by Angela Hunt
Was Rosana talking about an attitude? When I got on my knees before Judah, I wanted to express my regret and my sorrow. I adopted that posture because I wanted to signal my willingness to do anything, be anything . . .
I had never lain down before Adonai. Even though I had heard the stories about Daniel and David and Moses and Joshua, I never thought of Him as the sort of God who cared about individuals. Those men were exceptional, and I was only an ordinary girl. I wasn’t called to be a prophetess like Miriam or a judge like Deborah. I was only me, a girl with no particular calling, while Adonai was high, lifted up, and usually angry.
Still . . . what harm would it do?
I left my washing on the rocks and climbed the sandy bank until I reached level ground. After glancing left and right to be sure no one else was around, I sank down and stretched out on the sand, placing my cheek against the earth and extending my arms. Any passerby who saw me would think me crazy. The ground was warm and soothing. The sun kissed my ankles as the wind ruffled my hair.
“Adonai,” I whispered, “if you see me . . .”
A cloud moved over the sun, covering me in a cool shade.
“I have lain myself down. Do you have something to say to me?”
Somewhere a bird wailed, lancing the silence. Then I heard something—not the bird or the wind, not the brook or the rattling palm. A voice echoed in my head but seemed to come from outside me:
Love him. As I love you.
I caught my breath, desperate to hear more, but though I waited a long time, I heard nothing but the sounds of nature.
I sat up and brushed sand from my hands, cheek, and tunic. “How silly,” I announced to anyone who might be listening. “Rosana has made me look a fool.”
But as I went back down to the creek, those words kept replaying in my head: Love him. As I love you.
As hard as the first words were to accept, the last were a balm to my wounded soul.
I knew I could not have one without the other.
Love him. As I love you.
I found myself arguing with the first point. Hadn’t I married Judah? Didn’t I sleep with him and wash his clothes? Didn’t I allow him the use of my body when he desired it?
But even as I argued, I knew my actions were a far cry from what love demanded. Real love—the love I witnessed every day between Simon and Morit, and Eleazar and Ona, required mutual support. Morit and Ona would do anything their husbands asked, and their husbands would never do anything that might hurt their wives.
When Mattathias had embarked on his bloody mission, Rosana understood his motivation and silently supported his intentions. In the passing years, even when the war required that we uproot our lives and go into the wilderness empty-handed, I never heard her complain about Mattathias’s actions or his zeal for Adonai.
Surely love existed between Rosana and her husband. What existed between my parents?
My father had certainly not loved my mother. He never supported her, cared for her, or sacrificed for her. I do not recall ever hearing him utter a tender word about her, nor did I ever see him give her anything, even something as simple as a smile, that might make her happy.
And while my mother feared my father, she did not love him. She trembled at his approach, barely tolerated his presence, and tried to avoid him whenever possible. She remained with him because she had no other options, and because he would undoubtedly track her down and kill her if she left.
Love had not existed in my home, except . . . Mother loved me. How many times had she said or done something to deflect Father’s anger from me? How many times had she sent me out of the house so that I wouldn’t have to deal with him? How many times had she warned me not to do something that might trigger his anger?
Mother had urged me to marry, not because she wanted to be rid of me, but because she wanted to keep me safe. And she hoped I would find love.
I closed my eyes and let my mind travel back to my wedding day. Judah had been so careful, tender, and respectful. He was not crude or rough or demanding. Even in the early days as I settled into life with his family, he deferred to me, placing my desires above those of his brothers, his sisters-in-law, and even his parents.
He had demonstrated love for me since the beginning. And, being unfamiliar with love, I didn’t recognize it.
By the time I opened my eyes, my thoughts had crystallized. Mother loved me, Judah loved me, and Rosana loved me, because she had given me truth instead of chiding me for making my husband unhappy. I had not been overloved in my life, but I had been cherished.
Whom had I cherished in return?
I searched through the winding length of my memories and came up with nothing and no one.
I had feared my father. I had despised my mother for what I perceived as weakness. And I had withheld love from Judah because he would not honor me before HaShem.
I knew very little about loving, but perhaps I could learn.
Chapter Forty-Five
Judah
Leah and I were enjoying the peace of a spring afternoon when I heard Johanan’s voice. I peered through the window and saw him approaching the house with Simon and several other men. I recognized Jokin, an old and esteemed Torah teacher from another village. He and his well-dressed friends were approaching with purposeful intent in their walk.
“See if we have something to offer visitors,” I told Leah, stepping away from the window. “I believe we have guests.”
I welcomed my brothers and their friends, then stood back to let them into the house. They sat on the carpet and filled the small space as Leah shyly offered honey water to ease their thirst.
Wasting no time with pleasantries, Jokin, the old teacher, immediately spoke his mind. “We have come to see you, Judah Maccabaeus, because you have been much on our minds.”
I blinked at the unexpected announcement. “Why is that?”
The men glanced at each other, then Jokin lifted his hand and began counting off his reasons. “First, you have delivered us from the Seleucids. Second, you show true zeal for Adonai. Third, you have proven you are a leader of men. Fourth, you are a better leader than Onias, our current high priest, because he has done nothing to stop the Gentile oppression.”
