by Mary Quijano
************
We are supposed to go to Jerusalem for Passover, and I am hoping I can mend fences with John when I see him again, as he has been a bit distant from me ever since I took him into that other place that frightened him so. He barely spoke to me during the journey back to Jerusalem for Sukkot, nor during the week long ceremonies at his parents' house, keeping to himself and often lost in thought.
He seems almost a little afraid of me now, and I don't want him to be. I love him and my heart hurts that he would fear me for simply trying to show him the truth.
But tonight at dinner, when I bring up the subject of Passover, I am in for a disappointment.
"I'm sorry, Yeshua, but your father and I have something to tell you, something that affects our plans." She looks over at my father for help, but he spoons another portion of stew into his mouth and waves at her to continue. She shakes her head, an almost imperceptible eye-roll, and turns her gaze back to me.
"Yeshua, I am with child again, so we will not be able to make any pilgrimages this year," she says.
"How did that happen?" I say, but then immediately I know, and we all blush as father chokes on his stew.
"What means with child?" asks little James, now three and a half years old.
"You're going to have a little brother or sister to play with," I tell him, ruffling his shaggy head of dark brown hair.
"I want a puppy," he says, and we all laugh.
I'm a little disappointed about not getting to see John this year, but at the same time I'm excited and happy that there will be a new baby in the house, even if it looks like a hairy worm at first.
But father has yet another surprise for me.
"Yeshua, you are nearly ten now."
"Not for another lunar cycle," I say
"And once you are ten," he continues as if I hadn't interrupted; "I want you to begin your formal education."
"Again?" I cry.
"Again?" Mother echoes. "But Joseph...."
My father raises his hand with a stern look that stills us both, protests swallowed.
"I have a good and trusted friend, a very kind as well as learned man, who has asked for the opportunity to teach you the letters and the Torah if you will but allow him to try," Father says.
I look at father, then over at mother, and nod. "I will go to your friend the teacher, and I promise to do him no harm no matter what happens. But I am not sure what he can teach me that I do not already know in my heart."
The Student
On the first day of the new week following my tenth birthday, father takes me to the cottage that serves as a schoolhouse for some of the village children. There are three boys around my own age already there, with the teacher Avichai - a young rabbi in his twenties - standing before a pulpit at the front of the room. He is in the middle of a lesson.
As I enter, all noise stops with an audible intake of collective breath.
My father nods at Avichai, and he nods back in that kind of silent communication grown men employ when words would only make things more difficult. I spare one glance at my father and then - instead of taking my seat at one of the empty desks - I walk up to the pulpit and look at the book that lies open there: It is the Torah, open to Genesis. Without thinking, I begin to read aloud, and as I do the words that come from my mouth are not exactly the same as those on the page.
In the beginning of this new creation, God awakens and has the thought: "I am," and then: "I am alone." This aloneness is not good, so He says: "I need another," and therein separates Himself into two parts, which He calls Heaven and Earth. The Greater part of the Father, who knows all and determines all and creates all through His thought and will, remains in the part called Heaven. This is who we call "Our Heavenly Father." The lesser part, which is called Earth, is that in which will be manifest all the illusions of the material world created by God's divine thought. Next He separates that lesser part into two halves, called Holy Spirit and Humankind. The Holy Spirit He calls the light, for in it remains all knowledge of God and of its own spiritual identity, as well as a complete and perfect understanding of the illusory nature of the material world. The darkness He calls Hu-man, or Intelligence of the Earth, because Man must be separated from the light of spiritual knowledge in order for there to be a game as God intends. This darkness - or blindness in Man - he calls his "identity."
I pause for a moment, coming back to myself, to awareness of the room in which I stand, the others that remain in this space. I look up from the pulpit, to see the three students staring at me, mouths agape. The teacher Avichai wears a similar expression, although with knitted brow, seeking understanding. The boys look over at him, as if waiting for his reaction. Would he rebuke me? Instead he nods at me to continue. I nod back and find myself sinking into the written words of the holy book before me as into a deep darkly luminous sea. The words on the page become living things as they float up into my eyes, the caterpillars of truth inscribed on the paper enter my mind and come forth from my mouth as golden butterflies.
Let him who has ears hear, I say: Every word in the Torah is a parable, a story with a double meaning, a physical as well as a spiritual truth. Thus when the Torah describes the creation of Adam as a living being made up of the dust of the ground, the true meaning is that Adam is the material identity which Man the spirit takes up whenever he enters a human body. You are all Adam; even now just one Man, one Spirit; each of you caught up in the identity of your separate human forms.
I hear mutters of puzzlement at this, the boys no doubt looking around at each other in disbelief or confusion, but I have no desire to explain further. I feel such an energy coursing through me now, I am all but dazzled by it. I have to go on. I look back at Genesis, at the story of Adam's creation, and the meaning comes to me as a complete and perfect truth.
When it says that, before Adam, there was as yet no wild bush on the earth, and no wild plant had as yet sprung up, this means that although God creates the concept of all the living and non-living things that are to exist in the material world, they cannot be brought into existence until Man manifests those Ideas into a state of physical "reality." God remains eternally in Heaven, in the purely spiritual realm, thus it is only through the mind of Adam - connected with the Mind of God the Father by His Holy Spirit -that all material things are brought forth into this illusion we call physical existence. Remember that of God the Father, God the Holy Spirit, and God as Man, only the Man - Adam - is in the material world. The Torah says that God takes Adam and puts him in the Garden of Eden: That symbolizes placing into this Hu-Man, this "Intelligence of the Earth," the awareness of all life that is to be, and the task of bringing these things into being: to name them, care for them; to propagate and increase all that which God creates in His mind from the beginning to the end of time."
I stop abruptly, once again coming back to myself for a moment with the slight sensation of a thump, like that a dreamer experiences when he wakens suddenly from a dream of falling. I look up at my audience of four with a tiny wave of apprehension, but they remain rapt and silent. I cannot tell if their expressions are of fear or amazement, maybe both; so I look back down at the holy book before me and immediately fall back into my state of rapture:
The Torah says: "Out of the ground Adonai, God, caused to grow every tree pleasing in appearance and good for food, including the tree of life in the middle of the garden and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil."
