The question surprised the little groats maker, for no one had the authority to review his movements. Patiently he explained, “In Tverya there are discussions which require my attention.”
“In Makor there are rebellions which also require your attention.”
“But my major responsibility …”
“Is here!” Father Eusebius said quietly. With persuasion he added, “Rabbi Asher, in this town we are close to tragedy. Two nights ago I received news from Capernaum. Riots have occurred, and believe me, they were put down with great severity. When your Jews burned the tax collector’s office I could have duplicated that severity, but I acted with restraint.”
“I know.”
“But your Jews must accept the fact that from now on this is a Christian empire. Our religion is to prevail. Do you know that if I desired, I could knock down your synagogue tomorrow? I left Constantinople vested with that power.” He changed his voice and said with real love, “But the Holy Land contains many Jews and I insist upon living in harmony with them.”
“I’ve seen to it there will be no more trouble, and now I must go to Tverya.”
“Rabbi!” the Spaniard said with quiet, terrible anxiety. “You don’t seem to understand. Last night there was an uprising in Tiberias. Six people were killed. The Germans are marching south from Antioch right now. We are in most serious trouble, and I must command you to remain here.”
The little man nodded, acknowledged the advice without further comment, paid his respects to the Christian priest, and decided that if there had indeed been trouble in Tverya it was his duty to hurry there; but when he tried to leave town soldiers halted him. “Father Eusebius forbids you to go,” they said, taking the mule from him. And in this way Rabbi Asher discovered that the government of Palestine, both civil and religious, was now in the hands of the self-controlled Spaniard. That night a group of young Jews, heartened by news of rebellions in Kefar Nahum and Tverya, and deceived by Eusebius’ apparent impotence in the face of their last burning, set fire to a shed in which fodder was stored, and there was night fighting and a Byzantine soldier was killed; but Father Eusebius, still hoping to avoid war, maintained control over his troops.
It was during these suspenseful days that the stonecutters John and Mark adjusted to their new lives as Christians. The father reacted in a way that might have been foreseen: he nestled within the arms of his new religion as if he were a tired old animal who sensed the ending of his days and wanted only warmth and security. When Father Eusebius came to inspect the site of the basilica John followed him with affection; he worked harder than ever, went regularly to the humble little Syrian church to mass, and visualized many ways in which to beautify the basilica when its walls were up. He discovered that an unexpected change had come over his life, and it had little to do with religion; while working on the synagogue his attempts to beautify it were always made against the grain of the Jewish religion and the wishes of Rabbi Asher, whereas among the leaders of the Christian church he found a desire to express holy ideas in art which seemed an inherent part of their religion. Now, when John suggested to Father Eusebius some additional device that would enhance the grace of the basilica, the Spaniard’s eyes would glow and no matter what the cost he would encourage his convert to proceed. “The money we’ll find somehow,” he promised, and John experienced what he had not known before: men who loved beauty as an enhancement of life.
But if John found snug refuge in the church, Mark did not: in a series of confusing revelations he was learning that his new religion involved a good deal more than the easy conversion which he had been offered, for although the Christians presented a solid front against Jews and pagans, among themselves they were sorely divided, for they could not agree upon the nature of their religion and their divisions cut deep; those who believed one way were prepared to slay those who believed another. The brotherhood of all Christians which Father Eusebius preached was certainly not operating in Makor.
Workmen who came from Egypt explained that Jesus Christ was at the same time a man and a deity, “and therefore the Virgin Mary was the Mother of God.” But workmen who came from Constantinople argued that Jesus was born a man but lived such an exemplary life that He became a god, “and so you can see that the Virgin Mary was the mother of a great man, but certainly never the Mother of God.” Mark, listening to these arguments about the nature of Jesus, thought: My new Christians fighting over whether Mary was the mother of Christ or the Mother of God sound just like my old rabbis fighting over whether throwing out dishwater was cooking or plowing.