“Johanan told us you have sworn you will not be king,” another man said. “So if you are not meant to be our king, what will your title be?”
I grinned. “Isn’t Judah Maccabaeus name enough for any man?”
“If you will not be king”—the man continued as if he had not heard me—“then perhaps you would be our high priest. After all, your father belonged to the house of Joarib, so you are a descendant of Aaron.”
I shook my head. “Onias is the high priest, and rightfully so. What he does or does not do for Israel—well, one day he will account for his actions.”
Johanan spread his hands. “Perhaps there is another possibility.”
“Such as?”
My brother sucked at the inside of his cheek for a moment, his brows working. “Jokin believes you may be the Messiah.”
I barked a laugh, expecting the others to join in, but no one did. Not even Leah, who stood at the back of the room and looked at me as if she had never seen me before.
“Yes, the Messiah,” Jokin said. “Consider the words of the prophet Isaiah: ‘He has sent me to tell those who mourn that the time of the Lord’s favor has come, and with it, the day of God’s anger against their enemies. To all who mourn in Israel, He will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair.’”
“Have you not comforted Israel?” Simon asked, intently studying my face. “Did you not sweep away the ashes of Jerusalem and rebuild the Temple?”
I frowned because I could not argue.
“And we cannot forget the prophecies of Ezekiel,” Jokin added. “He wrote of the wicked king, whom you have chased from our land, and of the humble Messiah who will come. Listen: ‘This is what the Sovereign LORD says: “Take off
your jeweled crown, for the old order changes. Now the lowly will be exalted, and the mighty will be brought down. Destruction! Destruction! I will surely destroy the kingdom. And it will not be restored until the one appears who has the right to judge it. Then I will hand it over to him.”’”
I gave Johanan a look of disbelief. “I have no right to judge anyone.”
“But you rebuilt Jerusalem!” Johanan insisted. “You brought down the mighty king.”
“Not so,” I insisted. “I chased his men away, but they will be back.”
My guests protested in unison.
“Do the prophets not say the Messiah is to be a son of Judah?” I asked. “I am a son of Levi, and I am not a prophet.”
Johanan’s brows drew into an affronted frown. “Then what are you?”
I considered a moment. “A captain?”
Johanan laughed, and after a moment Jokin tugged on his beard and nodded. “Perhaps you are right. You shall be our Messiah Malhamah, the Deliverer Anointed for War. You are the one Moses referred to when he said, ‘When you are about to go into battle, the cohen is to come forward and address the people. He should tell them not to be fainthearted or afraid because Adonai is going with them to fight on their behalf.’ You will be our cohen.”
Johanan smiled. “That is what you have been doing, so that is what you are. Our Deliverer Anointed for War.”
I fell silent and considered all my men had accomplished over the past months. We had won at Beth-horon and Emmaus. We had defeated Apollonius and Seron and Lysias. We had restored the Temple and made good progress on rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem. We had gained no new territory, but we had reclaimed land that rightfully belonged to Israel.
Could the old man be right?
Leaning forward, I clasped my hands and looked around the circle. “I am honored by your visit, friends, but I am content with what Adonai has given me. I need no title.”
Jokin smiled. “Nonetheless, you shall have one—at least when I speak of you.”
I sighed, knowing it would do no good to argue.
The men drained their cups, then stood to embrace me and make their farewells.
As I lingered at the window and watched them go, Leah came to stand behind me. She leaned against me, lightly resting her hand on my arm. “How can you refuse them?” she asked. “They wanted to honor you. They would have given you any title you wanted.”
I managed a choking laugh. “I am neither a messiah nor a king. I have no right to rule over others.”
She stepped around, sliding between me and the window. “How can you say that? You have been ruling over your warriors. You have been able to persuade our people to work together, while in your father’s day no one would stand up to the Hellenes. What your father began, you have finished.”
I slipped my hands around her waist and kissed her forehead. “Do not tempt me, wife, to be what HaShem never intended. I am going out to check on the goats. I will be back for dinner.”
She did not object when I picked up my staff, but I was glad she had spoken freely and that she had offered an affectionate touch. The bond between us was yet as fragile as a daisy, and though the warrior in me burned to punish the man who had twisted her thinking, I could do nothing to a man already dead.
Chapter Forty-Six
Leah
I watched Judah go, but I did not believe him immune to the lure of power and exaltation. What man would not want to be king if offered riches and authority? My father spent his life trying to rule the Jerusalem marketplace. He thirsted for power, influence, and riches more than anything, and if he had been sitting beside Judah during the conversation with the elders, he would have urged my husband to accept their title—indeed, he would have taken a title himself if he could find a way to get one.
Why was Judah not ambitious? I had seen signs of ambition in Johanan, my brother-in-law. I had seen it in men at the marketplace and even in the village children as they played with their wooden swords. The boys yearned to be victorious, to be declared the best at their games, and to stand alone in victory.