I raise my eyes and fix them on my audience, although I don't really see them. Now I am not looking at the holy book at all, but its interpretation comes through me as if it is held within my heart.
The "ground" represents the mind of Adam, for through Adam's mind all living things come into being, including the Tree of Life. This Tree in the middle of "the garden" - Adam's awareness - is the connection between the Heavens and Earth, between the Spiritual Realm and the Physical, and represents the eternal interconnectedness of God, Man and the Holy Spirit. Hear me well now
: Since it was brought into existence through Man, he still has the knowledge of that connection somewhere within him. And when the Torah says the rest of the trees in the garden are "good for food" it means that living things can provide spiritual truths, that patterns in the physical world exist to give Man insights into spiritual truths.
I direct my gaze now at Rabbi Avichai: "Even now, you hold these truths buried in your mind, though you are separated from them by guilt, fear and spiritual blindness."
I don't mean the words to sound as harsh as they come out. I see a tear spring to the young man's eye, and I look quickly back down at the book, swallowing hard. After a moment I go on, my voice even to my own ears discordantly high pitched and childlike considering the weight of the words I utter.
God, says the Torah, then gave Man this order: “You may freely eat from every tree in the garden except the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. You are not to eat from it, because on the day that you eat from it, it will become certain that you will die."
I stop, frowning. Why? I ask myself, silently.
I look up at my small audience. Why make Adam create this tree in the first place, and then tempt him to eat from it? I ask aloud. Then the answer comes. Because God's plan from the beginning is that He, as Man, will enter a state of eternal contradiction, giving Himself an unsolvable problem to solve in order to create a diversion from the eternity of aloneness He otherwise faces. In actuality, the very concept of evil is a lie, just as is the concept of death, for there is no evil in any of God's creations. How could there be, since ultimately all are God? But by accepting the lie that every survival instinct of his physical body is evil, while Man is compelled by his body to follow those instincts, he is simultaneously compelled by his spirit to suppress or hide them; and is thereby doomed to separate himself from God through the endless cycle of sin, failure and guilt.
I finish, close the Torah, and go take my seat, folding my hands politely on top of the desk, awaiting the teacher's next move. I feel my knees knocking together, but I'm not sure why.
I can hear the other boys whispering among themselves: "What is he saying?" "I don't know, I don't really understand it." "Me neither; he's just weird."
I never noticed my father Joseph, who'd remained just outside the door listening to my every word, until now as he comes running in, his face a mask of fear. He is no doubt thinking that the teacher might rebuke me in a manner that would cause me to strike out. But instead Avichai gets down onto his knees and touches his forehead to the floor. Looking up, with tears streaming from his eyes, he says: "Joseph, my brother, I received your child as a disciple, but he is so full of grace and wisdom that I have become the pupil, with much still to learn from him, only I am too unworthy. Take him home and get down on your knees to thank the God that has sent such a one to bless you.
I get up from my desk at this and walk over to the teacher, putting my hand on his shoulder. I feel a great tenderness towards him, as well as a sense of having suddenly become much older than I was an hour ago.
"No rabbi, I wish to stay," I tell him. "I didn't know what I knew until I began to read the Torah today, and then it all kind of came back to me. I think you are meant to help me, if you will: I think as you introduce the books of the Torah and the letters to me, it will act as a clue and a signal, where each scripture will trigger some long forgotten memory or awaken some hidden knowledge and awareness within me as it did today. So please let me stay."
And so I do, continuing my studies with rabbi Avichai throughout all that year and the next. The other boys stay as well, reading the Torah and listening to our discourse, trying their best to understand what is said, respecting what they don't. One in particular, Simon, comes nearest to getting it, and in his effort to comprehend the teachings he becomes very close to me, sometimes spending the night at my home after a long day of studies, and often talking with me long into the night. Father calls him my "other brother" we are so akin in nature.
When not at my studies I continue to help my father with his carpentry and the harvest, each year bringing in extra wheat and corn to distribute to the poor in our village. I stop doing pranks and mostly stop my experiments with the natural order as things, seeing such things now as childish. I would rather learn the Torah and all its hidden meanings than to play tricks with the illusion of reality.
Villagers still come to me with illnesses and injuries to heal, but father swears them to secrecy before he will allow me to help them. We're pretty sure they still talk about it when I do cure someone, but if so the stories are kept in hushed whispers away from our ears, for they neither want my gifts to stop coming, nor do they want to have word of my special talents go beyond the village, drawing unwanted attention and crowds to our land.
There may come a time when I want these crowds, want this attention, but that time is not now, for I am still a boy and all is not revealed to me yet. I wish it were: I have a mixed sense of dread and expectancy at what my Father intends, and sometimes feel quite impatient to get it done and over with. Then I return to my studies and realize how much I still have to learn before I am ready.
Mother delivers baby Joseph in mid-summer that first year, and although he might have been old enough for us to make the Passover pilgrimage the following spring, God sees fit to put another child in her belly by winter, so once more only father is able to go on the pilgrimages. Baby Salome is born in the fall, but such a beautiful, healthy and robust little girl she is that mother convinces father she will be ready to travel by Passover, which comes later in spring that next year.
The Passover Pilgrimage
So here we are at last, three boys sitting on top of the bundles that fill the bed of the wagon, with five year old James snuggled up against my left arm, free spirited Joseph bouncing and waving on my right, and Salome at my mother's breast up on the front bench; the warm spring sun on our faces and cool wind buffeting our hair, on our way to see my cousin John again. I have just made twelve years of age, and John is half a year my senior, so I know we will have much to tell each other and fun things to do together. But even more than John, I look forward - for the first time - to the Passover ceremonies in the temple. I have learned so much these past two years that I feel a deep, persistent longing to share these insights with others of learning, to see what they have to say or add, and to question them about that which still remains hidden to me.
As our wagon approaches the outskirts of Jerusalem amidst the clatter and bang, shouts and greetings and clouds of dust that arise like a sandstorm of joy from the close-packed caravan of other pilgrims converging from all over the countryside for the annual festival, I see up ahead a small figure, bushy hair and grin wide enough to spark the sunlight even from this far off, running towards us as if we might disappear if he didn't hurry fast enough.
I stand up on top of our bundled belongings, waving wildly and unnecessarily.
