam to look on the face of HaShem.
HaShem comes closer. ‘Look on me, son of David.’
I do not look on him. Even Moses our prophet did not dare look on the face of HaShem.
HaShem stands before me, behind me, all around me. ‘Look on me, son of Yoseph, son of Miryam.’
I look on the face of HaShem.
HaShem gives me a kiss and a kiss and a kiss.
The Shekinah is inside me now, burning like the sun.
HaShem sings the words of a mighty psalm, the psalm for anointing the king of Israel:
‘You are my son.
Today I have become your father.
Ask from me
And I will give
The goyim for your heritage,
To the ends of the earth for your possession.
You will beat them with a club of iron
To shatter them like shards of clay.’
The vision fades.
I am again in the world of men.
My heart is on fire.
I am the son of Yoseph.
I am the son of David.
I am the son of Adam.
I am the anointed king of Israel.
But still I do not know who is my blood father.
I open my eyes and the world seems dim.
All my soul is alight with the Presence of HaShem. There is no time in the Presence of HaShem. Joy floods my heart forever, but also great sorrow.
I am not alone.
I will never be alone.
But I will be the loneliest man who ever walked the earth.
Chapter Five
Miryam of Nazareth
“Imma, he will come back soon. Maybe before Shabbat.” Shlomi Dancefeet’s voice cracks.
I shake my head. “If we are going to the feast, we must leave before Shabbat. We must leave tomorrow. Yeshua is not coming back.”
My heart weeps inside me. My son Yeshua has been gone now five weeks. We have heard nothing. I am sure he is hurt. I am afraid he is dead. If he meets bandits on the road, they will not smile on his jests and become his friends, like the village elders. They will beat him and rob him and leave him bleeding.
“We cannot leave without him!” Shlomi Dancefeet says. “What if he comes back and finds us gone? He would be sad.”
Little Yaakov shakes his head. “Uncle Halfai will tell him we are gone to Jerusalem for Sukkot.”
Halfai is the brother of my lord Yoseph. He is firstborn, so he inherited their father’s farm. Halfai always stays home for the feasts. A farmer cannot leave his farm unfarmed for a month.
We reach the village spring. It is the going out of the day, and my four sons have come with me and my daughter to fetch water. Four sons, but they are not enough. They are not Yeshua.
My daughter and I dip our waterpots in the spring. The water is fresh and cool, and we need it for the evening meal. We turn and walk down the path to the village.
My tormentors are ready for us. Two dozen women have come from the village, each with a waterpot. They grin with hate.
Between the village and the spring, the path narrows so only two can walk abreast. The women of the village wait for us there.
Little Yaakov and Yosi go through the narrows ahead of me. Thin Shimon and Yehuda Dreamhead come tight behind. We hurry past the women.
Marta, my own neighbor, spits my feet. “Zonah.”
Rage stabs my heart. I did not ask for this life. I said yes to the Messenger, but saying yes is not the same as asking to be spit.
Old Hana the cheese-woman spits my feet. She has no teeth, and her lord is dead twenty years, but she has not forgiven me. She will never forgive me.
The other women mumble behind their hands. “Zonah.”
It is dishonor for a man to strike a woman, so my sons do not strike the women. All they can do is walk close to me, all around. They have no honor to do more. Most of the men of our village are peasants, who own land and farm it. The men of our family are less than peasants, for we have no land. The men of our family are day laborers, finding work as HaShem prov
ides. Our men are without honor.
All except Yeshua, who has a big honor because he is a tsaddik. Nothing can dishonor a tsaddik. If Yeshua were here, the women would not dare spit my feet and mumble zonah.
But Yeshua is not here, and I have no shield from the scorn of my village.
Every instant of the day, I ask HaShem to bring my Yeshua back. My son that I love more than life. For him I became an evil tale. My Yeshua, the joy of my heart.
I beg on HaShem to bring him back, but HaShem does not answer, and I am weary on it, and I am shamed that I am weary. The great women of old had a big trouble and were not weary on it. But I am not a great woman of old. I am a shamed woman, less than a peasant, less than a zonah.
