Keepers of the Covenant

by Lynn Austin

  Judah heaved a sigh of frustration. “Sometimes it’s very hard to be your sons, Abba.”

  “Yes? How so?” He waited to hear more.

  “Everyone expects us to be perfect all the time because you are,” Shallum said.

  “And you expect more of us than other fathers do,” Judah added.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of trying to be perfect, Abba? We do.”

  “And we’re not perfect! We just wanted to get away on our own for once and explore the city.”

  “We knew you’d find out and you’d have to punish us but—”

  “But we decided it was worth it, just to have a day off. There. That’s the truth, Abba.”

  Ezra closed his eyes for a moment at their painful words. How many times had God’s people willfully defied God’s law for the immediate pleasure it promised? Was this a taste of the fear and pain God felt when His children disobeyed Him? “So tell me,” he said with calm control, “did you learn anything on your walk? On your day off from trying to be perfect?” They didn’t reply. “What did you think of the city?”

  “Parts of Babylon are very beautiful,” Judah said. Enthusiasm sparkled in his eyes and voice. “And it seemed very . . . exciting, especially compared to our community.”

  “And you, Shallum?” Ezra asked. “What did you think?”

  “You won’t like hearing this, Abba, but . . . the Gentiles seemed very nice. We got lost and one of them told us how to get home. A stranger.”

  “Did these ‘nice’ Gentiles know you were Jewish? Were you wearing your head coverings and tassels?” Again, they didn’t reply. Their faces wore identical expressions of guilt. “I didn’t think so,” Ezra said. “These ‘nice’ Gentiles killed your father, Judah. They would have killed your mother and sisters and everyone else in our community if the Almighty One hadn’t saved us.”

  “So, do we have to stay locked away in our community for the rest our lives?” Judah asked.

  “The Almighty One can protect us from danger if we live in obedience to Him,” Ezra replied. “The greater threat the Gentiles pose is that their beliefs and practices will slowly creep into our way of thinking and acting. The Torah continually warns us to separate the clean from the unclean, the holy from the common. That’s why we lock ourselves away, as you put it. We stay away from Gentiles and live according to the Torah to help restore the fellowship with God that was lost when Adam and Eve were banned from Gan Eden.”

  Judah gestured to the huddle of dull, mud brick houses below them. “This doesn’t seem like Gan Eden to us, Abba,”

  “Did the city of Babylon seem more like Eden to you?”

  “No,” they said in tandem. But their slumped shoulders and somber expressions were unconvincing.

  “It’s not Eden, but their buildings are much more magnificent than ours,” Shallum said after a moment. “And they have parks with lots of trees.”

  A gust of wind blew across the rooftop, nearly snatching Ezra’s kippah from his head and bringing the first few drops of rain. He secured his head covering and continued on, determined to get soaked rather than curtail this conversation. “You’re right, boys; I do demand a lot from you. As a family of priests, we have an even greater calling to demonstrate God’s holiness in our lives and to help others live it. Your direct ancestor, Seraiah, who was exiled here when Jerusalem was destroyed, was the High Priest under King Zedekiah—”

  “And before him, Hilkiah was High Priest under King Josiah,” Judah cut in. “And Zadok served in the first temple under King Solomon. We know, Abba. You’ve told us many times before.”

  “And you’re tired of hearing it?”

  “It’s just that . . . we aren’t priests,” he said with a shrug. “And I don’t see how we ever will be unless we decide to build a temple for the Almighty One here in Babylon.”

  “Never!” Ezra wanted to shout at the absurdity of that thought. “A temple to the Holy One can never exist side by side with temples to idols. The Holy One’s temple must be in Jerusalem, the place God commanded.”

  “It’s just that . . . we know we’ll probably end up being teachers, like you,” Shallum said, “or maybe potters, like Uncle Asher. So I don’t see why we have to learn all the temple rules and regulations like the ones we skipped the other day.”

