Glory to God in the highest!
And on earth peace to the people with whom he is pleased!
How long the enormous chorus lasted, Simon did not know. The air itself was the music of these angels. When they withdrew again to heaven, and the night was dark, Simon thought he could hear nothing but what he had heard, Gloria, still ringing in his ears; and he thought he was blinded to the common things around him, stone and sheep, his companions and his own hand.
But the older man that had been snoring whispered, “Simon?”—and Simon heard that very well.
“Simon,” said the shepherd, “did you see that, too?”
Simon gazed solemnly at his friend and under common starlight nodded.
The third shepherd joined them.
The old man gaped at them both and whispered, “And did you hear what the angel said to us?”
Simon nodded.
“It was the Lord,” the old man said. “It was the Lord who made these things known to us.”
Simon stepped out of the sheepfold and carefully closed the gate. He pushed the gate of the goats, testing its latch, then he began to walk up the northwest slope of the valley. The other men joined him. At the crest of the hill Simon broke into a run. Faster and faster he ran, until he was flying. His heart was very light. His legs were tireless. His eye saw the fires of Bethlehem immediately, and he kept his sight there while they grew to meet his nearness.
Simon did not even pause at the edge of town. He sailed the narrow streets knowing nothing, yet trusting his foot to find the right place. And it did.
Here, cut in limestone under a large inn, was a cave. Inside the cave was the soft glow of an oil lantern. Simon crept forward, the first of the three to arrive. He bent down and, emboldened by the angel’s word, entered.
In the shadows of a single flame, Simon saw a man sitting down, a large man with a great, fierce beard all round his face. The man nodded and did not challenge Simon. So the young shepherd lingered and looked and saw a woman resting upon the man’s knees. She seemed exhausted, but she was awake. Beside her was a stone manger. Within the manger, clean yellow straw. Upon the straw, wrapped in strips of linen cloth, was a baby also awake and watchful.
Simon sighed. The air went forth from him in a long and inarticulate sound: A Savior! The Messiah!
As the other two shepherds crept in and knelt by Simon, the woman glanced up and smiled.
“Mother,” Simon said, “your baby is the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. As soft as the nose of a lamb.”
The older shepherd gave Simon a rude poke.
“As soft,” said Simon, “as the pillar of cloud by day.”
The baby closed his eyes and slept.
The shepherds all covered their faces with their hands. After a while, they turned and left.
V
BY THE EIGHTH DAY of the child’s life, Joseph had found lodgings for his little family. There was a room, therefore, shelter and water, quietness and privacy for the circumcision of the boy.
Mary laid him naked upon her knees. Joseph knelt before them—then, pulling the flesh with one hand and cutting around it with a knife in the other, he removed the infant foreskin.
The baby’s eyes popped open. For a moment he seemed to be considering some vile offense in the world. Then his mouth opened, he drew breath, and he released a long, loud, lusty yell. Mary laughed at his infant shock. Her laughter bounced the baby left and right on her knees. Joseph, who was trying to wash the little wound, could scarcely catch it.
“Mary,” he said. But he was a soft-spoken man. Who could hear him?
He called again, “Mary!”
But her voice was a gloria of angels. The tears had moistened her black lashes. They caused a radiance around her eyes. The baby’s tears were merely angry.
“Mary!”
“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, I know, I know: his name will be Jesus.”
As soon as she said Jesus, the laughter died within her. She gathered the little boy to her bosom, and his fussing, too, was stilled, and the room was quiet now.
Joseph murmured, “Yes. His name is Yehoshuah—Jeshua. His name is Jesus.”
WHEN THE TIME CAME for them to be purified according to the law of Moses, Joseph and Mary carried the baby to the temple in Jerusalem and then back to Bethlehem again, all in a single day.