"John! John!" I cry ecstatic, then hand off baby Joseph to James and jump down from the wagon to run up ahead and greet my beloved cousin.
We whirl in an embrace and both begin talking at the same time in a senseless babble, which only stops when we convulse in laughter realizing neither of us has the slightest idea what the other is saying.
The wagon stops beside us, father and mother looking down with generous smiles.
"Come on up here, both of you!" Father orders kindly, reaching down a strong arm to pull us both aboard. "There's still a couple of milin to go, isn't there cousin John?"
"Yessir," he answers, all out of breath. "I ran ahead, left before dawn to meet you when father told me you'd be arriving today. I was waiting just down the road when I spotted this one," he gives me a playful nudge; "sitting up top your wagon like a royal prince or something, and I knew it had to be you."
When we arrive at his parents' home, I am shocked to see how old they both have grown. I guess I was too young last time we were here to be aware of the age difference between my parents and John's, but now I can see
that they could more easily be the grandparents of my cousin than his parents.
After we unpack our wagon and dispense with formal greetings and a light midday meal, John whispers to follow him outside.
As we steal out into the sunlit yard, I mention off-handedly that his parents appear to be much older than my own.
"They are," he agrees. "Other boys in the neighborhood sometimes tease me, asking if I am an orphan living with my grandparents, but I just tell them I was sent from God through "divine intervention," and that usually shuts them up," he grins. "No one wants to mess with a divine intervention."
"Mother has told me the story of your conception," I nod.
"And mine has told me about yours, Yeshua," John says. "So I guess we're both a little divine, eh? Anyway, I want to talk to you about my dreams, in hopes maybe you can interpret them for me....you being divine and all," he winks.
We walk over to an olive tree at the far end of his yard, beyond the vegetable garden that's just now springing to life, its green shoots pushing through the damp soil in search of light.
Like John.
"Tell me," I say, as we sit down on the grass in the tree's cool shadow.
"Well, first I dreamt that there was a great drought and all the rivers dried up, but I was carried off into the wilderness and fed by ravens, and I drank from a stream to stay alive. I've had that dream at least three times, maybe more," he tells me, licking his lips before continuing. "Then another time I dreamt that I was led to an ancient cottage in the deep woods, where I brought a woman's son back to life, and she made me bread from a jar that never ran out. Sometimes I have these two dreams together, sometimes apart, but I keep having them both over and over, so I know I must find out what they mean."
He looks up at me, his face troubled.
I close my eyes, envisioning the dreams he has told me about, the drought, the ravens, the wilderness stream; the resurrection of the son, the bread from a jar that never runs out. I almost fall asleep, I am thinking so hard, and when John nudges me I open my eyes with a start.
"I will tell you what your dreams mean," I say. "The great drought is a time when the spiritual side of man is no longer nourished in the land, when the waters of spiritual knowledge have dried up, so that truth is no longer available. The wilderness is a place untrammeled by man, an emptiness where the lies and misconceptions of humankind no longer intrude, so that one can find oneself and one's truth again. The raven you see who feeds you represents God's messenger, just as the raven who was sent to Elijah. What he feeds you is spiritual wisdom and knowledge, God's true word. And the stream that you drink from is likewise the waters of Truth."
I look over at John: "This is your life's path," I say, and he nods, awestruck but completely understanding and accepting what I tell him. So I continue.
"The dream you have of bringing back a woman's son from the dead signifies spiritual resurrection, the rebirth of the spirit from a state of spiritual death in the body. I cannot tell you right now who that woman's son is, as that part of the vision is blocked from me; only that it will come to pass as it is your destiny. As for the jar of bread that never runs out, that bread is Holy truth, wisdom and understanding, and the jar that never runs out is God Himself. To me, this says that you will be an instrument of God in bringing the rebirth of the spirit in Mankind from a jar of Truth that will never run out."
John looks at me, his eyes shining. "I am blessed to have you as my cousin," he says sincerely.
"And I am no less blessed to have you as mine," I respond.
In The Temple
Father, John and I take the lamb to the temple for sacrifice that night, after performing the required purification rituals on our bodies. Father, along with twenty-nine other men carrying their Paschal lambs, are admitted within the Court of the Priests. Hundreds of other men mill around outside the gate, bleating lambs on their shoulders, awaiting their turn. John and I, along with the other male children, are left behind to wait in the outer courtyard as we are not yet of age to enter the holy areas. Immediately the massive gates close behind the men, and there is a lengthy silence. Then I hear a single squeal, followed by a threefold blast blown by the priests on their silver trumpets, and we know our Passover lamb with the big sad eyes and sweet pink mouth is dead. I try not to feel sad, knowing now the full meaning of the ritual, but still it seems unnecessary and wrong in my heart.
John and I return to Aunt Elizabeth's home to help the women prepare for the Seder - the most important part of our Passover celebration, which we will carry to the temple the following morning - while father stays behind to help prepare the lamb before giving it to the priests to roast.
Next morning we go to the temple as a family, find ourselves a little place in the Women's courtyard to set our blankets and dishes, and as it becomes evening we perform the various prayers and rituals of the Passover Seder.
I barely taste my lamb and the other traditional dishes so carefully prepared by mother and Aunt Elizabeth, rotely going through the various prayers and readings without full engagement. When it is my turn to read from the Haggadah I fumble, unsure of what place the last reader left off, and father scolds me.
"Yeshua, where is your head? You know the importance of the Passover story, of our rituals and why we follow them as we do!"
James and little Joseph laugh at my discomfort, and even John hides a smile, although he alone knows why I am so distracted this evening.
I apologize with great sincerity, but despite my efforts to concentrate my attention continues to drift to that goal I have had for the past year, the preoccupation with it consuming my mind for the entire journey here from Nazareth: I feel driven to somehow get an audience with the temple priests in the inner sanctum and discuss with them all the questions that have troubled my mind, as well as all the insights that have filled my heart, during my lessons with Rabbi Avichai over the past two years.
Once we have finished our meal, John and I ask our mothers if we might walk around a bit.
"Of course," mother says, busy and distracted with nursing baby Salome while trying at the same time to keep track of my two little brothers; "but won't you take James with you?"
My five year old brother looks up hopefully, his bright brown eyes full of mischief.
