Jacob stared at his son grimly. “He’s that kind of a man, Joseph, and you must never be like him. You must never be like any of your brothers.”
“But Reuben is a good man, Father, even if he—”
Joseph broke his words off, and Jacob stared at him sadly. “I wish you had never told me about the sin he committed with Bilhah.”
“I wish I hadn’t told you either, Father. It just came out. I love Reuben.”
Jacob stood still, staring at Joseph as though something was preying on his mind. Suddenly he reached into his tunic and drew out an object suspended on a leather thong.
Joseph had seen it before, but he was always fascinated by it. “Can I see the medallion, Father?”
Jacob nodded, and Joseph inspected the gold piece shining in the light of the lamp. On one side was a lifelike lion and on the other a lamb.
“I love to hear the story of the medallion,” Joseph said. “Tell me again, Father.”
Then Jacob began to tell the story of how the medallion had been given to men so far in the dim past that no one could remember it. “It was handed down to those of the line of Seth, to Noah, and continued through the generations all the way to Abraham, and he gave it to me.”
“And one day it will belong to me, won’t it, Father?” Joseph said eagerly as he stared hypnotically at the medal.
Jacob stared at his tall young son, longing to give it to him, but he shook his head. “No one can say who receives this medallion but El Shaddai, the Strong One. When it is time, the Lord himself will tell me who will wear this medal and from whom will come the line of Shiloh.”
“Shiloh. Who is that?”
“It’s the name I’ve given to the One who will redeem the world. In a dream years ago I began to imagine this coming one, whom my fathers waited for, as having that name. It is simply the name of a village and it means ‘peace.’ Perhaps it is a foolish fancy of mine. I don’t know.”
Joseph held the medallion between his fingers. He rubbed it lovingly and said, “I hope I will be the one to receive this.”
“I hope so too, my son, but no man can know. Now, get to bed. It’s late.”
“Good night, Father.” Joseph embraced his father, kissed him, and left.
As Jacob stood alone in the semidarkness, he realized a terrible truth. “I’m glad that Reuben sinned with Bilhah!” As he spoke the words aloud he felt shame for thinking such a thing about his firstborn. A father should always uphold his firstborn in honor, but he had never felt that way toward Reuben. Nor had he felt that any of Leah’s sons deserved honor, although he loved them all. They were difficult boys, some of them having Leah’s fiery temper and several having the devious behavior of their grandfather Laban.
But to be glad that his firstborn had committed such a sin! Shame washed through Jacob, and he fell on his knees and cried out, “Oh, forgive me, God, for such a wicked, awful thought! Cleanse me, I beg of you.” The old man knelt there for a long time, holding the medallion between his trembling fingers. Finally he bowed over completely, his head against the carpet that formed the floor of his tent, and cried out again, “Let me be Israel and not Jacob!”
When he rose, he still felt a heavy burden of guilt. He realized that, despite his prayers, his fondest hope was that Joseph—not Reuben, nor Simeon, nor Levi, nor any of the other brothers, but Joseph, the beloved son of the True Wife—would be the one through whom would come Shiloh, the Bringer of Peace, the Redeemer.
Chapter 3
As Jacob lay underneath a light covering, he was conscious of the night sounds drifting in from the outside world. Wild dogs howled in the distance, disturbing his peace of mind. He had always hated wild dogs. There was something primitive and terrifying in their cries. He loved most animals, especially his flocks of goats and sheep and cattle. But the wild dogs were different. He had fought them off after they had scattered the remains of one of his sheep or cows, and many times in his long life he had seen them in packs, pulling down a helpless lamb or sheep, tearing it to pieces and devouring it while it yet lived.
A shudder went over Jacob at the memories. He was blessed—or cursed!—with an accurate memory and could recall events from when he was a mere boy as if they had just occurred. It was a blessing that he could remember so clearly the face of Rachel, his beloved True Wife. He often took refuge in the silences of the desert, thinking of her smile, her touch, or her beautiful eyes.