At noon they approached the temple Mount from the south, amazed at the long white elegance of the Royal porches facing them. Hushed with humility, the carpenter and his wife entered the crowded colonnade and moved among four endless rows of columns which supported lofty ceilings, all covered with carvings, like the very heaven for richness! They crept from table to table where merchants were doing business.
Finally, they purchased two turtledoves to offer as a sacrifice, then went into the great open Court of the Gentiles.
They walked to the east side of the stone balustrade which surrounded the inner courts and the temple itself—the wall beyond which Gentiles could not pass, under penalty of death. They went through the Gate called “Beautiful” into the Court of Women.
Once there, Joseph took the baby Jesus into the crook of his left arm; he held the turtledoves in his right hand and prepared to go alone into the innermost Court of the Priests and Israelites, where the Altar of Burnt Offering was—
But a man cried, “Wait!”
He was an old man. His motion was crippled by his great age. But his manner was categorical: instinctively, Joseph obeyed and waited while the man approached.
“This is the one!” he cried. “This is the one whom the Holy Spirit promised I would see!”
His shouting was high and whining. He drew a great deal of attention. “Oh, Simeon!” people muttered. They were used to his presence here. He returned every day, saying that he would see the Messiah before he died.
“Oh, Simeon!” they said. But the old man seemed shameless, so filled with one thought that no other thought had meaning for him.
“Give us the child,” he panted as he came to Joseph. “Let these poor bony arms touch and cradle the Lord’s Christ. Yes! Yes—”
Again, Joseph obeyed.
The baby was awake and unafraid. He gazed up into the fierce and ancient face of the man named Simeon, and Simeon whispered, “Yes, yes. O Lord, yes! I’m ready. I can die in peace, now, as you promised. These poor dim eyes are seeing the salvation which you have prepared for the whole world, a revelation for the Gentiles and glory for your people, Israel!”
Neither Joseph nor Mary said a word. They stared at the stranger who held their baby, gaunt old man, bent down and bony.
Suddenly he raised his face and peered into Mary’s eyes.
“Your baby is set like a building stone in the scheme of things,” he said. “Many in Israel will fall because of him. Many will rise. But he is a sign, woman, whom most will deny.” Simeon narrowed his eye and lowered his voice to a private whisper: “Indeed, a sword will pierce through your own soul, too! All the secret thoughts of the people are going to be revealed.”
Simeon handed her the baby. Mary took him and held him, and still she made no answer. But neither did she forget. Everything that was said and done in the early days of Jesus’ life his mother kept in her heart—everything, pondering continually and seeking understanding.
KING HEROD WAS FAMILIAR with the eastern custom of paying homage to potentates upon significant occasions.
Six years ago, when he had finished building Caesarea on the sea and was dedicating it by a magnificent series of athletic contests, certain envoys arrived from nations abroad with gifts of rare value. They came to pay homage to Herod. They came in caravans, camels and donkeys and carts full of goods, and they were received as grandly as they came. It was a tradition the king appreciated.
Herod himself had sent gifts westward to Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus when that man became “Augustus.” At other times he met Caesar face-to-face to offer his personal homage. When he sent his sons to Rome, they had carried heaps of eastern trea
sures. And in return Caesar called him a “friend and confederate.”
It was not strange, then, that in these latter days a caravan arrived from the east. Magi had come to pay homage in Jerusalem. And though there had been no communication to prepare him for the envoy, King Herod waited to receive their request for an audience. He waited to be gracious unto them.
The request never came.
Instead, it was told to Herod that the Magi were asking questions about someone else—one who had just been born king of the Jews.
“We have seen his star in the East,” they said, “and we’ve come to worship him.”
Him? Who?
Herod was very sick in those days. He couldn’t walk; he could not bend his joints without pain. His legs and feet lacked blood and were perpetually cold; an aching as hard as stone in his shinbones; his toes were turning black.
Of his own accord, however, he sent word to the Magi that good rulers grant their guests a visitation. If they had needs, he said, he would be pleased to satisfy them. Would they wish to present themselves at the door of his palace? Though he could not come out to them, they would surely be welcome within.