Then one evening as Mark sat with soldiers discussing the burning of the tool shed, a workman from Egypt said casually, “I hear that a ship has landed in Ptolemais, bringing us a statue of Mary, the Mother of God.”
A soldier from Constantinople corrected him: “Mary, the mother of Christ.”
The Egyptian, whose ancestors had long worshiped the goddess Isis and whose love was now transferred to Mary, repeated without raising his voice, “I said Mary, the Mother of God.” In a flash the man from Constantinople threw his spear at the dissentient and riot was avoided only because the point passed the Egyptian’s head and broke itself against a stone wall. Mark sat appalled as men leaped into battle positions, then retreated when Father Eusebius, hearing the clatter, walked into the area. Quickly he saw the broken spear, the flushed faces, and with aristocratic skill eased the situation, pretending not to know what had caused the animosity.
Nor did Mark understand. He knew only that the rupture separating Egyptian from Byzantine was apparently irreconcilable, and as the days passed he learned how abiding the hatred was. One night the men of Constantinople came to him, whispering, “You must believe that Jesus Christ was an ordinary man … a Jew like you.”
“I’m a Christian,” Mark said.
“But you’re still a Jew. And Jesus Christ, who was a man just like you, died on the cross to save you. Now unless He was a real man, the whole meaning of His crucifixion by you Jews is lost.”
“Did the Jews kill Christ?” Mark whispered.
“Of course. Christ the man. And because He offered Himself as the supreme sacrifice two things happened. We were saved and He ascended to Godhood.” This Mark could understand, for it made Christ a later copy of the Prophet Elijah, who had also ascended bodily to heaven and who often interceded for the good of men. It was this redemptive quality of Christ that appealed to Mark, for only Christ had rescued him, and when he fully grasped the doctrine he discussed it with Father Eusebius, asking, “Am I right in believing that Christ was first a man and later a god?” and the Spaniard smiled until the lines in his cheeks deepened into warm shadows, and with compassion he said, “My son, these are difficult matters which do not concern ordinary men.”
“But what do you believe?”
Father Eusebius was about to dismiss the complex matter when he saw that Mark was indeed concerned, and in a decision that would have lasting significance in the life of the young convert, he started their discussion of Christian dogma: “The Egyptians and the Byzantines are both wrong.”
“Then what must I believe?”
“Always accept what the holy church has decided,” Father Eusebius said. “The decisions are sometimes difficult to comprehend, but they are always right.” And he sat for a long time unraveling the mystery of the Trinity and explaining how Christ had had two complete natures, appearing on earth as a complete human being while having existed always as a deity coequal with God.
But a few nights later the workmen from Egypt took Mark aside and whispered, “You’re new to our religion, so don’t get started wrong. You’re a simple, honest man and reason tells you that Christ couldn’t have had two natures at the same time. He had only one, a mixture of human and divine. He was never divided nor can He be. And since He was born divine, Mary has got to be considered the Mother of God.”
“I can’t follow you,” Mark said.
“Christ was perpetually of one nature, a
man like you and a god like God,” the Egyptians argued, but when they parted, Mark was more perplexed than ever.
Next day he had proof of how serious the debate was, for the Byzantine who had thrown his spear at the Egyptian was not content with having escaped being a murderer. As the gangs were working at the destruction of Jewish homes this loud-mouthed theologian observed to no one in particular, “I wish the Egyptians who argue that Christ was born a deity would explain just one thing. Do they enjoy the image of God sucking on a human breast?”
He had barely uttered this blasphemy when an Egyptian struck him with a rock. He fell, and before Father Eusebius could halt the riot other defenders of Mary hurled additional rocks, so that when the Spaniard did get to the fallen man the Byzantine was already dead and the triumphant Egyptians were chanting, “Mary, the Mother of God! Mary, the Mother of God!”