When we reach our house, Little Yaakov’s eyes are black with rage. “Tomorrow, we leave for Jerusalem, whether Yeshua has come back or whether he has not come back. If he comes to the feast, he will find us at the house we always rent.”
My throat is so tight I can hardly speak. “And what if he does not come to the feast?” I lie awake every night in a big fear that my Yeshua is dead in some ravine with his bones pecked by birds.
Little Yaakov’s face is set like stone. “We leave tomorrow. If Yeshua has come to harm, then HaShem will find some other man to redeem Israel.”
My other sons nod, and their faces are hard like Little Yaakov’s. They follow whatever he says.
“Yes, tomorrow we go,” says Yosi. “Yeshua will make an army at the feast, and we will be first to join.”
“The army of Yeshua and of Little Yaakov, his strong right arm!” says Thin Shimon.
Yehuda Dreamhead grins and waves an invisible sword in the air.
That is why we call him Dreamhead, because from the age of two he always lives in a world of invisibles.
My sons’ women come in our house carrying the cooking pot. There are four of them now. Little Yaakov has a woman again—that zonah Shlomzion—the one Yeshua brought on the day we heard of Yohanan the prophet. It is not a proper marriage. No man would marry a woman who was a zonah. She is only a concubine, but she warms Little Yaakov in the night. She warms him well, for I hear her shouting in the dark hours. I think the whole village hears her shouting.
My son Little Yaakov … sometimes I think the Messenger should have chosen him. Little Yaakov has the yetzer hara of his father David the king, a man of the sword, a man who had many women.
But I beg on HaShem that Yeshua is alive. There was never a son like my Yeshua.
Please, HaShem, bring back my son or I die.
Yeshua of Nazareth
‘Shalom, stranger, you look tired.’
‘Yes, I am very tired.’
‘Who are you, and why do you travel alone?’
‘My name is called Yeshua, and I am not alone. HaShem walks with me.’
‘HaShem walks with you! Are you a prophet?’
‘No, but do you not feel the Shekinah all around?’
‘Only a prophet feels the Shekinah. Have you heard of that man of HaShem, that Yohanan the immerser? That man is a mighty prophet!’
‘Yes, I met him many days ago.’
‘Did you immerse with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he taught you to feel the Shekinah?’
‘No, I asked him to tell a word from HaShem.’
‘You ask much! Why would you ask a word from HaShem?’
‘I wished to know who is my blood father.’
‘You do not know your blood father?’
‘My mother never told me.’
‘Is she a zonah?’
‘She is not a zonah and was never a zonah.’
‘Then who is your father?’
‘I … my mother told me I am a son of Adam.’
‘All men are sons of Adam.’
‘And I am a son of David.’
‘David had many sons, and they had many sons. Every man of Israel could be a son of David, yes?’
‘There is one coming who is the true son of David, who will redeem Israel.’
‘An idle tale! HaShem has deserted us.’
‘HaShem will never desert us.’
‘HaShem loved David, but he does not love us.’
‘HaShem loves us like his own son.’
‘When there were kings, HaShem loved the king and called the king his son. But that was many hundred years ago, and now we have no king. HaShem hates us.’
‘There is a man HaShem calls his son.’
‘You believe one is coming—’
‘There is one now that HaShem calls his son.’
‘A new king of Israel?’
‘You say so.’
‘I do not say such a big foolishness. Where is he?’
‘Here with us now.’
‘In this place?’
‘You say so.’
‘You?’
‘You say so.’
‘Fool, I do not say so! You say you are the king of Israel? You say you are the son of HaShem?’
‘HaShem says so.’
‘You? You have no king-look about you. You are shriveled as a desert carrion.’
‘I should be shriveled. I spent many days in the desert.’
‘Doing what in the desert?’
‘Listening for the voice of HaShem.’
‘Ha, you are a liar. You said you are not a prophet.’
‘I am not a prophet, but I will be. I am learning the voice of HaShem.’
‘But not eating at the table of HaShem, by the look of you. You are bony as a starving dog that steals from the village scrap heap!’
