The Angel and the Cross

by Sigmund Brouwer

  To hide the catch in his voice, he spoke gruffly. “Let’s stop here. If I hit another boulder. . .”

  They stopped and huddled together beneath the blanket to seek sleep.

  “Shel,” he said as a sudden thought hit him, “I know your father is a leader of the Zealots, but who is Urbal the Wise? I heard his name as they dragged me from the palace and -”

  Quentin heard a sharp intake of air beside him. Shel placed a hand on his arm. “Please,” she begged, “Urbal the Wise is a man who travels among the Zealots, unknown by all. All are in fear of him. Please do not mention that name again. It could cost you your life to know it.”

  “But -”

  “No!” she pleaded with urgency.

  Quentin did not press at the obvious fear in her voice. Still, he wondered. Why such mystery?

  “Shall we continue?” Shel asked.

  “Yes.” Quentin took another blind step and smacked into a boulder. Then another boulder. It seemed they were surrounded.

  “No,” Quentin said with weariness. “Let’s stop. It seems like progress is impossible, anyway.”

  **

  As Quentin drifted into sleep with Shel’s steady breathing beside him, he thought about her coolness under pressure. Come morning, he would thank her for forcing him back to the cart. Without the blanket to protect them from the sand, they would have been dead.

  But morning was a long, dark night away.

  What would come then? Quentin mulled over his plan. The events of the day had happened too quickly. He had not had time to think. But during their walk in the night, he had examined his next course of action.

  They were lost, that was a fact. Step one – find his way back to the city. Step two – escape from Shel’s watchful dark eyes. Step three – sneak into the palace and present himself to his father, who would most surely recognize him. Step four – denounce Eli, that traitorous old man who had given him so easily to the Zealots. Step five – with his father’s help, find Urbal the Wise, this unknown mastermind behind the Zealots, taking care not to betray Shel or her father, Barabbas. After all, she had tried to save his life by getting out of the cart first. Step six? Maybe some day he would meet Shel again somewhere in Jericho and…

  Quentin snorted to himself. Here he was, playing a child’s games. No Roman would entertain such romantic thoughts about a Jew – especially a Zealot who refused to tell him what plans her group had had for him. So what if he could marry at the age of sixteen, as was customary? No Roman would seriously consider -

  What was that? Quentin felt a presence looming over them.

  Had the bandits followed them this quietly?

  Yes, there it was again – the undefined feeling that someone was near, just outside of the range of their vision.

  Angel Blog

  It was me, of course, very determined not to let any harm reach them.

  The stakes were too high in Our Father’s plan for the great victory against the Evil One.

  Quentin and Shel didn’t know it, but the battle for the great victory between Our Father and the Evil One was reaching the end moves.

  On a very recent Sabbath, in another part of Judea perhaps 40 miles away, another Jewish rebel had just survived a fight.

  Not like the fight you would expect in a Hollywood production. And this man did not seem the type to cause so much trouble for Quentin and the Roman occupiers of that small, dusty land.

  But make no mistake; it was a showdown.

  Not that Quentin or Shel even knew of the man’s existence. I did, of course. As with all angels at that point in human time, I was acutely aware of every step this man took and every word he spoke. Don’t ask how; just accept that this was the way it was.

  It was a showdown in front of a packed synagogue audience. Think small church, and you’ll understand, except the women and children weren’t allowed to sit with the men.

  On one side of the showdown was the lone man. A miracle worker, some claimed. Others said he received his power from the devil. Either way, he drew large crowds. And the religious leaders didn’t like him much.

  Those religious leaders were on the other side, in the synagogue, facing the rebel with much contempt and some hidden fear. These were the town’s respected elders, the judges and arbitrators of morality.

  And walking forward, squeezing his way through the audience, was a common man with a withered hand. He was one of the forgotten poor of the village, a man unable to do a man’s work, now unaccustomed to the sudden attention focused on him.

  This was the showdown. The question the religious leaders had just asked the rebel still hung in a silence broken only by the shifting of the audience squirming with tension.

  Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?

  You might laugh today, those of you who go to a restaurant after church and pick up groceries on the way home. You’d never think twice about seeing a doctor on your Sabbath, nor would a doctor think twice about trying to help you.

  But back then? It was no light question. Some forms of breaking of the Sabbath laws were a crime for which a man or woman might be publicly stoned to death. Moreover, dozens of laws minutely detailed what consisted of work on the Sabbath. It was forbidden to eat an egg laid on the Sabbath, for the hen had worked. Had the hen been kept for fattening instead of laying, however, the egg could be consumed because it was considered a part of the hen that had fallen off.

  On the Sabbath, no man could plug a hole in a cask with wax to stop fluid from running out; this was work. If a man’s house caught fire on the Sabbath, it was considered work to put it out with water. Of the possessions inside, he could only remove what was essential for food and drink that day. Carrying anything else would be considered work. As for healing, a bandage could be applied to a wound only if it prevented the wound from getting worse. Efforts to heal the wound by applying salve or a plaster, or giving it any other medical attention, must wait until the Sabbath ended.

  Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?

  This was the showdown.

  The question, of course, had been prepared ahead of time. The man with the withered hand? He’d been forced into his uncomfortable role by the leaders of his village.

  On that Sabbath, just before Quentin began his task for Our Father, tension in the synagogue had grown as heartbeats ticked by, a tension so strong that flies could be heard buzzing through the air.

  Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?

  As that question hung over the synagogue, the lone rebel – a miracle worker or a devil worshipper, depending on what rumors you chose to believe -- must have studied the man with the withered hand. Did he see hope bright in the man’s eyes? Or shoulders slumped with defeat?

  Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?

  There were unseen angels in attendance. The rebel had angels all around him, all the time. Those angels knew just as well as anyone in the synagogue that the Pharisees were waiting to accuse the rebel of breaking the Jewish laws by healing on the Sabbath. They were going to use this poor man with the withered hand as an excuse to discredit the teachings of the rebel.

  Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?

  The rebel didn’t answer directly. No, he was far too smart for that. Instead, he answered with questions of his own – questions intended to pierce the hardened hearts of the hypocrites who had so casually put this helpless man in the center of the showdown.

  “Would not any man lift a sheep out of a pit on the Sabbath?” the rebel asked. “And how much more is a man worth than a sheep?”

  These were questions that struck at generations of legalism, breaking the clay of manmade laws to expose the shining metal of Biblical law beneath.

  Ah, yes, this rebel was indirectly asking a question that the religious leaders on the other side of the showdown were too ashamed to answer. Is it not evil to ignore the chance to do good?

  Then the rebel asked the frightened man with the withered hand to stretch forth his hand. Some of the angels believe t
he man responded out of faith. I disagree with them.

  I believe that this man stretched forth his hand out of love. His love overcame his fear of humiliation.

  I can imagine what went through the man with the withered hand’s mind: What if I stretch out my hand and nothing happens? Everyone in the village will laugh at me. The leaders of my village will shun me for choosing the rebel over them.

  Yet the man stretched forth his hand.

  As I said, I think it was love – love for his children. If you are a father and you love your children as Our Father loves all of us, wouldn’t you make great sacrifices to help your children? Even if this man with the crippled hand did not believe the rumors about the rebel, if he thought that there was the slightest chance his hand would become whole again and he could finally find a good job to support his family, I’m convinced he would have taken the chance.

  Not many thought about the man’s children that day – children watching in the back of the synagogue, children afraid for their father, children who loved him as much as he loved them.

  I’m convinced, too, that the rebel knew about the man and his children. He knew how much they loved each other, even though they were forced to live in poverty because the father’s hand was crippled. I think that’s what made the rebel most upset with those religious leaders on the other side of the synagogue. He was upset that they dared question whether it was right to help the man and the children who loved him.

  What the rebel decided to do that Sabbath morning was the single most crucial event of those young children’s lives. The boy needed a father who could once again work with pride. The girl needed a father with whole hands to lift her, hold her, comfort her, even to build her toys.

  This father, who loved his children enough to risk ridicule if nothing happened, stretched out his hand as the rebel had requested. When he did — and who then or now can explain how it happened? — the withered flesh became strong again. Fingers curled with atrophy suddenly flexed with stunned joy.

  The rebel had won the showdown!

  Later, the other angels would inform me that the religious leaders were furious in their defeat. Men simply never dared to challenge their self-declared holiness. Yet this rebel had challenged it, directly defying their law while showing the entire audience the depth of the mean-spirited pettiness behind their religious cloaks. And, to frustrate them even more, the rebel had not broken the law in any way. They could not rebuke him!

  For the rebel had not touched the man. He had not applied a plaster, a salve, an ointment, or a bandage. He had done no work to break any of the myriads of Sabbath laws. He had only asked the man to stretch forth his hand. By their own hateful laws, the religious leaders could find no way to condemn the rebel and stop his teachings.

  When the healed man walked away, astounded cries turned to silence, the showdown appeared over.

  But it wasn’t.

  That was the day that the religious leaders decided they must find a way to kill the rebel. It was their hatred versus the rebel’s love.

  As for the man with the once-withered hand, he was almost forgotten as the crowds left. They whispered among each other at what they’d seen, marveling at the miracle.

  The healed man was almost forgotten.

  But not forgotten by the rebel, nor by the angels protecting the rebel. Because some of the angels who were there told me the rest of it, my favorite part about the whole showdown.

  When everybody had cleared out of the synagogue, the father remained behind with his wife and his little boy and little girl. In the silence, he squatted to let all of them marvel at the new strength of his hand. Where once his fingers were powerless, a crippled mass of claws, he was finally able to do with that hand what his heart had longed to do since their births.

