Son of Mary

by R. S. Ingermanson

  Today there will be a big fight.

  I will fight the village.

  Shimon the Rock will fight the village.

  All our men will fight the village.

  Yeshua has lived all his life without ever once making a fight.

  But today he will fight the village.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Yeshua of Nazareth

  ‘What do you think you are doing, to come in the synagogue? All the village hates you.’

  ‘They love HaShem.’

  ‘They broke Shabbat to plaster your house. You are mamzer to them.’

  ‘I am not mamzer in the eyes of HaShem.’

  ‘Do you not wonder why they let you come in the synagogue? You have walked in a trap, fool.’

  ‘HaShem said to come in the synagogue, so I came in.’

  ‘You were a fool to have stayed away from the village so many months. That is why the village hates you.’

  ‘I came when HaShem gave the word.’

  ‘You were a fool to bring the tax-farmer to the village.’

  ‘He is no tax-farmer, he is my friend.’

  ‘You were a fool yesterday not to heal the boy at a touch.’

  ‘I healed him the way HaShem told to heal him.’

  ‘What do you mean, you healed him? See, he is blind still. And the leather-man still has the spirit of death, more than he did yesterday. If he dies here in this place, they will say you put a curse on him.’

  ‘HaShem said he would heal the boy and the leather-man both.’

  ‘That is a lie, for see they are not healed. You are a liar or deceived or a fool. No wonder the village is angry on you. You should run away fast.’

  ‘I will not run. I will confront the village.’

  ‘Confront? After thirty years, at last you will stand and fight? You will be killed.’

  ‘I did not say I will fight. I will confront.’

  ‘You should call down fire from heaven.’

  ‘I will confront.’

  ‘The prophet said you must destroy the first Power or be killed.’

  ‘The village is not the first Power. The village is slaved by the first Power.’

  ‘It is a gift of HaShem that Thin Shimon found the Ring of Justice for such a time as this. Use it for a Power of HaShem to defeat the first Power, and blessed be HaShem!’

  ‘The Ring of Justice is not a Power.’

  ‘The village thinks it is a Power. If they think it is a Power, you can use it to defeat them, even if it is not a Power.’

  ‘It is a lie to say a thing made with hands is a Power.’

  ‘It is no sin to use a lie to save your life.’

  ‘If I use a lie to defeat the first Power, then I will be the one slaved by the first Power.’

  ‘You will be killed unless you use it, fool.’

  ‘HaShem says you must be silent.’

  Silence.

  The synagogue is full today, and hope makes my heart tremble. Fear presses in on me also, for I have a deep thing to say to Nazareth. I have longed all summer to come home. Now the time is ripe. If they will listen to my words ever and repent, it is today. But their hearts are fenced in by their long cruelty. If they will not tear down this fence, there will be no room to receive the words of the kingdom, which are life.

  We have finished the prayers. We have finished the Torah. The time of Nazareth’s judgment or her redemption is now. My brothers sit here with me. My men sit here with me. The men of Nazareth sit here, but they are not with me.

  Abba, I beg that my village will repent and make a righteous justice and enter the kingdom of HaShem.

  Old Yonatan the leather-man stands and points to me. “Yeshua, son of Miryam, they say big things on you in other villages. Let us see if those big things are smoke. You will expound from the prophets.”

  I rise and go to the bema in the center.

  Our synagogue is small and reeks of sweat and rage. On all sides are three rows of stone benches rising up in steps. The men on the first row are near enough to spit my eye.

  When I was a boy, I felt warm and safe to have a small synagogue where all the village sat packed close together. Now I do not feel warm and safe.

  My heart thumps in my chest, and I smell the stink of my own fear.

  I could take three big leaps and reach the door and run away fast. Except HaShem did not tell me to run away fast.

  HaShem told me to confront. HaShem told me to speak truth. HaShem told me to smite the first Power that slaves my village.