"Uh, I'm afraid I might lose him in the crowd," I demur.
Mother looks at me, head cocked as if wondering what I might be up to, but then acquiesces. "All right, but don't be gone long."
We work our way through the milling crowds in the Court of Women, pushing towards the Nicanor gate, which leads into the Altar of Sacrifice and Court of Priests. The circular tier of stone steps leading up to the gate is clogged with bodies resting after their heavy meal, and it is impassable without stepping on arms, legs or other body parts. Jumping up and down at the bottom of the steps, we can just make out the priests within, cleaning up the aftermath of the hundreds of sacrifices made that day and the last.
"What should we do, Yeshua?" John asks. "We can't get through this crowd, and the priests surely aren't coming out yet."
"We wait. One will come in time," I tell him. Then I send a thought, looking for a target.
A few minutes later one of the priests comes to the gate and looks down into the crowd, as if trying to remember something he was supposed to do. After a moment he shrugs and walks back inside the court. I send the thought again.
The priest reappears almost instantly, scanning the crowd below the gate with a worried frown. I can't help the smile that splits my face at this. When his eyes reach mine I wave. He sees me and waves back, then hurries down the steps, parting the crowd between us, a boat through a sluggish tide.
"I've come to ask you questions," I tell him.
"We are very busy right now," he replies. "Can you please come back tomorrow morning?"
"Of course," I nod. "Shall I meet you here?"
"Yes, yes. Right here," he affirms, then turns and hurries back up the steps and into the inner sanc
tuary.
"Well, that was odd," John notes.
"Yes," I agree with a grin. "It was, wasn't it?"
First Meeting With The Kohen
Next morning I arise before dawn and quietly awaken John, who lies next to me on a sleeping mat. We slip from the cottage and walk the 8 milin to the temple in furtive silence, only the occasional barking dog to mark our passage. We enter the outer gate of the enormous temple mount just as a spear of light from the rising sun sets fire to the motes of dusty air within the easternmost portico.
Many families who spent the night in the courtyard are already up and about, the sound of their voices a hushed murmur as they hurriedly take whatever remains of their sacrificial lamb to the ovens to be burned before the sun announces a new day. Most of these pilgrims will remain here for the entire seven days of the Passover, picnicking, partying, shopping and visiting friends and relatives as their children play tag among the tents and vendors' booths. Mother says we are lucky we have Aunt Elizabeth to stay with, as the stone floor of the courtyard is uncomfortable, and the open tents offer little privacy for sleep, but John and I agree it looks like fun.
John spots a couple of friends as we pass through the Women's court and he wants to go talk with them for a bit, so I leave him there and go on to the Nicanor Gate alone. The arc of steps is empty at this hour, and I walk up them slowly, peering inside the doorway to the Priest's Court like an uncertain guest. There is none of the bustle of frantic activity that marked the court yesterday, just a handful of men inside at prayer. One of these turns to look at me, then quickly rises and comes over: It is the priest I spoke with last evening.
"Good morning, Kohen," I say with a respectful bow.
"You are the boy with questions?" he asks.
"I have many," I tell him.
"I have time for but one," he says.
"Then I have a question about the fall from grace, that which happened when Eve and Adam partook of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil."
"Ask your question, lad," he says with a smile, thinking this will be an easy one, not unusual for a boy my age to be asking about.
"Well, the name of the tree from which they ate was Da’asTov v'ra, or Knowledge of Good and Evil, right? But what I want to know is, does that really mean moral goodness and evil as we interpret it today, or is it actually about being in good working order and bad working order... in other words, the knowledge of being alive and functioning, or being dead?"
The priest seems momentarily taken aback by the question, for I'm pretty sure it was not what he'd expected. He doesn't answer immediately, but seems to be thinking.
"In ancient Hebrew, certainly, the language was more concerned with practical matters than philosophical ones," the priest finally affirms. "So I suppose that could be an early translation and meaning of Tov v'ra, good meaning life and evil meaning death."
"So then, couldn't the meaning of Man eating from that tree, the Tree Of Knowledge Of Life And Death, actually represent his sudden awareness that he is a mortal human being, and thus bound by the laws of nature to eventually die? And could it not therefore follow that when Man became aware of his own mortality, he was so filled with the fear that he would lose this identity - and so consumed by the struggle to save it through procreation and material wealth - that he forgot his immortal soul? Was it not actually through this mis-identification with his physical self and its mortality that he lost awareness of his true eternal nature, stopped understanding his essential connection with God, and began to die with the body's death? So when the Torah says that through this knowledge Adam fell from grace, doesn't that mean that he fell away from the joy of knowing God's love is the essence of who he is, and from the peace that comes with the certainty of eternal life? You see how it all fits?"
I am so excited to get this all said, this which I have carried with me for so long, that I babble it out in such a rush that I am breathless, and not at all sure that I make sense.
The Kohen looks at me with an expression of amazement, at a loss for words.
I glance over his shoulder and see John standing quietly a few feet away. He too looks at me with awe and wonder. "Who are you? Where is my cousin?" His look says.
After what seems like an hour, the priest shakes his head. "I need to contemplate this question in meditation and prayer," he tells me. "Come back tomorrow and I will have your answer."
"And I will have another question," I say, with a little smile and bow, feeling suddenly quite cocky.
On the way home John is silent for half the journey, deep in thought. I leave him alone with his brooding, waiting. Then suddenly he puts his hand on my shoulder and, turning me to face him, he demands: "Is it true, Yeshua? Are we actually immortal beings, part of the substance of God Himself?
"How else do you explain your own conception?" I respond.
He shrugs and looks away too quickly, but not quick enough for me to miss the sheen of sudden tears that fill his eyes.
Tonight my head is abuzz with all the questions I want to ask the kohen and any others that might be willing to have an audience with me. I run them through my head again and again, what I will say, how I will say it: I am finding sleep impossible to come by.
First I will ask him to explain the story of Cain and Abel, the spiritual meaning. Who does Cain represent? As the first born son of Adam and Eve, I will tell them, he is supposed to represent the first time that Man reproduced a copy of his own spiritual self into a new body of flesh, with the help of the Lord. Yet this firstborn slew his brother in anger because the Lord God found him unworthy and found his younger brother worthy. Does this tell us that not all of the children of Adam contain the spirit of God, that some are mere flesh? And does this also mean that the ones made of mere flesh will always try to slay the ones of spirit?