  It took a great effort for Ezra to control his temper. “No matter what work you do as adults, you still have a responsibility to live by the Torah. So please explain to me about these passages you decided to skip.”

  “They described things we’re supposed to do if we lived in the Promised Land,” Judah said, “like setting aside the Year of Jubilee and bringing sacrifices to the temple and celebrating the feasts by killing lambs and bulls and waving branches.”

  “Since we don’t live in Jerusalem,” Shallum added, “I don’t see why we have to learn all those things. We’ll never get to do any of them here in Babylon.”

  Ezra had no idea how to reply. He longed to shout at them and lecture them, reminding them that he was responsible for their souls for only a few more months, and then they would be accountable for their own souls before God. If only he could pack up his family and leave Babylon for good and return home to the land God promised them. But that was impossible.

  “I don’t hear any regret or sorrow for what you’ve done,” he finally said. “And that grieves and disappoints me.”

  “We’re sorry for disappointing you,” Judah said. Shallum nodded in agreement.

  “But you’re not sorry you went? What I hear you saying is that escaping from your boring lessons for a day and seeing Babylon was worth being disciplined, as far as you’re concerned. You’ll take whatever punishment I dole out, but at least you had a day of freedom. Am I right?”

  “It’s hard having such a wise father,” Judah said after a pause.

  Now they were trying to manipulate him, taking advantage of his love for them, a fierce love Ezra never imagined he would feel. “Unfortunately, my wisdom is failing me at the moment, and I can’t think of a suitable punishment to make an impression on you. Five strikes with the rod? Ten? Do you know what the Torah says to do with wayward sons?”

  “Stone them,” they said in unison. But Ezra saw no fear on their faces. They were well aware of how much he loved them. Even so, fear of losing his sons to the evils of Babylon felt like a crushing weight on his chest. What if he spent his lifetime helping the people in his community follow God, yet ended up losing his own sons?

  At last he exhaled. “To make up for missing your lessons, you will have to go to the house of assembly in your spare time and read the portion you skipped. When you’re prepared, you will present the lesson to me instead of your teacher, and we’ll see if we can find relevance in those passages for your lives here in Babylon. Of course, you’ll also keep up with your regular yeshiva lessons.”

  “That’s a lot of extra study, Abba,” Shallum said.

  “We’re preparing for our bar mitzvah, too,” his brother added. But Ezra could tell by their expressions they were relieved, thinking this was the only punishment they would receive.

  “I know it’s a lot of work. And I’m expecting even more. I’m very troubled to learn that Babylon has such a powerful attraction for you, and your studies and your life in our dull community do not. When you finish the portion you skipped, I want you to search God’s Word and find three passages for me that speak to your discontent. Three examples of people who were dissatisfied with God’s commands and provision. And then tell me what God said—and did—about their discontent. This is the ‘learning’ part. I will let you know what the punishment part will be after I’ve had a chance to pray about it.”

  “Yes, Abba. May we go inside now?” The rain was falling harder, the drops thick and chilling.

  “Yes, go inside.”

  With a house as small as theirs, Devorah easily overheard every word her husband and sons had said. “Won’t the boys resent the Torah even more if you use it as a punishment?” she
asked when they were alone in their room that night, the room that used to be Ezra’s when he was single. He sank onto a stool near the door to remove his sandals, and she could sense the heaviness of his heart.

  “I’m not using it to punish them. The Torah is God’s Word. They need to hear God teaching them these lessons, not me. Hopefully, they’ll find it more difficult to disappoint the Almighty One than to disappoint me.”

  “They’re young boys,” she said as she spread out their sleeping mat. “Didn’t you ever crave a little excitement now and then when you were their age?” He didn’t answer her question, and when she looked up and saw his puzzled expression, she smiled. “Let me guess—your idea of excitement was studying a new passage of Scripture. Am I right?”