  The scroll of Isaiah lies on the table. I know the portion I should read today, and I pray it is life for my village. Life or death, they must choose. Please, Abba, may they choose life.

  All the village scowls on me with dark faces.

  I look to my brothers.

  Little Yaakov and Yosi and Thin Shimon and Yehuda Dreamhead scowl on the village with dark faces.

  Uncle Halfai and his son, Fat Shimon, scowl with dark faces.

  Shimon the Rock and Andre and Big Yaakov sit together with dark faces.

  Mattai huddles alone with fear in his eyes.

  Toma the boat maker and Natanel the hireling look as they think we should run away fast.

  Yoni grins on me and takes the hand of Philip.

  Philip sits up tall and gives me a strong smile.

  I remember the tale of his sister Rivka, how Philip took a beating from his father, and took more and more and more until he wore his father down.

  I feel a big courage well up in me. Philip is a quiet man and says little, but today I feel his strength. Kindness is stronger than rage.

  I find my place in the scroll of Isaiah.

  All the synagogue falls silent.

  I read with my strongest voice the Hebrew words, translating to Aramaic as I go.

  “The Spirit of the Lord,

  The Spirit of Yah

  Is upon me.

  For Yah has anointed me

  To tell good news,

  To tell good news to the meek.

  For Yah has sent me

  To bind up wounds,

  To heal the brokenhearted,

  To cry freedom to the captives,

  To open the eyes of the blind,

  To shout the Year of Favor

  Of the Lord Yah.”

  I stop at a place that is no stopping place.

  I look up.

  The men of the village sit with backs straight and mouths open, waiting for the next, for all know this saying of Isaiah. They wish to hear me say today is the Day of Vengeance of HaShem.

  I will not say it.

  I close the scroll.

  I sit in the Seat of Moses to expound.

  The silence feels thick and heavy all around.

  I say, “Today, this word from HaShem is fulfilled in your sight. The kingdom of HaShem has begun here today, as it has begun already through all Galilee.”

  I hear the voice of murmuring at the edge of hearing.

  “Who is he, if not the tekton we know?”

  “Who is he, if not the son of Miryam Spreadlegs?”

  “Those are his brothers, Little Yaakov and Yosi and Thin Shimon and Yehuda Dreamhead, day laborers without land.”

  “He says he heals people in other villages, but he cannot heal one man here.”

  “He makes a friend on a tax-farmer, but we will never be a friend on a friend of a tax-farmer.”

  “He looks for a big honor in other villages, but we turned our back on his father’s claim and called him mamzer, and see how weak he is, he can do nothing.”

  “We gave him a chance to expound the prophets, and he even twists the words of the prophet.”

  My brothers and my men fidget. Little Yaakov’s face is hard with rage. Yoni looks ready to tell them all fools. Shimon the Rock fingers his cloth belt where he usually carries a fish knife—only not on Shabbat. Thin Shimon grins on me and taps his nose.

  Philip gives me a strong face.

  I must try again. “You
think in your hearts that Rabbi Yeshua heals the blind in Capernaum, but he cannot heal the blind in Nazareth, which is his own home. You think the physician cannot heal himself, and therefore he is no physician.”

  Shimon the baker sits with straight back and arms crossed on his chest. His hard face tells that I made a scandal, to say I give sight to the blind, when here is his grandson beside him still blind in one eye.

  It is a scandal, but it is not my scandal. If the boy lived in Capernaum, he would be seeing today. For a moment, I cannot breathe for the injustice of it. The boy would see today, if Shimon the baker trusted HaShem to obey.

  My whole body is wet with sweat. Today is the appointed day for release from oppression. But there is no release without repentance. Nazareth will repent today, or it will never repent. “My brothers, I have a matter to discuss with you.”

  All the men lean forward to hear.

  The air crackles like before a lightning.

  I feel the cold breath of the Accuser on my neck.

  I refuse the Accuser.

  Today, I accuse the Accuser.

  Today, I confront my village. Please, Abba, soften their thick hearts.