Also, when Cain was cast out of the family of God-through-Adam, how was it that he quickly found a wife from among the tribes of people already living East of Eden? Where did these people come from, if Adam was the first man? Is this supposed to prove that only the direct descendants of Adam and Eve are capable of true spiritual union with God, that these other humans were created along with the animals as mere creatures of flesh and blood, but Adam alone was given a spiritual life out of God's own breath.?
And when they say yes, this proves we are the chosen people, I will tell them that I think they misunderstand the truth of this creation story, for the story of Cain proves that it is not the union of flesh that transfers spiritual identity from generation to generation, it is the union of God's Holy Spirit with the soul of Man that does so, and that union is up to God to determine.
I smile to think of their expressions when I put that viewpoint to them, for the Pharisees and Priests are adamant that only the Jewish people are of God. They are also quite adept at ignoring the Torah's own accounts of how the vast majority of these supposedly "chosen people" have failed utterly time and again to uphold God's commandments or to honor him as they should, and how God has thus repeatedly struck them down and wiped them to a man.
I have so many other questions, insights, things to discuss and clarify; I hardly know where I will begin, what order I will ask them in, or how much time I will have. There are another five days remaining of the Passover celebration, and father has promised that this time we will stay for all of it, so I am hoping I will be allowed meet with the priests for as many hours as they are willing and able.
John has promised to go with me each day, although I think he is a little shaken by what he hears. I don't really understand why: he's certainly seen enough of what I can do during his earlier visits to my home that these new insights of mine should be no surprise. Maybe it's just that we're both getting older, and what was strange and fun before takes on a different meaning to him now. But even if he is a little disturbed by my teaching, I'm pretty sure he is also enthralled and captivated, wanting to soak it in and let it grow in him to fullness. It will in time, I know.
Fo
r myself, I too feel a strangeness in all this, for the thoughts and words and understandings that fill me seem to be coming from somewhere beyond my own mind, awakening within me like a sleeper awakens from his dreams into a new day. As the fog clears slowly from my consciousness and a new awareness of crystal clarity begins to take its place, I feel like I am leaving childhood behind, carried to the stars on a whirlwind of light at breathless speed, even though I don't know quite where I am going yet.
I can barely sleep all night, so excited am I: The thought of going to the temple and talking with the priests provokes the same feeling of anticipation as I would have were I embarking on a journey to a strange new land.
Now I sit on the stone floor, my robes tucked neatly under my legs, surrounded by a group of no less than four of the Kohen. One other man, a stranger with dark glowing eyes and a cloth wrapped around his head, sits in the shadows, watching silently but intently. I am talking to them about the meaning of the parting of the Red Sea by Moses.
"The sea," I tell them, "represents the life force of the material world, for it says in the first book of the Torah: The earth was founded upon the waters and God commanded the water to bring out an abundance of living souls. So when God parts the sea to allow the Israelites to escape from bondage in Egypt, this symbolizes The Father in Heaven withdrawing the material world forces that entrap man in his physical identity, in order to allow the Spirit of Man to escape into that place of spiritual freedom and enlightenment, which is symbolically the promised land."
"Is it so?" the priests murmur among themselves.
"And the story of Cain and Abel that we talked about earlier, and similarly of Abraham and Isaac, these stories are symbolic of the soul's journey as well. The story of Abraham's promise to sacrifice his only son, the most beloved thing he possessed, is symbolic of the need to sacrifice ones earthly soul, one's identity, one's ego - which is the most precious thing a Man possesses in his human form - in order to give it all to God. Sacrifice acknowledges and represents the need to kill the human part of yourself completely so that you can be resurrected with a new soul and a new identity, that of One-With-God. All the ritual Sacrifices we do symbolize that killing of the earthly self, in order to be resurrected with the identity and soul of God.
"But how is the slaying of Abel by Cain a sacrifice?" One of the Kohen objects, a puzzled frown knitting his brow. "Wasn't it simply murder?"
"Isn't God's hand in everything?" I respond. "Did not God himself sacrifice Abel through the instrument of Cain, in order to teach the true meaning of sacrifice which Cain had failed to grasp? And was not Cain's subsequent banishment from Eden symbolic of what happens to those who fail to sacrifice their earthly soul in order to become one with God?"
Before he can answer, we are distracted by a slight commotion just outside the entrance to the Priests' Court. A small child, who I recognize as Amos from my village, is jumping up and down, trying to get our attention without speaking, as if by remaining silent he will not interrupt while interrupting. I have to smile at that. John, who has been sitting just outside the circle of men, gets up and walks down the steps to see what the boy wants.
After a brief conversation, he comes back up the steps.
"He says he's been looking all over for you: There's been a fire in the village granary and your father and mother sent him to tell you they are returning home early to help rebuild it before the first harvest.
"Today?" I ask, dismayed.
John nods.
I think for a minute, pondering what to do, then tell John: "Ask Amos if his family is returning today as well."
John races back down the stairs, and a moment later races back up, out of breath.
"Not until late tonight, he says. His father has gone to a neighboring village on business so knows nothing of the fire, and they can't leave until he returns."
"Ask him if I can travel with his family until first camp," I say. "That way I have at least the rest of the day to continue with my instruction."
"But who is instructing whom?" One of the Kohen says under his breath to another.
John races back down the steps and after a quick discussion, comes back to tell me the child says he is sure it will be fine, he'll go tell his parents now.
As the boy runs off into the crowd, I ask John to please go tell my family that I will be traveling tonight with the family of Arazi the baker, and will meet them at first camp by morning.
I spend the rest of that day in deep conversation with the Kohen, completely unmindful of the hours passing. Finally one of the priests yawns hugely, and rises, apologetic.
"I am sorry, young master, but it is well past my suppertime and an old man must eat. If you like you are welcome to join us."
I jump to my feet in sudden alarm, realizing that the day is gone, the sky already dark and filled with a multitude of stars.
"Thank you, but I must go find the family of Arazi before they leave without me!"