‘I made a vow to do nothing unless HaShem tells me.’
‘And HaShem told you not to eat?’
‘No. But HaShem did not tell me to eat, so I did not eat.’
‘You speak like one who walks beside himself. You look as you have not eaten in a week.’
‘I have not eaten in many days.’
‘How many days?’
‘Forty.’ My stomach stabs at me. I am more hungry than I ever was. If only HaShem would tell me to eat, I would fall on the ground and gnaw the dead grass in the cracks between the rocks. I do not think I can walk all the way to Jerusalem.
‘And you call yourself king?’
My stomach tightens in a big agony. ‘You say so.’
‘I do not say so, fool! If you are a prophet, do the works of a prophet. Our prophet Moses made bread in the desert. If you are a prophet, make bread in the desert.’
I can smell the scent of bread baking when Shimon the baker makes rounds. It pierces my nose. I want that bread more than I ever wanted anything. ‘If HaShem tells me to make bread in the desert, I will make bread in the desert. Otherwise, no.’
‘When our father David the king was hungry, he took bread from the tabernacle and ate. If you are the true son of David the king, take bread from wherever you find it and eat.’
My head feels dizzy. I squat in the dust and think of home. If I were home, Imma would break off bread and dip it in a thick stew of lentils and chickpeas and onions and garlic. She would pour me a cup of good wine. She would feed me raisins and figs with her own hands.
‘HaShem does not care if you take bread or no, you mad dog, you! HaShem is the King of the Universe, the king of kings of kings. He is not concerned on whether you take bread.’
My legs fail me. I fall on my side, clutching my belly. My whole body is hollow and cold. ‘HaShem is … concerned with all that I do, for he is my father and I am his son.’
‘If you are the son of HaShem, then do the works of HaShem! If you are the son of HaShem, then speak to these stones and make bread of them and eat!’
I fumble for my waterskin and drink. It is the last of the water, warm and dusty and acrid. It makes me retch. I am too weak to retch.
‘HaShem would not make you go hungry. Who called you the son of HaShem? Whoever said so is a liar!’
Fire floods my veins. HaShem called me his son. HaShem is no liar. All that HaShem does is good. ‘In the
book of the law, which Moses our prophet wrote, HaShem says this: “You must remember all the way that the Lord your God has led you these forty years in the desert so as to train you and test you, so as to know what is in your heart, whether you will obey his commands or no. HaShem trained you and made you hungry and then fed you the manna which you never knew, and which your fathers never knew, so as to teach you that bread is not what makes a son of Adam live, but it is the word of HaShem that makes a son of Adam live.”’
‘So you will starve and die, if HaShem does not command you to eat?’
I can say no more.
‘You are more foolish than any man.’
Perhaps I am foolish, but I will learn the voice of HaShem.
‘You are not Mashiach. You are not the king of Israel. You are not the son of HaShem.’
‘Leave me, you … Accuser. I know what HaShem called me. I know he spoke true.’
The Accuser laughs and then it is gone.
The sun burns hot and the wind shrieks in the rocks above me.
Without the voice of the Accuser in my ear, I feel a little stronger. I push myself up. Slowly, slowly, I stand. HaShem told me to go to Jerusalem. Therefore, I am strong enough to go to Jerusalem. I take the first step. I take the next.
On the wind, I hear the voice of the Accuser.
A cry of rage.
The Accuser will be back.
Next time, it will be stronger.
Next time, I will be stronger too.
Chapter Six
Shimon of Capernaum
The boys of Jerusalem are eager to see the crucifixion.
That is a wrong thing, when boys are eager to watch a man die.
I came to watch, but not because I am eager. I came because I am wronged, and the man who wronged me is to die. I came so HaShem can make a justice on me. Torah says I must be avenged, so I came to be avenged. That is not being eager.
The evil man stumbles out of the city gate with a crossbar on his back. The governor’s soldiers tied it to him with ropes. That is another wrong thing, that I will get a justice from soldiers of Rome. I wanted a justice from HaShem, not from the Great Satan.
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