Ambition seemed to beat in the heart of every man—the quality seemed as much a part of manhood as muscle and sinew.
But Judah, an inner voice reminded me, was not like anyone else.
I took a deep breath as realization bloomed in my chest. I had married an unusual man, and humility was only one of his rare qualities. He seemed to be content no matter where he was, in the goat pen or on the battlefield.
I moved to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him working, and saw Eleazar brushing a stallion he’d brought home after the latest battle. The family had prospered since the war began, and Eleazar was becoming known for his handsome horses.
And all Judea knew my husband’s name.
Judah could certainly become king if he wished it. The people loved him, his enemies feared him, and his ambition, though deeply buried, might flower were his victories to continue.
Yet Judah insisted he had been born to be a warrior and nothing higher than that.
If he had been born to be a warrior, what had I been born to be? The thought that HaShem might have a purpose for my life was new to me. I knew scores of women who grew up, married, and birthed children. I had seen old women die after accomplishing little more than these things. I had always assumed I would do the same, but what if HaShem intended me to do more?
I laughed aloud at the thought. What more could a woman do? I could not read or write. I had no money or property of my own. I was bound to a husband and part of a family. I had no great talents and few skills. A cheesemaker could only get so far, especially in a little place like Modein.
And yet . . . I was married to a hero of Israel, a man who was attempting to do what countless others had either been too afraid or too unskilled to attempt. Of all the men I could have married, HaShem had chosen me for Judah.
Why? Was it to bear Judah’s children? I had already failed at that, though not intentionally. If not to bear Judah’s heir, then perhaps I was meant to do something else.
I glanced around the house, looking for some clue, but nothing in our humble household evoked any feeling in my heart. If HaShem had a special task for me to perform, He would have to personally reveal it.
Part IV
When the Gentiles round about heard that the altar had been built and the sanctuary dedicated as it was before, they became very angry, and they determined to destroy the descendants of Jacob who lived among them. So they began to kill and destroy among the people.
But Judah made war on the sons of Esau in Idumea, at Akrabattene, because they kept lying in wait for Israel. He dealt them a heavy blow and humbled them and despoiled them.
1 Maccabees 5:1–3
Chapter Forty-Seven
Judah
Now that you have frightened the lion away from the flock,” Mother told me one afternoon, “you must tend to the rats who are stealing the grain.”
I did not know what she meant until I came in from the fields one afternoon and saw a group of men waiting at the well. They looked familiar and introduced themselves as a delegation from Hebron who had fought with me during the war. To join the army of Israel, they had gone off and left their villages unprotected. When they returned home, they discovered that sons of Esau, men from Idumea, had forced their women, children, and elderly parents out of their homes and into the wilderness.
“We joined our families in the desert,” one man said, “but the situation is so dire that the hills of Hebron can scarcely be said to belong to Israel anymore. We need help driving the Edomites out of our territory.”
How could I refuse to help them? They had risked everything to fight for Israel, so I could not ignore their request.
“I will help you,” I promised. “We will drive the sons of Esau back to their lands so they will leave you alone.”
After a discussion with my brothers and a time of prayer, I sent runners to summon the army. We assembled at Mizpah and made plans to
travel south. After gathering provisions, we marched over the land David had wandered when hiding from Saul. We slept in caves around Ziph and Carmel. Finally we entered the great dusty desert that runs eastward from Beersheba to the cliffs above the Dead Sea. At that point the land descends in abrupt steps toward Sinai and Petra. Above the lifeless salt marsh, the pass of Akrabbim led us to a high plateau fifty miles from Jerusalem.
From the vantage point of the plateau we looked out and saw a host of the sons of Esau. The Horites from Petra, the sons of Bean from Rehoboth, and hundreds of Bedouin had come together for their annual incursion into the cornfields and vineyards belonging to the Jews of Hebron. Before they could carry away more crops our people had planted, we swooped down from the high plateau and drove them back to Mount Hor, where they took refuge in their desert fortress.
We did not want to conquer their land; we only wanted them to leave ours. So we withdrew, content to know that our brothers would be able to go back to their farms and villages.
Then we traveled to the highlands north of Heshbon and marched to the edge of the great oak forest of Mount Gilead. Under the leadership of Timotheus, their chief, the Ammonites had overtaken that territory and were harassing Jewish villages. After several skirmishes, we defeated Timotheus, finally attacking and overthrowing Jazer, an Ammonite city forty miles east of Jerusalem.
Grateful for the victories HaShem had granted, we returned home and were met by women, who sang and waved palm branches in recognition of our victory.
One of them, I noted with pleasant surprise, was my wife.
The lion remained silent, but rats continued to steal the grain.
We had been home no more than a month when we learned of troubles in the east, north, and west. The Jews of Mount Gilead, whom we had recently rescued from Timotheus, had been attacked again and forced to leave their villages; the Jews of Galilee were being afflicted by Phoenicians and foreigners living in Accho, Tyre, and Galilee; and the ever-troublesome Philistines kept harassing villages on the western borderlands between Israel and Philistia.