But his good memory was a curse when he could also vividly remember how he and his mother, Rebekah, had robbed Esau of his birthright. As if he were watching a scene painted on parchment in living, dynamic colors, he saw himself and his mother fastening animal skins to his forearms to make the blind, unsuspecting Isaac think he was blessing Esau.
And so Jacob lived on his memories and his hopes. His memories of Rachel and his hopes for the future centered on her child Joseph, the lamb that Jacob loved with every bit of his strength.
The harsh symphony of the wild dogs ceased, and silence reigned over the desert. Jacob listened intently. His hearing was good, despite his age, and he began to distinguish the hum of night insects. Their tiny voices were comforting to him. They were a sound to which he was accustomed, and he liked things to remain the same, though he knew they never would. The memory of the recent days came trooping in. He trembled, even as he had when he discovered that Joseph and Benjamin were missing. It was as though a mighty hand had reached into his breast and closed around his heart with the coldness and finality of death. For in these two, especially the older, his hopes and love were imprisoned.
“Joseph must be more careful. I would die if I lost him!” Jacob whispered the words aloud, thinking of Joseph’s face, smooth and carefree, with happiness in his dark eyes, so much like those of his True Wife. The memory comforted him, but then he thought of the animosity of the six red-eyed sons of Leah and the four Sons of the Maids. Oh, how they despised Joseph. The thought troubled the old man, and he struggled to find anything he could do to undo what the years of his favoritism had woven into the fabric of his family’s life, but he could think of none.
He began to drift toward sleep, but he was troubled by the thought of Joseph’s dreams. He himself was a man who dreamed and put great stock into them, as had his fathers before him. Joseph, however, relied so much on his dreams for guidance that he seemed to Jacob to be like one of the so-called oracles, men or women who went about babbling wildly of dreams and visions and shouting their findings. Most of them were mad, “touched by God,” as the people of the desert called it, doing terrible things like mutilating themselves by walking about with sharp stones in their sandals, or going filthy and naked, creating fear among the people.
Jacob made a sharp distinction between such fanatics and the dreams that sometimes came to him. He had heard enough of the tales of his forefathers and their encounters with God that he was convinced his own dreams were a legitimate word from God.
And of all things in his life the old man longed for most, it was to hear from God. He was convinced that God wanted to communicate to human beings, and at one time or another he had tried to find God’s will by studying the entrails of birds or by observing the direction of the smoke from a burnt offering. All this was right in Jacob’s opinion, but he was troubled by Joseph’s foolish ecstasies, in which the lad shook and trembled, his eyes rolling back. As Jacob finally dropped into a deep sleep, his last thought was a cry: Elohim—help me, O almighty Lord … !
****
Under a gray sky, an old man plodded alongside a younger man who led a donkey piled high with sticks and dry wood. Jacob had had this particular dream many times before, and as always, the images frightened him. He was always a silent spectator, trying to avoid seeing what was about to happen, but he could not escape the image of the old man’s stern face, the grimness of his expression modified by the pain and sorrow in his eyes.
Jacob knew the old man was Abraham, and the lad beside him was Isaac, Jacob’s own father. He could not help but sta
re fascinated at the young man, who looked startlingly like his son Joseph. He had the same well-shaped eyes and round face, the same youthful innocence and loveliness. This was Jacob’s own father and grandfather on their way to a faithful rendezvous.
The dream was so real Jacob inadvertently cried out in a babbling moan of fear. He saw the young man bound and placed on a rude wooden altar. The sticks from the donkey had been placed under him and around him and were ready for the fire. He saw the flash of the knife in the old man’s hand. But most of all he saw the agony in the old man’s face as he stared down at this son. Jacob was aware of the miracle that had produced his father, Isaac. Abraham and Sarah had aged beyond their natural ability to conceive and bear children, but by a miracle God had touched the old man and restored to him the vigor of his youth. He had touched the dead womb of Sarah and made it blossom, and out of these miracles came a child born purely by the will and power of the almighty Lord of heaven and earth.