Father Eusebius suspended work for two days while he tried to end the theological warfare, and during this truce Mark had an opportunity to watch how each side refused to consider the arguments of the other and he caught a foretaste of the bitterness that would in time split his new church. Even when grudging peace was established, with both parties promising Father Eusebius to brawl no more, adherents of each persuasion continued to visit Mark, whispering, “Be one of us. You know that Christ must be as we say.” It was his Jewish monotheism that determined his choice, for in the end he cast his lot with the men of Constantinople, for in spite of Father Eusebius’ logic he found it impossible to believe that Jesus Christ had been an ordinary man and at the same time the coequal of God.
While Mark thus took his first plunge into those theological speculations on which he would spend the greater part of his life, his father devoted his evenings to the problem which more than any other accounted for his conversion to Christianity, and one night after work he washed carefully, put on his best clothes, pared his fingernails and combed his graying hair. As he left his quarters on a mission which frightened him he was much different from the man who, a quarter of a century before, had fought with Rabbi Asher. He was still a round-shouldered, apelike man, more powerful than most, but the aggressiveness which had marked him then was gone. The defeats of life had chastened him and he no longer thought that he could force decisions; furthermore, the placid creative work in which he had been engaged at the synagogue had left its mark, for as he walked through the cool evening his face showed a kind of rocklike beauty, the rugged, scarred dignity of a quarry when the overlying earth has been scraped away and the stones laid bare. Perspiring like a nervous schoolboy he went to the home of the wine merchant whose shop faced the old church. There he sat uncomfortably as the Greek poured him a welcoming glass, and after he had gulped it down, said, “Gregorio, I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s hand. For my son Mark.” Before the Greek could interrupt he added quickly, “He’s got a good job. I have a bag of drachmas. I’ll build him a home. He’s a fine boy, Gregorio.”
The answer came straight and simple: “I’d never let Maria marry a Jew.”
“But now he’s a Christian.”
“Yes, a Jewish Christian.” And there the discussion ended.
The words hurt John more than he could have explained, but he did not bluster. Nor did he threaten to solve things in his own way, but like a dumb beast went home, laid aside his good clothes and stared at the wall. On succeeding nights he washed, fixed his nails and combed his hair, approaching three different Christian homes with marriageable daughters. In each he was received honorably, offered wine, extended the pleasantries common in a small town like Makor, and then rebuffed as a Jew.
After the fourth such humiliation he returned to his room and folded away his good clothes. Once he said to himself in a stumbling unreal voice, “I think I’ll take the boy to Antioch. They’re always building there. It’ll be easy to find him a job and a wife …” He stopped and buried his face in his hands, like an animal that has been wounded from an unknown quarter, and he knew then that he would never be free to leave Makor, since he was now as firmly bound to the basilica as he had been to the synagogue, for when a man builds a place of worship he walls himself inside.
Mark heard rumors of his father’s expeditions but he ignored them, for in the barracks he had entered upon another area of argument among Christians, less critical perhaps than the first but of greater ultimate importance to him. In these early years, when Christianity was fighting the outside world to protect its physical existence and its own membership in an effort to achieve a permanent theology, a group of ultra-dedicated men took their guidance from St. Paul, who had preached both poverty and the principle that truly religious men ought to live without women. These devout followers, first by the hundreds and later by the thousands, took vows both of poverty and of chastity, and some, like the great Origen of Caesarea, to whom the Christian world would owe much of its Bible, went so far as to base their lives upon what they thought to be the teaching of Jesus regarding castration: “For there are some eunuchs, which were so born from their mother’s womb: and there are some eunuchs, which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it.” Citing these words of Christ, the great Christian had castrated himself.
“No man can give greater proof of religious faith than that,” an old Byzantine sergeant argued, and one day the grizzled veteran disappeared. He had gone into the Syrian desert, where he joined one of the small monasteries which were then beginning to flourish throughout the east, and it was rumored in Makor that before vanishing he had followed the example of Origen. The workmen spoke of his act with hushed respect, and before long a hawk-faced Egyptian disappeared too.