  “With the same measure that you measure others, HaShem will measure you. If you put a smirch on an innocent child, HaShem will put a smirch on you. If you accuse a spotless woman for a zonah, HaShem will accuse you for a zonah. If you smear dishonor on the house of a prophet, HaShem will smear dishonor on your house.”

  I wait, and I hear the Accuser shrieking. I refuse to listen. Please, my brothers, repent and measure out mercy. Turn to HaShem and measure out kindness. Enter the kingdom and measure out trust.

  Shimon the baker’s face is hard and cold. He looks on his grandson, and anger lights up in his eyes. The Accuser clutches at him, searching for a hold.

  My heart burns at the Accuser, for I love Shimon the baker as I love Shimon the Rock. I love Shimon the baker as I love Little Yaakov. I love Shimon the baker as I love Imma.

  Shimon the baker stands and takes his grandson’s hand and walks out.

  His footsteps are a slap across my face.

  The men of Nazareth watch him, and their faces are stone.

  I must be more blunt, for they resist gentle words. “Many poor widows in Israel could have fed Elijah the prophet, but they did not, and they were not saved from the famine. Only a widow of Zarephath fed him, and she was saved.”

  The room grows hot with the lies of the Accuser.

  I must outshout the Accuser with truth. There is no harder word than to call a Jew a leper. This word will break their pride, or it will break their honor. I pray it will break their pride.

  “There were many lepers in Israel who could have come to Elisha the prophet, but only a Syrian came to him and was saved. Please, my brothers, turn to HaShem and trust in his prophet and be saved, or else you will die in your leprosy.”

  Yoseph the leather-man stands up slow. His face is red and he looks shaky on his feet. He points an angry finger at me. “You are a mamzer and a liar and a false prophet!”

  Old Yonatan stands up fast and shakes his fist at me. “You lead Israel astray, you son of a spreadlegs!”

  Others stand, a dozen of them, two dozens, three dozens, all the village.

  “False prophet!”

  “Leper!”

  “Samaritan!”

  My heart seizes, and I want to weep, for I have lost these men of my village, my brothers.

  I think I have lost them all.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Shimon of Capernaum

  I am sitting on the third row beside Little Yaakov. A big storm rages in my heart.

  ‘He should have read more from the scroll of Isaiah. He stopped before the Day of Vengeance.’

  ‘Rabbi Yeshua had his reasons.’

  ‘What were his reasons?’

  ‘How should I know? I will ask him, or Yoni will.’

  ‘Rabbi Yeshua does not know what he is doing.’

  ‘He knows. I think he knows.’

  ‘Rabbi Yeshua is a fool.’

  I am sick in my soul. Things have gone ill since we came to Nazareth. Little Yaakov looked afraid when we came in the village gate yesterday. Rabbi Yeshua’s mother melted into a weeping puddle last night during the tale of Father Noah. Some in the village broke Shabbat last night to come and plaster his house. The villagers this morning had darkness around their eyes when we came in the synagogue. And now—

  Men stand all around the synagogue.

  I am so shocked I cannot think.

  “False prophet!”

  “Leper!”

  “Samaritan!”

  The men of the village leap to attack.

  I leap to defend, only I am in the third row.

  I push past Toma Trouble and Natanel the hireling.

  I push past Philip and the tax farmer.

  I fly to defend Rabbi Yeshua.

  I should have sat on the first row. Already, many men surround Rabbi Yeshua.

  I am outside the circle.

  Rabbi Yeshua is inside.

  The men shout their rage on Rabbi Yeshua. They slap his face with the backhand of dishonor.

  I drive my fist into the lower back of some man in front of me.

  He screams in a big agony.

  I know he will be pissing blood tomorrow.

  I hear Yoni shouting something.

  My heart beats triple time. I seize the tunic of the villager before me and pull with my biggest strength.

  His tunic rips in my hands.

  Two strong men take vise holds on my arms.