My heart is racing as I hurry into the Women's Court to look for my neighbors. I remember where they were camped, but when I get to where I thought it was, there is no one there. Perhaps I was mistaken, perhaps it is on the other side, I think, and hurry across the still crowded courtyard to find them, but they are not on that side either. I run from place to place looking and calling, but no one responds, no one I recognize turns up. It appears all the pilgrims from our village have left, no doubt to help with the granary as well.
As I return to where I thought the family had camped, a woman from the adjacent campsite calls out to me.
"Are you looking for the family that was here?"
"Yes," I tell her. "The family of Arazi, the baker from Nazareth?"
"Aye yes, that's the one. They left about an hour ago."
"I was supposed to go with them," I tell her. Now what? I think.
"Well, you are welcome to camp with us and share a meal if you like," she says kindly. "Surely someone will come back for you when they discover you are missing."
"Yes, I guess they will," I nod. "So thank you for your offer, and I gladly accept. I haven't eaten all day."
As I fall asleep that night under the stars, with the melody of snores all around, I wonder if this is not an accident but perhaps what God the Father meant to happen. I smile at the thought, pretty sure it is.
Joseph
When we hear of the fire consuming our village granary, there is no question that we must return at once and do what we can to help rebuild. The first harvest will be ready in less than a month, and without the granary to protect our crops from insects and mice, our entire village will suffer. Hurriedly we pack our belongings, and send a messenger to the temple to find Yeshua, who has gone off once again with John, to play I suppose. When John returns to tell us Yeshua has chosen to stay with neighbors, I am none too pleased, but there is no time to hunt him down. We are already off to a late start, and it will be well past dark before we make the encampment site at Shiloh. I make myself a promise to have a stern word with the boy about his responsibilities to his family once I see him again, but for now that promise will have to be sufficient.
We leave Elizabeth's home just after the noonday meal: I lift my two boys into the back of the wagon and clear my throat at Mary, who is locked in a tearful embrace with her Aunt Elizabeth. I know she fears the elderly woman might not last until our next visit, but if God wills it, then it will be. Not much I can do about that, but I can help rebuild the granary.
It's late when we get to Shiloh, nearly midnight by the stars and I'm exhausted, aching as if I'd pulled the wagon myself all thirty-four milin, so we put our mats on the grasses beside the wagon and get what sleep we can. Since the neighbors bringing Yeshua had not planned to leave Jerusalem until dark, I figure they won't arrive until nearly dawn, so his scolding will have to wait until then.
Next morning I awaken before Mary and the children, and go to find Yeshua. It is a large encampment, a religious center and assembly place for the tribes, so there ar
e many families bedded down here for the night. As I wander among the sleeping pilgrims, I see a wagon approaching on the dusty road, and recognize it as that belonging to the Arazi family. I walk slowly toward it, planning to offer my thanks to the baker for his hospitality and kindness in bringing my son to me, and then to give Yeshua a talking to about obedience as soon as we are out of earshot.
But Yeshua is not with them!
Mary
"We have to go back at once!" I tell my husband. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely get the words out, and they sound weak to my own ears.
"That will cost us two days!" He argues. "He got himself into this, he can get himself out."
"But Joseph!"
"If he's as clever as he thinks he is, he will find someone to bring him home to Nazareth."
"But Joseph," I say again. "He's just a boy!"
My husband looks at me with raised brow.
"He's our son!" I plead. "He's our responsibility!"
Joseph frowns, a deep angry scowl, then slowly relaxes his brow, shaking his head.
"Load the children into the wagon," he says.
I am not sure what he intends until I see that he has turned the wagon back towards Jerusalem, and only then do I allow myself to weep.
Joseph
It is well past midnight when we arrive back at Elizabeth's home, and although Mary is anxious to begin an immediate search for our boy, I convince her that we would win no favor disturbing the sleeping pilgrims at this hour.
"Daylight will make our search much easier, and he'll be none the worse for one more night under the stars."
"But what if he's hungry, or scared, or has fallen in with bad people!" She whispers, distraught.
"It's the holy temple, Mary. And he is not an ordinary boy in any case," I remind her; "God will certainly watch out for him."
Once again she weeps, the quiet tears slipping down her cheeks, even as she nods, knowing I am right.
We camp in Elizabeth's yard, unwilling to disturb the sleep of the elderly couple, and in the morning we set off together with Zechariah and John, leaving the younger children in Elizabeth's care.
John says he's pretty sure where Yeshua can be found.
"He never came back here then?" I ask, thinking he might have returned to his Aunt's home when he discovered he'd been left behind.
"No sir," John tells me. "He's too busy I guess."
"With what?" I demand.
"He's been talking with the Kohen the past three days, sir."
"The Kohen!" I exclaim, feeling a sudden rush of alarm that hadn't been there when I thought he was merely lost. What else has this child been up to that I know nothing of?! I just hope he hasn't caused me any sort of trouble.
We find him in the priest's court, seated before a gathering of eight robed men. They all appear to be listening intently to whatever it is he is telling them. I feel a rush of unwarranted anger: How dare he look so calm and unconcerned! A lost boy should be hungry and dirty and tired, running around frantically looking for his parents. Instead this son of mine looked like he belonged right where he was, doing exactly what he was doing without a care in the world.
"Yeshua!" I cry out, my voice harsher than I intend it to sound in front of these learned holy men.
Every head turns as one to stare at me.
Yeshua rises respectfully, but without any undue haste, no sign of guilt or alarm.
"What are you doing here? Where have you been?!" I demand. "We had to come all the way back from Shiloh to find you when we discovered you were not with our neighbors!"
"We were so worried, Yeshua," Mary interjects, her voice soft with relief and love.
"Why would you worry about me, mother," he tells her gently, coming forward to put a hand on her shoulder and look directly into her eyes. "You know who my Father is, so you know I would be safe. I am simply doing what He has called me to do."
"Don't be harsh on him, master," one of the Kohen says to me. "He is a remarkable boy, with astounding wisdom, astounding! We are honored to have had this time to speak with him. Please bring him back again soon."
I nod, with a little bow, then lead my family away without another word.
The Visitor
It is a little more than a week since we returned to Nazareth, when the man from the East arrives.
I have been waiting for him.
Father and I are at the granary, helping to install the beams which father has been milling all week, when little James arrives so excited and out of breath from running he can hardly speak.