Mark was surprised when Father Eusebius spoke out sharply against monasticism. Following the general opinion in Constantinople the intellectual Spaniard, who respected art and the comforts of moderate living, preached, “Within the monasteries men obey laws which help them to lead lives of contemplation, and this God probably loves. But other men of equal piety live in the noise of the world, building, rearing children and helping to govern the earth, and this God certainly loves.”
This problem of monasticism fascinated Mark and one evening, when the tensions in Makor were at their greatest and when Father Eusebius awaited momentary notice of the Germans’ arrival in Ptolemais, the young artist sought out his priest and in the austere white-walled room asked him what had motivated men like Origen and the old Byzantine sergeant to castrate themselves in honor of Jesus Christ. “As human beings they were misled,” Eusebius said frankly, “but as devout men trying to subject themselves to God’s law …”
“His law?”
“Yes. All religions must create a law and sensible men must live within that law. It is the glory of Christianity that the law was made simple by Christ our master, who took upon Himself its major burdens.”
“But God’s law remains?” Mark asked.
“Of course,” the Spaniard said. “Origen and the sergeant were wrong in their interpretation of the law, but they were correct in seeking to place themselves within that law.”
“Is there a law that priests like you may not marry?”
“Yes. The law of St. Paul. But for ordinary Christians, like you, marriage is a boon. Even a crown.” The tall Spaniard lowered his chin upon his thumbs and smiled. “My father had eleven children and he was closer to Christ than I will ever be. We lived in Avaro …” He reminisced for some time concerning that lovely town in central Spain and it was his opinion that both the olive oil and the wine of Avaro were superior to Palestine’s. His reflections were broken by the arrival of a messenger from Ptolemais, and when Eusebius read that the Germans had arrived from Antioch and would march eastward in two days, he knew that the time for sentimental recollections of Spain had passed. Directing the messenger to available food, he bade Mark an abrupt good night. “Marry a Christian girl and have eleven children. That’s the pathway to heaven.” An
d he disappeared to consult with the captain of the local garrison.
Thus in his first weeks as a Christian, Mark found himself engaged in various controversies which would torment his church for centuries; and even though he was confused by the contradictions he was nevertheless able to see the true nature of this church: a vital, stormy meeting place for contrasting cultures and conflicting beliefs, in which an Egyptian could spontaneously crush the head of a Byzantine who mocked the Mother of God, and in which through the centuries one heresy after another would have to be suppressed and schisms healed, but in which Greeks, Romans, Persians and former Jews would be free to battle for an acceptable theology. Mark saw that the struggle to establish the essentials of faith for Christianity was going to prove as difficult as it had been for Judaism; but when the law was finally agreed upon, the church would possess a miracle of wisdom whose structure no one, certainly neither the Rabbi Jesus nor the Apostle Paul, could have foreseen. The difference between Christian law and Jewish would be this: to enforce their law the Jews, who would never be in supreme political control, would be limited to public opinion including such punishments as ostracism, as great minds like Baruch Spinoza would discover; but the Christians, to enforce theirs, would be free, since they would enjoy supreme power, to use strangulation, burning and the extirpation of entire provinces. But the basic problem would remain the same, and it would be in the unraveling of this Christian law that Mark, the son of an illiterate stonecutter, would eventually gain a kind of immortality.
But in the moments when he was first probing these matters other young Jews his age in Kefar Nahum, Tverya and Makor were deciding that the moment had come to throw off the Byzantine yoke, so one night rebellion of a most serious magnitude erupted in all three communities. It was past midnight when Mark was awakened by Abraham, Jael’s husband, who took him to a secret meeting where Jael was speaking. When she saw Mark enter she hesitated, then said to him above the heads of the crowd, “Menahem, will you join us on the eve of victory?”
The Source Page 71
