“I ceased when I was born,” he said, “because your law would not permit me to love God.”
“You cannot break God’s law and later love Him,” the old man reasoned.
“Christ offers us a way,” Menahem said, and he turned his back on the old rabbi, never to speak with him again.
The public baptism of Yohanan and his tall son provided Father Eusebius with his first opportunity for a religious celebration, so on Friday morning a canopy was erected over the spot where El and El-Shaddai and Antiochus Epiphanes had once been worshiped, and there the tall Spaniard in robes of purple silk stood to receive the supplicant Jews while a chorus chanted Byzantine rituals and Rabbi Asher learned the hard facts of life. Certain faithful Jews had come to him with plans for disrupting the baptism of the renegades and he had counseled them to abandon such ideas, but when these hotheads saw the two Jews actually move forward to join the new church their tempers were inflamed and they began to murmur in protest. From nowhere, it seemed, Byzantine soldiers stationed for that purpose moved in and with silent efficiency muffled the would-be troublemakers. When Rabbi Asher stepped forward to intervene two Byzantines who had been detailed to watch him grabbed him as if he were a sack of groats and tossed him back into the rear ranks.
“You behave, old goat, or …” They jabbed him in the belly with their spears. He tried to protest this too, but a coarse hand smothered his mouth and the soldier growled, “Shut up, damn you!” And the solemn ritual of baptism began.
Father Eusebius, refusing to acknowledge the commotion, approached the kneeling Jews with a phial of holy water, and as the choir sang in Greek, dipped his fingers in the water and touched father and son on the head, telling them first in Latin and then in broken Hebrew certain religious facts which would later become important: “With this water you are joined to the holy Christian church of west and east. You are forever a part of that seamless robe and nothing can wash away this sacred baptism, It cannot be burned away, nor cut away. Neither punishment nor threat of death can reverse this decision, for you are now full members in the brotherhood of Christ. You are set free from the old law and you embrace the new.” He raised the two former Jews to their feet and kissed each on the cheek, presenting them to the congregation, to whom he said, “John the stonecutter, who is helping us to build our basilica, now belongs to that basilica. His son Mark, who was an outcast among you, is outcast no more. Accept these two as your brothers,” and Christians cheered as Rabbi Asher and his Jews stood silent.
It was now the eve of Shabbat, and no further protest was made, for all who might have caused trouble were in synagogue. But on Saturday when nightfall ended Shabbat, young Jews led by Abraham and Jael gathered and decided on a gesture of defiance. Creeping silently past Byzantine guards they drenched a tax collector’s home with oil and set it afire. As stars appeared over the sea the beacon of Jewish resistance flamed in the sky and was noticed by the night watch in Ptolemais, whose governor dispatched a ship to Antioch, requesting the German army to march south with all speed.
In Makor relative peace descended upon the troubled community, thanks principally to Father Eusebius, who showed Christian forbearance as his response to the disturbances. Masking any bitterness he might have felt he did not summon Rabbi Asher but went to him at the groats mill, saying, “I was told this morning that the German troops are on their way to Ptolemais, and unless I halt them there, they’ll come here to punish the troublemakers. Now neither you nor I want those hard-handed Germans in Makor. So I will order them to stay away if you will order your Jews to end these disturbances.”
Rabbi Asher, already distressed by the brazen behavior of his Jews, could visualize the German army leaving Antioch for the march to Ptolemais, from which like their Roman predecessors they would fan out across the Galilee—as if history, like a folksong, never tired of repetitions—and he promised Father Eusebius, “I will do my best to discipline the Jews.” So he explained to his younger members how they should react to the sudden ascendancy of the Christian church: “We must exist in harmony, and this we cannot do if there is misunderstanding or envy. In Makor today we see two daughters of God, the old Jewish religion and the young Christian church, and for a while there may be contention, but the two religions remind me of old Rabbi Eliezer and his young pupil Akiba. There was a drought and the old man prayed nine times for rain without success. So Rabbi Akiba prayed once, and with his first words came rain. The Jews hailed him as the true prophet and this deeply wounded Eliezer, but Akiba went to him and said, ‘There was a king who had two daughters, one old and wise, the other young and headstrong. When the gentle sister came before him with some request the king would be reluctant to grant it, hoping to keep his daughter near him, for her voice was pleasant to his ears. But when the harsh and noisy younger child screamed for something, the king gave it to her right away, for he wanted to get her out of the palace.’ God has by no means forgotten you merely because He grants the requests of your younger sister.”
When Rabbi Asher was satisfied that he had quieted his headstrong Jews he decided to return to Tverya, where his permanent responsibility lay: he could remember how once he had been misled into thinking that the building of a synagogue was the chore God demanded of him, and he did not propose to be diverted now by minor political troubles; his job was to build a fence around the Torah and to explain both the fence and the Torah to the young students at the yeshiva. But when word of his intended departure reached Father Eusebius the Spaniard was astonished that his colleague could think of leaving Makor at this crucial moment and he sent a soldier to the groats mill, and the Christian said, “Father Eusebius wants to see you. Now.”
The words were ominous, but in a spirit of conciliation Rabbi Asher brushed the dust from his clothes and followed the soldier, standing at last, a little man in a long white beard, before the Spaniard, who smiled and said gently, “I heard this morning that you intend returning to Tiberias.” He used the Roman name. “Is that wise?”
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 the
ir 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.
The Source: A Novel Page 71