Jacob watched helplessly as the raised knife caught the last rays of the sun. Beneath the hand of Abraham lay the helpless lad, his eyes closed, his face ashen with fear, but obedient to his father’s command. The knife was ready to plunge into the young boy’s heart—
Then Jacob heard himself crying out, “No, no, do not kill him—”
Suddenly the dream changed. Before it had always been the same. The voice of God had come crying out to Abraham before the final thrust of the knife: “Do not harm the lad.” The old man had dropped the knife and fallen with tears upon his son as God had commended him for his faith: “You have not withheld your only son from me.”
But now the dream was different. The images swirled and twisted in Jacob’s mind until it was no longer Isaac who lay on the altar but Joseph, the lamb of the old man Jacob! And it was not Abraham who raised the knife but he himself, Jacob the son of Isaac. He felt the cold sharpness of the blade as he found himself looking into the face of his beloved Joseph, the son he loved more than life itself. And he heard God saying, “Strike and make your son a sacrifice to me.”
In crazed fear Jacob cried out, “No, I can’t give him up! You can’t have him! You can’t have my only son … !”
And then the dream was gone, and Jacob was being held by strong hands. With eyes wide open he looked wildly about and there kneeling over him was Joseph. The young man’s face was highlighted by the flame of an oil lamp Jacob kept burning at night to ward off his dreams and night terrors, and he reached out and grabbed at Joseph, holding on to him and crying, “No, I can’t do it—I can’t do it, God!”
“Father, you’re having a bad dream!”
Jacob clung to the boy who bent over him, his hands frantically feeling the warm flesh of the boy’s body as if to assure himself that he was alive. He began to weep, and Joseph leaned closer so that his face loomed before Jacob’s tear-filled eyes.
“What is it, Father? What’s wrong?”
Reality came slowly back to Jacob as he lay there, holding on to the son of the True Wife. “My lamb,” he whispered, “my little lamb, my child!” He muttered these endearments over and over again, then took a deep breath and struggled to sit up. He clung to Joseph as a drowning man holds on to a floating board that might keep him from sinking. “A dream,” he muttered, his voice a thin, trembling sigh. “I had a horrible dream.”
“What was it?” Joseph asked anxiously, for he loved dreams and wanted to know what they meant.
“I dreamed of my grandfather putting Isaac, my father, on an altar and lifting the knife to slay him.”
“But you’ve had that dream many times. You’ve told me so.”
“I know, but this time it was different.”
“Different how, Father? Tell me about it.” Joseph’s eyes gleamed, and his hands pulled at the old man, urging him to talk. “How was it different?”
Jacob trembled from head to foot. His strength had been drained by the terror of the dream, and he knew he could never speak of this to anyone. “It was nothing, my son. As you say, I have dreamed it before.”
“God was cruel to ask your grandfather Abraham to kill his only son,” Joseph said. “I’ve always disliked Him for that.”
“No, no, you must not say that, my child!” Jacob grabbed Joseph’s hands and clung to him. “You must never say that.”
“Don’t you think it was cruel?”
“I used to think so, but now I know better. God is good. We are the ones who are evil.”
“You are not evil, my father.”
“Yes, I am. There is evil in me as there is in all men.”
Joseph shook his head firmly. “No, that isn’t so. You are good. I will not hear you talk like this.”
Jacob could say no more, and he released his hold on Joseph. “Go back to sleep, my son. I’m all right now.”
“I will sit with you if you wish, Father.”
“No, you need your sleep. Go to bed.”
Joseph leaned forward and kissed his father. Jacob was tempted to cling to him again, but he forced himself to lie back down, and Joseph left the tent.
The dream had left Jacob drenched with sweat. He threw back his cover and allowed the night air to cool his body. As sleep returned, he relived the dream against his will. He wanted it to go away, but he knew God was speaking, and he could not ignore the Almighty. He could not drown out the sound of God’s voice commanding him: “Sacrifice your only son….”