"Papa, Yesu, come quick!"
"What is it James," father cries out in alarm, dropping his hammer. "Has something happened to your mother or one of the babies?"
"No," James says, shaking his head, still panting."
"What then, boy, out with it!" Father insists, grabbing my little brother by the arm.
"A, a strange man, he has come all the way from Jerusalem to see you."
Father Joseph looks around at the other men, his eyes seeking permission. There is still much to do to rebuild the granary.
"Go ahead, Joseph," one of the men tells him. "We can put up the rest of the beams ourselves today, but will need more lumber by the morrow if you can manage it."
"I'll have it for you, "father assures him. "Just as soon as I find out what this stranger wants and send him on his way, I'll be milling those logs you men felled into more planks and beams."
As we enter the cottage, mother rises with baby Salome in her arms, and behind her in the shadows a robed man also gets to his feet. He has brilliant dark eyes and a cloth wrapped around his head, and I know at once it is the magi from the temple in Jerusalem, here to help me fulfill my destiny.
Father, however, astonishes me by crying out: "Gaspar? Is it really you?" and falling to his knees, shaking his head as tears begin to pour from his eyes.
I believe he has just been reminded once again of who I am.
Later, as mother helps me pack, she tells me again the story of the magi that had appeared shortly after my birth to worship my divine origins. I think this is more for the benefit of my brothers and sisters, as I already know the story well.
"Now," she explains unnecessarily; "this one has returned to take you back to his monastery in the far East to further your spiritual education, as well as to isolate and protect you from the temptations and perils of your body as it undergoes its transformation into manhood."
"I know, mother," I tell her patiently. I am trying to be extra nice, as she can't seem to stop crying even as she is telling this, and her flood of tears has set off James, Joseph and baby Salome as well, everyone bawling as if I had died or something.
I leave the next morning on a small bay gelding the Indian master has purchased from the local stable for my journey, my few belongings wrapped in a blanket tied to the saddle, waving goodbye to my still weeping mother and siblings, my rueful father. Tears also pour from my own eyes, although the sadness of leaving my mother and the little ones is tempered by a huge bloom of excitement in my chest at the adventure I am beginning, so the smile on my face is genuine. I don't realize it at the time, but it will be more than seventeen years before I see their faces again.
Journey to India
The trip with Gaspar grows long, yet remains full of fascination, so that every new turn is a wonder to my eyes and I feel I could go on forever just looking at the incredible works of my Father, as if the final destination is simply the journey itself.
Perhaps it is.
At first we travel along dry desert lands much like those of my homeland, all the while skirting the great sea where cool breezes offset the baking heat of the day. Nearly a full cycle of the moon passes before we finally leave the sea, turning in the direction of the rising sun across even more barren and forbidding landscape, climbing up through a mountain pass that at its peak, even this late in the spring, is still decorated in a white frosting of snow. It is another 5 days, slow going but wondrous to my eyes,
as we journey through river valleys and mountain passes before coming to a great and placid river that winds its way between the dusty brown hillocks like a gigantic blue snake.
Gaspar purchases us a fare on one of the many riverboats that carry freight and passengers up and down the long waterway, so for another cycle of the moon we are mere passengers, spending the days talking, watching the fishermen casting nets from the shore, waving at the passing caravans of great humped beasts, the occasional small villages and huts along the shore. Each night the ferry stops so that we can debark to stretch our legs and exercise our horses, and we make camp on the banks under the desert moon.
As we journey southward the land gradually flattens out and the areas on either side of the river become green with trees and grasses. Stretching out from the banks as far as I can see are fields of crops with small canals between the rows fed by the river's overflow, and people working diligently in the hot sun among the shoots of green. Villages along the route become larger and more frequent, and when we pass these sometimes I hear shouting and sounds of violence, sometimes of gladness. One day we pass the remains of a great city that lies on both sides of the river, and Gaspar tells me it is what is left of the fabled city of Babylon, now crumbling and desolate, the walls broken, the few remaining inhabitants looking as beaten as their habitation. Two days further down the river there is another ruins, this one with a great square temple many stories high which Gaspar tells me is the great ziggurat of Ur. I wonder at the fragility of the world, that such monumental efforts of man to create structure and substance always come to such an end. What lesson is there to be learned here?
Finally we reach a large port city, just below where our river joins with another of equal size forming a huge delta, and it is here we finally debark.
After buying more supplies, we travel by horse to the coast of a great sea. For a moment I am confused, thinking we have somehow turned around and I am on my way home again, but Gaspar assures me that this is a different ocean than the one we were on before, and that there is an even larger one beyond this. My eyes grow wide in amazement: More? Larger? Does this creation never end?
Next day we board another boat, this one much more substantial than the river ferry, and are transported across this body of water, an expanse of blue liquid desert so vast that I am lost upon it, disoriented, with no land in sight for days on end. Yet for all its seeming emptiness I soon discover that it is teeming with life so abundant that it takes my breath away. I see creatures I've never imagined the likes of, jumping from the depths to fling themselves skyward for no other reason than the sheer joy of having life within them, great fishlike creatures with bright intelligent eyes and beaklike mouths that smile at me as they land, sending a wave of sea water to cover me head to foot. I laugh aloud in delight. And, like the rest of the passengers, we spend many hours fishing with poles and nets each day, bringing in far more than we can eat and tossing back that which we can't.
One day I see a creature so huge that I think I must be imagining things, a great grey fish with a blunt shaped bulbous head, long thick fins and a flat tail that it uses to beat the water continuously as it swims alongside the vessel for more than an hour, rolling its large black eyes up at me. Finally it swims away with a final disdainful flip of its tail, disappearing into the depths, tired of trying to communicate I guess. Later I think of the story of Jonah, and realize this must be like the great fish that swallowed him, perhaps the very one. I remember in the tale how this supernatural intervention from God saved Jonah from drowning in the sea - which represents the material world - and after three days spent in the blackness of its belly at the bottom of the abyss, Jonah finally repented his ways and went on to teach all those who would listen that salvation comes from the Lord. Was that was what he was trying to tell me, this fish? That it will take three days in the belly of the beast for mankind to be saved?