  “I loved to study and could never get enough of it. I wouldn’t dream of cutting class. Jude and Asher wandered into mischief occasionally, but . . . Forgive me. I sounded pompous and prideful. Did you hear our sons’ accusation that I was too ‘perfect,’ and they were tired of being perfect? I’m very far from perfect!”

  “You don’t need to convince me,” she said, laughing. “I’m your wife. And to be honest, I was the same as you, growing up. I wouldn’t have done anything to displease my father.”

  “I’ll have to discipline the boys, of course, but how? Will the rod accomplish anything? And then what? I can hardly watch over them day and night or make them my prisoners.”

  “I know you have to punish them. But can’t you show mercy, too? You’re an expert at applying the Law, but doesn’t the Almighty One temper His law with mercy?”

  “If I thought mercy would make as great of an impression on them as their adventure in Babylon did, I would gladly offer it. If fear of breaking the law didn’t deter them, I’m not sure what will. That’s the trouble with living here in Babylon—all the lines between right and wrong, good and evil, holy and common are starting to blur. I wish our sons saw those lines as clearly as the line between Shabbat and ordinary days. . . . If only we still lived in our own land.”

  “But we don’t. We live in Babylon, and our children will become adults here.”

  “Yes. And who knows what they’ll grow up to be. Their true calling and heritage is to be priests, but that can’t happen. I feel so desperate, Devorah, so afraid we’ll lose them if we don’t do something. They see their excursion into Babylon as simply a day of skipping classes, but it’s so much more than that.”

  Devorah stopped preparing their bed and came to him, holding him in her arms to soothe him. “But, Ezra, the lessons they skipped—I heard the boys say those portions of the Torah don’t apply here in Babylon. And in a way, they’re right.”

  “Yes, and it worries me that they’ve figured it out already at their young age. How far will they take it in the future? Will they continue to exclude portions of God’s Word if they don’t think they need to follow them?”

  He let his arms drop from around her, and she knew he needed to pace while he talked and thought. After more than a dozen years of marriage, Devorah had grown accustomed to Ezra’s need for solitude. He was not as demonstrative with his affection as Jude had been, yet she knew he cared for her—and valued her opinion. He considered her one of his most trusted advisors, an honor more precious and meaningful to her than his embraces.

  “Do you see it, Devorah? The gradual assimilation, the daily compromises we make when we think the little things don’t really matter? If we aren’t careful, we’ll wake up one morning and discover we aren’t a separate people anymore. We’ll look and act and talk just like the Gentiles. This incident with our sons—how do we know it isn’t the first tiny step away from God?”

  She walked to where he stood again and caressed his face, smoothing his beard, which was flecked with gray now like his hair. Rain drummed hard on the flat rooftop above them. “Come to bed, Ezra. I know God will show you what to do about the twins.” She removed her outer robe and climbed into bed. Ezra sank down beside her a moment later and tried to get comfortable, but she doubted he would sleep.

  “It isn’t just our sons’ truancy,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been praying about the apathy of our people for a long time now, and asking God what He wants me to do about it.”

  “Apathy? That’s a very strong word.”

  “Yes, but do you remember what it was like in our community after we defeated our enemies on the Thirteenth of Adar? We were all working together then, and everyone had a renewed passion for God and a desire to serve Him.”

  “I think part of it was fear that if we disobeyed Him again He might not save us the next time,” she said.

  “True, but I also believe there was genuine spiritual renewal going on. It was easy to rise up in faith and heroism when we faced a clear-cut enemy. It’s much harder to resist the enemy of gradualism and assimilation, much harder to maintain a passion for God when we’re bogged down in the daily routine of life.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  He rolled over to face her. “Our ancestors must have experienced spiritual revival after they were delivered from slavery in Egypt, because in that first flush of excitement they told Moses, ‘We will do everything the Lord has said.’ I don’t see that zeal anymore. I see apathy. If people follow God’s laws at all, it’s out of habit or legalism, not love. Some of us are no better than the Gentiles, ignoring God and His laws and then creating our own image of what God is like and what He wants from us.”