  I twist like a bull in the battle.

  One strong man takes grip on the back of my tunic.

  I lunge forward, or try to.

  All three pull me back.

  I kick with my biggest kick.

  I shout with my biggest shout.

  A fourth man with an iron fist punches me hard in the belly.

  All my breath is stolen away.

  He hits me in the face, twice as hard.

  I feel as the sun has dimmed.

  He kicks me in the underparts.

  I scream like a woman.

  He kicks me again.

  I never felt such a big agony.

  He kicks me a third time.

  I cannot see or hear or think. All I know is the big agony in my underparts.

  The three men drop me to the floor.

  I clutch on my underparts and wish I will die.

  All my mind is in a big rage. They caught me unawares, three of them. Then a fourth hit me. They overnumbered me, that is how they beat me.

  All around me is shouting. The smell of sweat fills my nose. Blood clogs my throat.

  My own weight crushes me against the floor. I hear the sounds of a mighty battle all around, but I am weak and blind as a lamb. My pride stings me like a hornet, that I am beaten before I broke any man’s teeth. Only because they overnumbered me.

  “Stone him!”

  My heart seizes in my chest. I cannot see for the sweat in my eyes. I cannot think for the pain in my underparts.

  “To the precipice!”

  All the men shout louder than I ever heard. They push Rabbi Yeshua toward the door.

  I do not hear our men fighting.

  They all must have been caught unawares.

  I hear the men of the village leave.

  All my hope runs away like smoke.

  They will take him to some precipice somewhere.

  They will push him off onto the rocks below.

  They will throw big stones on him until he is dead.

  Unless our men fight to defend.

  Only I do not know where our men have gone.

  I do not know if they will fight to defend.

  So I must fight to defend, whether I have hope or no hope.

  My underparts are still in a big agony.

  I feel as I am crushed under a mighty weight.

  I put both my hands on the floor.

&n
bsp; I push on the floor with all my strength.

  Slowly, slowly, I rise to my hands and knees.

  The synagogue is empty. There is a big noise outside, but fifty paces away.

  Slowly, slowly, I crawl to the nearest stone bench.

  Slowly, slowly, I push myself to stand on two feet.

  I am bent over in a mighty agony, hunched like a man of a hundred years.

  Yoni screams somewhere outside. “Shimon the Rock!”

  I hobble toward the door. Every step is a knife in my underparts. All the world is a blur. I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my tunic. I lean against the doorpost and look out.

  Yoni runs toward me. “Shimon the Rock, you must find your fish knife! Our men are scattered. Even Little Yaakov ran away.”

  I will show myself better than Little Yaakov. I throw my left arm over Yoni’s shoulder. “Help me walk.”

  We stagger like drunkards through the village square.

  I still hear the noise of the villagers, very far ahead, dying in the distance.

  Andre comes out from behind a house and joins us.

  I throw my right arm over his shoulder, and we go faster.

  Big Yaakov joins us and pushes Yoni aside to support me. We go faster.

  Philip and Natanel the hireling and Toma Trouble appear. Then the tax-farmer.

  “Where are Rabbi Yeshua’s brothers?” I ask.

  The tax-farmer points toward Rabbi Yeshua’s house. “See them carrying his youngest brother slow? His leg was broken.”

  “Which way did the villagers take Rabbi Yeshua?”

  Yoni points straight ahead of us, far south. “They were shouting about the precipice. The place I found Rabbi Yeshua and Little Yaakov yesterday.”

  “How far is this precipice?”

  “More than a mile. Can you run, Shimon?”

  I cannot run. Every step feels like a hammer smashing on my underparts.

  I listen for the shouts of the village.

  They have died away to silence.

  I run.

  Yaakov of Nazareth

  Yosi and I carry Yehuda Dreamhead slow down our street. I am in a fever to run, but I know every step is a big agony on him.

  Thin Shimon limps behind us, grunting for his pain.

  Uncle Halfai shouts, “We must stay calm!”