In the meantime Herod began to think in extremes. What bloodline would foreigners know about? Who held any greater right to the throne than he? Jews, surely; but Davidic Jews! A son of David had always sat on the throne until the exile—and even then it was prophesied that such a son would be anointed again. “Anointed” in Hebrew is Messiah.
Suddenly Herod was shooting down the halls of his palace, commanding his scribes to seek out certain information: was there a prophecy regarding the anointed one of God? The Messiah? Saying where he would be born?
Yes! Dreadfully, there was such a prophecy. Scribes brought to Herod the scroll of the prophet Micah, and they read it aloud in his hearing:
And you, O Bethlehem in the land of Judah,
are by no means least among the rulers of Judah;
for from you will come forth a ruler
who will shepherd my people Israel.
“Ahhh!” A foul sound escaped the old king’s mouth: “Bethlehem!”
The men from the east were grateful for Herod’s invitation. They accepted, and with great ceremony they entered his palace and then his apartments.
Herod contrived to smile. He looked at the Magi, these readers of stars, men of no royalty nor any apparent distinction, and he smiled.
“How long since the birthing star appeared?” he asked.
Bowing and scraping—obsequious fools!—they told him.
“Ahhh. Yes,” said Herod. “Well, the little king whom you are seeking is likely to have been born in Bethlehem. It’s a short journey south of here. Go to Bethlehem. Search diligently for the child. And when you have found him, bring me word, that I may go and worship him, too.”
The Magi left him.
By nighttime they had left Jerusalem, too—somewhat sooner than Herod had expected.
EARLY IN THE MORNING Mary woke to hear soft noises outside the house where they were lodging, the sudden blast of camels blowing air through their narrow nostrils.
Camels?
She moved the lattice and looked out. Camels—yes, indeed. Camels were resting on their bellies in the road, their haughty heads held high as if they belonged right here in Bethlehem.
Some people were gathered on the far side of the beasts, servants, it seemed. On the near side, standing and talking with Joseph, were three men of great dignity and subtle mystery. Her poor husband was uncomfortable. He stood with his huge hands helpless by his thighs, his whiskers twitching around invisible fits of anguish; yet the civility of the three foreign men seemed in no way disturbed by the carpenter’s bluff inhospitality.
One of them touched Joseph’s shoulder and pointed toward the house. Joseph began, then, to nod and nod. He turned and walked toward the door of the house. The three men bent down and picked up boxes of various sizes and followed Joseph.
Swiftly Mary withdrew from the window. She pulled on a loose blue robe, rushed to her baby and gathered him up in her arms, then stood in the middle of the room facing the door.
It opened.
Joseph came in, speechless—shrugging his shoulders, whirling his eyebrows, trying desperately to communicate something to Mary, but speechless.
Behind him, one by one, the men of foreign raiment and foreign aspect entered the room. They glanced at Mary and nodded. But they gazed long and long at Jesus.
Suddenly the three men bowed all the way down to the ground. They leaned forward and pressed their foreheads to the floor. Delighted by the motion, the swirling sound of robes, and the rush of new odors in the room, the baby raised his two hands and waved them furiously in the air, grinning with his whole mouth, jumping in his mother’s arms, and cackling.
The three men sat back upon their heels, and each placed his box at Mary’s feet.
The first man opened his box and lifted out a dull yellow medallion. Gold.
The second man took out small cakes of an incense for burning.
The third man showed to the child a small white alabaster flask which, when he pulled the stopper from it, filled the room with mysterious smells. “Oil of myrrh,” he whispered, “a gift for the king of the Jews.”
Little Jesus grew solemn. His eyes became still and grave—a golden color. Apparently myrrh had a strong effect on the child.
The camels outside blew heavy steams of breath into the air.