The waters here in this sea are rougher and more bouncy than the glassy surface of the river, and for the first few days I have little appetite, fearing whatever I put down my throat might quickly find its way back up again. After a bit I get used to it, however - Gaspar tells me I have acquired "sea legs" - and am quite comfortable with the bit of rolling we endure. Suddenly on the seventh day all that changes. As we round a peninsula, tacking our way carefully between an outcropping of large rocky islets on either side of the narrowed passage, we are hit by cross-currents and large waves that splash violently over the sides of the boat, heaving us first to one side and then the other. Alarmed, I turn to Gaspar, who simply tells me to quiet the horses.
Another hour, and we are through the rough passage and out onto the open ocean, riding up and over the moving hillocks of water that slide continuously beneath our bow, running parallel to a distant shoreline that is but a shadow etched on the horizon. Gaspar tells me we are now on the Arabian Sea, making our way to India, our final destination.
It is another nine days before we finally turn into a lovely sheltered harbor with a small port village. There we debark, purchase more supplies, and after a day's rest begin our final journey through a beautiful forested area that sweeps down from high mountains to the banks of a deep river. Gaspar tells me this land is called India, named for the river we follow upstream towards its source in the distant mountains, the Indus. As we ride side by side, comfortable in each others' presence, he tells me the history of his land, which is at least as ancient as my own, and of the beliefs that grew with his people over the ages; reciting to me beautiful stories and poetry he calls the Vedas and Upanishads, which move me greatly, especially in the context of the wild and beautiful countryside through which we ride.
On the third day of our travels we see a herd of great beasts with enormous noses and protruding white teeth as long as my arm. They are at the edge of the river, drinking and bathing. As we approach, the largest of these lifts his head and turns to face us, trumpeting loudly. His great triangular ears stand out from the sides of his head like wings as he takes a threatening step in our direction. Gaspar reins in his horse, a look of alarm on his face.
"That is the lead bull elephant," he whispers. "If he attacks, the rest will follow."
I look into the animal's eyes and lift my hand, continuing slowly forward. As I approach the bull drops his ears back down and lowers his head submissively, the trumpeting now a soft bleat of acknowledgement.
"Come on," I tell Gaspar over my shoulder. "It's okay, we can pass now."
At night we camp away from the river bank, for it is there that the great night predators of the jungle come to drink and to hunt. I can see the glowing eyes of the one Gaspar calls tiger in the dark, its muscular body of tan and black stripes outlined in the moon's glow. I hear its sultry growls, its occasional roars, and I am amazed by the beauty, the perfection of form and function.
Usually it is just a spotted deer or wild dog it captures, bringing the animal down with a single powerful slap from its front legs, and silencing it quickly with a bite to the neck, plunging six inch fangs deep into the flesh and ripping open the throat so that the prey's life blood quickly spills to the earth. I feel no sorrow at this, no sense that the animal killed was wronged. This is all just the way it was intended, and even the victim seems to know and accept his role in the scheme of things, once he is done fighting for survival.
One night, however, one of these enormous cats gets into a terrible brawl with a river crocodile the size of a small boat. Since neither of these predators is meant to be the prey of the other, I am puzzled by this.
"Surely there is plenty for both to eat, and neither lives in the other's realm," I tell Gaspar; "so what is there to fight about?"
"It's an edge thing, a boundary. Where the water meets the shore is no man's land, belonging to neither, belonging to both. They fight because they don't know where they end and the other begins. It is a common fight."
I nod. It is.
It takes us another full cycle of the moon to reach our final destination. The
last four days we leave the river behind and venture northward into the mountain country, making our way slowly up the steep trails that zig-zag back and forth across the face of the hills. The air becomes cooler, crisp at night, and the stars brighter, leaning down from heaven so close I reach my hand up to touch them, only to have them scoot away from me like cosmic fireflies.
The Ashram is a plain and simple place, filled with plain and simple men who say little, but just enough. I learn quickly to listen hard, for I soon find out what is said will not be repeated.
They teach me breathing and meditation, the secrets of the Upanishads, the teachings of a revered spiritual leader whom they call Krishna, and of another they refer to as the Buddha. They talk to me about the way to reach my inner self through fasting and meditation.
At first I am annoyed by the enforced long hours of silence, of stilling all sensations and thoughts in order to reach some destination that I already dwell in. But after a time I discover that by entering that space fully, without any distractions from the body's senses, I can hear my Father's voice more clearly, and when I do much is revealed that I was not previously aware of.
Sometimes they are overwhelming, these visions: I see universes within universes, see multitudes of worlds parallel to ours, side by side and yet invisible, filled with living things of all shapes and sizes and varieties, strange and foreign, with rules of their own for life as they know it. And I see my Father controlling them all, see them all as just more illusions, more games.
There is so much of this to explore, so much to understand, I don't know where to begin; so I spend more and more time in this state of deep meditation, just looking, learning, growing.
I have been at the ashram about a year when I begin to notice changes in my body and unsettling emotions that wake me at night.
At first I try to ignore what is happening, but more and more these feelings, like a spider crawling up my spine, an electric tingling in my belly and below, are interfering with my ability to meditate, to commune with my Father and explore his many worlds. Finally I go seek the counsel of Narada, the youngest of the monks and the one I feel might best understand what I am going through.
"You are becoming a man," he tells me bluntly. "Your body is changing, becoming sexual in nature. It is because of this change, more than anything else, that you were brought here for guidance and protection, as giving in to these urges of the body can completely derail your spiritual journey."
"I don't understand," I tell him. "If these feelings are natural, expected, part of God's creation, why are they wrong?"
"Not wrong," he tells me; "just distracting. If you give in to them, even once, it is like letting loose something that can't be put back, and you will be fighting them the rest of your life."
"So what do I do?" I ask him, feeling a little desperate.
"We will teach you how to use them, to channel them rather than fight them, so that their energies can be used to deepen and strengthen your meditation rather than disrupt it."
And that is what they did.
************
The years pass, one into the next, each day largely the same as the last. From time to time I get a letter from my mother Mary. She has another child. And then another.
The monks and I have grown very close, and I've adopted the name they have chosen to call me all these years, Yesu; which in Sanskrit means "love" or "devotion." Both John and James used to call me that as a nickname, and I like to think it fits.