  Softly caressing their faces, he began to trace their smiles.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thinking about the other rebel, and knowing the importance of the task set upon Quentin, I remained nearby Quentin and Shel in the total dark that surrounded them.

  I was so close that Shel woke and whispered, “Quentin?”

  Both of them felt something nearby. Quentin understood why Shel had awoken.

  “Fear not,” he whispered back, although his heart pounded. “Run if something happens.”

  He stood, placing the blanket on Shel. He then moved three steps away from her. If the person nearby attacked, at least Shel could escape. With as much authority as possible, Quentin spoke into the darkness.

  “If you are a friend, speak now. If you are a foe, beware of my sword.”

  A laugh greeted him.

  “Good bluff, my friend,” I said. “I do admire your braveness.”

  “Pelagius! But how is this possible?”

  My voice continued with its light humorous tone. “Where is your hospitality? Will you not invite me to join you both?”

  “Why not?” Quentin said with as much irony as he could inject into his voice. “You know Shelomith, of course. Go ahead, join with her and plot against me.”

  I moved up to them.

  “Shelomith,” I said with delight. “It is nice to finally meet you. I have been watching, of course. You have remarkable patience to deal firmly with this stubborn Roman.”

  There was so little light, I’m sure Quentin could barely make out my features as I stood in the shape of a human.

  “You are Pelagius,” Shel breathed in wonder. Quentin heard rustling as Shel fell forward onto her face.

  I touched Shel lightly on her shoulders. “Rise. Angels are not worthy of worship. Only the Lord.”

  Shel whispered, “Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”

  “Yes, my child. If only your Roman friend believed so firmly.”

  Suddenly, Quentin felt rage. “Enough!” he barked. “Play your games elsewhere.

  “Please sit,” I asked.

  “I refuse.”

  “You, of course, may do so.”

  “Thank you,” Quentin said stiffly, standing.

  “Please!” came Shel’s voice. “Don’t argue.”

  She dropped her voice and whispered urgently, “It’s an angel!”

  “Angels are not deaf,” I said playfully.

  “It’s just that he’s not respectful,” she began to explain, “and I don’t want you upset.”

  It’s fine,” I said to her quietly. “The boy and I shall speak.”

  “I am a Roman citizen! Not a boy!”

  I continued calmly, as if Quentin had not said a word. “Tell me, child, do you think you can hide from the Lord?”

  Quentin stood where he was and refused to answer.

  I had another question. “Who created a diversion at the gates so the soldiers would not discover you beneath the trader’s blankets?”

  “Diversion?”

  A low, gentle laugh. “It was enjoyable, actually, as shekels cascaded from a nearby roof. You should have seen those soldiers run for the money!”

  “Speak on,” Quentin said sarcastically. “Whatever magic you once played upon me shall not work again.”

  “Not magic.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Who placed the snake beneath the blankets? That was no coincidence.”

  “You would surely have been seen by the bandits.”

  “Child, another time I shall explain to you the ways of angels.”

  Quentin snorted.

  “And,” I paused with reverence, “who else but the Lord caused the eniji - the storm of the deserts - to rise when it did in the mountain pass?”

  “If you are who you try to convince me who you are,” Quentin said with less sarcasm, “answer me one thing.”

  I waited.

  “Why me? What do you want from me? And what is so important about this battle between your Lord and the Evil One?”

  “If I answered that,” I replied evenly, “you would feel compelled to join our battle. The Lord only wants those who make the choice through free will.�
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  “Then,” Quentin said with triumph, “without answers, I refuse to believe you are who you say you are.”

  “As you say, child. Just one other thing. When you awake in the morning, look around you. Then ask yourself if you should be so determined to ignore the love of the Lord.”

  I took one step and vanished into the dark night.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Quentin woke at first light with a hunger so fierce that his stomach was knotted in pain. Beside him lay Shel, still asleep. A small leather pouch attached by thin leather cords dangled from her neck. It had fallen out of her clothes during the night and rested on the ground between them.

  Hoping it contained food, Quentin opened it.

  “What kind of breakfast is this?” he asked in a joking mood. All he found inside were two small, compressed pellets, one white and one brown. “Is this food, or some strange medicine that only Jews -”

  Standing above him, Shel tore the pouch from his hands and turned on him with blazing eyes. “How dare you go through my belongings?”

  “But I was only -”

  “You were only being a typical man. Never thinking.”

  Quentin could not help but grin as he stood to face her. She had called him a man.

  “Come on,” he cajoled. “What are those?”

  Shel’s face reddened. “I cannot say.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because...because -” Suddenly, she gasped and her face drained of color as quickly as it had come. She grabbed his forearm to steady herself. “Quentin! Look around us!”

  Quentin glanced around him. His jaw fell slack. His legs lost their strength, and he slowly sank to his knees. “By all the shades of Jupiter,” he croaked.

  This time, Shel did not admonish him for calling on his gods.

  She, too, was on her knees. “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”