  “Ezra, the women I know just want to raise their families in peace. And you can’t blame the young people for craving a little excitement now and then, can you? They long for something different.”

  “I don’t want any of our children to adopt the apathy and carelessness of the people here in Babylon. Our sons think of this place as their home, but it isn’t. The land of Israel is their home. I don’t want them to grow up among these filthy Gentiles, do you?”

  “No, but there’s nothing we can do about it. We live side by side with them.”

  “Did you hear Shallum say the Gentiles he met were nice? Nice, Devorah! Their generation has already forgotten how much the Babylonians hate us. I hate Gentiles and their pagan ways, and I don’t want our family anywhere near them!”

  “We can’t hold our sons captive. They’ll be adults soon.”

  “I know,” Ezra said with a groan. “But listen, Devorah: If I long for a better life for my children, a holy life, wouldn’t God want the same thing for us, His children?”

  He left their bed a few minutes later, but Devorah didn’t go to him. She knew her husband well enough by now to know he needed to wrestle with God alone to find answers to his questions. Besides, Devorah had work to do tomorrow, a home and a family to care for. She sighed and went to sleep.

  Chapter

  32

  Ezra’s words haunted Devorah as she went about her work the next day. Was it true her people were growing apathetic toward the Holy One? That they were slowly becoming like their Gentile neighbors? She thought Ezra’s opinion was a little harsh, but as she stood in line at the well with her water jug, waiting for her turn, the conversation she overheard between two Jewish women changed her mind.

  “Did you have a nice Shabbat?” one woman asked the other.

  “It’s a day like all the others to me,” the second woman replied, waving her hand. “My husband’s employer is a Gentile, and he’d never dream of giving us a day of rest.”

  “But you could still keep the Sabbath, couldn’t you? And not work?”

  “Why bother? We live in Babylon, not Jerusalem.”

  The dismissive words shocked Devorah. She made her way home again, balancing the jar on her head, and thought of the burdens Ezra carried for their entire community.

  Later, she made her way to the open-air market to shop for produce, the noisy bustle of bartering and vendors shouting out the virtues of their wares assaulting her from a distance. The air smelled of spices and ripe leeks and fresh fish. As she squeezed between the tightly packed booths
, through crowds of Jews and Gentiles, she met a friend she hadn’t seen in months. “Have you been away?” Devorah asked her. “We’ve missed you in the house of assembly.”

  “No . . . It’s hard to get there regularly with the children and my husband’s work. You know how it is. . . .” Devorah didn’t reply, but she wondered if Ezra had been right when he’d accused their people of apathy. Devorah and her friend talked about their families for a while, catching up as they haggled with vendors and sniffed melons for freshness. “Your twins will come of age later this year, won’t they?” her friend asked as they sorted through a mound of fragrant garlic. “Aren’t they the same age as my son?”

  “Yes, their bar mitzvah is at the end of this year.”

  “Have you decided on an apprenticeship for them yet? Or are they going to work in the family pottery yard?”

  “Ezra wants them to continue studying in the yeshiva.”

  “What for?” she asked, with a look of surprise. “Won’t they need a trade in order to make a living someday?”

  Devorah bristled. “Ezra studies and teaches and he makes a living—”

  “That’s different. He’s our leader. But why would he want your boys to study something as outdated and impractical as the Torah? What good is it for everyday life here in Babylon?”

  Devorah was too stunned to reply. Her friend said good-bye and they parted, but afterward Devorah was more attuned to the swirl of activity around her. Jews mingled with pagan Gentiles as if there were no differences between them, as if the Thirteenth of Adar had never happened.

  Walking home again, the conversation she overheard between two Jewish women stunned her. “I’ll be planning a wedding for my daughter soon,” one of them said. “My husband is arranging a betrothal for her with his boss’s son.”

  “I thought his boss was a Gentile,” the other replied.

  “He is. But he’s a good man. And he has always treated us kindly.”