And Mary took the alabaster flask and closed it with its stopper. She, too, had grown sober and uncomfortable. Graciously she bent her head and acknowledged the veneration of the Magi. But privately to Joseph she said, “Put these things away. Hide them. I think they are dangerous for our son.”
HEROD NEVER SAW nor heard from the Magi again.
In three days he sent servants to Bethlehem to see why they were lingering so long. The servants returned to say that they were not lingering at all. They had vanished.
There was no hint of a smile in the king’s face now. His eyelids grew heavy with insult and fear and an ancient, unrequited rage. His countenance turned white. He did not sleep. By the morning of the fourth day he had made three decisions.
Before the noonday sun was high, each decision had become a public decree; by the afternoon each was in process; by night all would be done.
First: King Herod sent a command to the prison officials responsible for guarding his son Antipater. “Since the man has been found guilty of conspiring in the death of my brother Pheroras, and since I, Herod, can discover no reason whatever for clemency, crucify him.”
Second: King Herod sent an entire regiment of his army to Bethlehem with the absolute, irrevocable order to break into the houses of its citizens; to find and identify every male child two years old and younger, to gather these babies in an open place—and to kill them, every one.
Third: King Herod required his personal servants again to prepare a caravan—as well as his personal palanquin—for an extended journey. The pain in his legs was intolerable. His fingers had grown cold as night and had fixed themselves in a clench. He desperately needed relief. All he could think of now was to lower his troubled body into the hot baths of Callirrhoe.
Two days later, the old king was laid upon mountains of soft blankets, wrapped inside his palanquin, and hoisted to the shoulders of his servants, young and strong.
But the slightest motion was to him such torment that they stopped often and made very slow progress down the hard road from Jerusalem to Jericho. Indeed, that little trip, not halfway to Callirrhoe, consumed three days of the king’s life.
And so it was that five days after his final murders, a son and hundreds of sons, King Herod himself ceased breathing. He died lying on pillows in Jericho, his eyes wide open, seeing nothing.
VI
BY THE TIME the soldiers had arrived in Bethlehem to kill the children, Joseph was gone. The Lord had warned him in a dream, and he had fled with his family south to Egypt. Later, when t
hey heard of Herod’s expiration, they returned by a round route to Nazareth, avoiding Judea altogether. Archelaus, Herod’s son, ruled that province now, and he was a man more brutal than his father.
Gladly Mary and Joseph came back to their own small house again, and this child entered his life with a common baby joy.
Jesus was by nature healthy, alert to the world around him, quick to learn, quicker to touch and to test. He had his mother’s spacious forehead and, like her, the smooth intensity of balanced eyebrows—though she was always likelier to laugh than he was.
All through these years, Mary maintained her delight in life, and Jesus was the apple of her eye. Daily he gave her reasons for laughing. “Yeshi!” she would cry, lifting her hands helplessly to heaven, “Oh, Yeshi, a little salt makes a very big hunger. A lot makes a very bad face!”
So Mary would laugh and Jesus would wrinkle his small face in quizzical smiles.
He climbed the hill behind Nazareth. He prowled the highland, exploring even to the brow of the hill that overlooked the Esdraelon Valley. His mother found him there, and she did not laugh. Neither did she cry out, though he could have fallen to his death. Quietly she came and sat beside him and surrounded him with a strong arm, and pressed him to her side, where her heart still hammered in fear.
She pointed to the puzzle-patches of farmland that covered the valley floor.
She whispered, “Right there, Yeshi. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago. There was a prophetess named Deborah who destroyed Jabin the king of Canaan—right there—because Jabin’s army was riding in chariots and God sent a rainstorm and the rain turned the whole valley to mud and the chariot wheels got stuck.”
Mary began to rock her body. She hummed three notes, and then she sang:
The kings, they came and fought;
by the waters that flowed past Megiddo
great Canaan arrived to fight,
but they got no spoils of silver.
March on! March on!
The Book of God: The Bible as a Novel Page 55