Jacob had twelve sons, but in one sense he had only one. Joseph was the beloved son, and Jacob knew that God was saying, “You must choose whom you will love the best, me or your son.” It was the same test Abraham had physically been forced to take, and even though Jacob knew God had rescued Isaac, he could not be sure that God would do the same for Joseph. Rebelliousness rose up in his heart. “God,” he whispered, “you can’t ask me to give up Joseph. Take any one of the others, even Benjamin, but not my precious lamb—not the son of the True Wife.”
The silence of the desert grew oppressive, pressing in upon the old man, whose breath became labored. In spirit he was clutching Joseph to his breast and crying out, No, God, not my only son. Not him. Take any of the others, but not Joseph!
****
Old Zimra raked his fingers through his beard, and his eyes glowed with admiration. “It is well, my boy. You have done well.”
Joseph leaned back and smiled benevolently at the old man. Zimra had been his teacher since his early childhood. The old man had wandered into Jacob’s camp one day shortly after Jacob had brought his family back from the house of Laban. He had been half starved and was babbling incoherently, but Jacob showed him mercy and fed him. When the old man had recovered his right mind, Jacob had discovered, to his delight, that he was a scholar. He immediately made Zimra part of his retinue and assigned him the task of first educating Joseph, then Benjamin. The older sons had no desire to receive such education, their hearts having been given over to meat, drink, women, and work.
And so old Zimra had taught Joseph many things. He had instructed the young man in the nature of the universe, teaching him that it was composed of the upper heaven, the heavenly earth of the zodiac, and the southern oceans of the heavens. He had taught him well that the earthly universe was divided into three parts, the heavens, the kingdom of the earth, and the earthly ocean. Joseph had absorbed the teachings concerning the sun and the moon, together with the five other moving stars, and as Zimra had pointed to the gleaming white heights of Mount Hermon in the distance and spoken of the Tree of Enlightenment, Joseph had learned of the wonder and the mystery of numbers. He had found order and harmony in numbers and received his training from old Zimra with delight.
He learned that the world the Almighty had made consisted of cycles of years, each year having its own summer and winter. Joseph found all of this a most majestic knowledge, and he hung on Zimra’s words as the old man shared what he knew of the larger world outside of Canaan. Joseph learned about the Babylonian methods of measuring the length of a pendulum, which made sixty double
oscillations in a double minute. He learned to measure length and distances both from his own pace and from the course of the sun. Joseph learned the weights and money values of gold and silver according to Phoenician measurements. He learned how to exchange different forms of money for animals, oil, wine, and grain. Joseph was so quick-witted that even Jacob, who often sat in on the lessons, would marvel at the cleverness of the boy’s mind.
Jacob had little knowledge of the geography of the larger world and was pleased beyond measure at how quickly Joseph took in old Zimra’s teachings. He listened as the old man told of wild savages who dwelt in the far northern land of Magog, and how Tarsus, far off to the west, was a frightful place. Zimra spoke of these places from personal experience, for he was widely traveled. He spoke often of the peoples of Egypt, which Jacob knew more about from the tales of his forefathers than other exotic far-off places.
For the lessons Joseph would squat with his knees apart, holding in his lap the writing tools of the day: a clay tablet on which he made wedge-shaped signs with a carved instrument, or he would write on papyrus sheets made of reeds pressed together. Sometimes he wrote on a smooth piece of sheepskin or goatskin, using a reed sharpened to a point and dipped in red or black pigment on his paint saucer.
Joseph’s education had its downside, unfortunately, for the lad was not modest about his attainments. He let it be known to his older brothers what a great scholar he had become and would often swagger in front of them. He would even ridicule them at times, though to him it was done in a playful spirit. He would cry out to Zebulun, “My brother, have you not seen how beautiful my writing is? What a scholar I have become!”
Zebulun would glare at him and shoot back with a curse. “All of that doesn’t feed the sheep or shear the wool. Get away from me, you dreamer of dreams and writer of books.”
Till Shiloh Comes Page 3
