Even though it was a simple account of simple things, there was something in his father’s tone that had Simeon completely attentive. He didn’t say anything, not wanting to interrupt his father’s flow of thought.
“Well, we immediately forgot about them as we went on. Soon we were out of the city and joined my father and Uncle Seth. It was a glorious night. The stars never are quite as bright around Jerusalem as they are up here because of the lights of the city, but they were still beautiful. I remember that Benjamin and I spent a lot of time looking for stray lambs that night, those that were abandoned by their mothers at birth. If you don’t get them back to the ewes right away, the mothers won’t nurse them anymore.”
Simeon’s father looked at his hands. He turned them over as if seeing something there he hadn’t seen before. “I’m not sure what time it was,” he went on, “probably sometime in the second watch. Benjamin and I had fallen asleep, I remember that. My father and Uncle Seth were talking quietly.”
He stopped. For a long time he was silent, his eyes down and his face hidden. Just as Simeon was about to prod him by saying something, he began again, but now his voice was very soft and filled with a strange wonder. “I heard my father cry out, and I leaped up, thinking that a wolf or perhaps a thief had come in among us. To my astonishment, a brilliant light was illuminating the whole landscape around us. It was as though it were midday right there where we were.”
Simeon felt a little chill run up the back of his spine. “Like midday?”
“Yes. At first I threw my arm across my face. It was too bright to look at. Terror shot through me, and I couldn’t so much as cry out. I didn’t know what was happening, and it frightened me deeply.”
He looked at his son, his eyes wide and filled with a touch of that amazement he had felt thirty years before. “Then I heard a voice. It was like nothing I had ever heard before. ‘Fear not,’ the voice said.”
“A voice?” The chills were coursing up and down Simeon’s back, and he felt suddenly cold.
“We were all on our feet by then. I was ready to bolt. Then I looked directly at the light.” He paused. “And I saw a figure there.”
Simeon felt frozen in both time and space. His eyes were locked on his father’s features.
“It was an angel, Simeon. An angel of the Lord, standing there in all of his glory. ‘Fear not,’ he said again, ‘for I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be for all people.’”
David took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving Simeon’s. “Our minds were reeling, of course, but his words penetrated our hearts like a shaft of fire. ‘For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior, which is the Messiah, the Lord.’”
That brought Simeon’s head up with a snap. “The Messiah?” It was almost a gasp.
“Yes. The angel said that Christ, the Anointed One, had been born that very day.”
Simeon felt like all the blood had drained from his head. He leaned back on his arms to steady himself a little.
“Then he told us that there was a sign by which we would know this babe. We would find him wrapped in swaddling clothes—”
Simeon nodded. It would have been a surprise to find a newborn that hadn’t been wrapped up tightly with the long strips of cloth mothers used to keep newborns snug and secure in their cribs.
“—And lying in a manger.”
“A manger?”
“Yes. That’s what the angel said. He will be wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. Not a crib. Not a bed. Not a cradle. But in a manger.”
“The Messiah of the world born in a manger?” Simeon was incredulous.
David nodded slowly, letting Simeon take it all in. When he finally seemed ready, he went on. “As we stood there marveling, suddenly we saw a vision. The heavens opened, and we saw with the angel, a great heavenly host. They were praising the Lord and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace and good will toward men.’”
He stopped, and Simeon saw that there were tears in his eyes. “Oh, Simeon, the very thought of it even now makes my whole body tingle with joy. It was the most glorious thing I have ever heard.”
Simeon closed his eyes and began to rub at them with his fingertips. Mentally it felt as if he had just stepped in front of one of the great battering rams they kept at the Antonia Fortress in Jerusalem. Finally he opened his eyes and looked at his father.
“You can see why I don’t speak of this with just anyone,” David said. There was a half smile. “First of all, it is very sacred. Second, when I did tell others, many thought I was mad.”
Simeon wasn’t sure what to say, how to respond. Finally, lamely, he asked, “So what did you do?”
“Well, that’s the rest of the story. The moment the vision closed and we regained our senses, we turned to each other and said that we had to go to Bethlehem and find this wonderful thing that the Lord had made known unto us.” He laughed shortly. “You know, to this day I don’t remember what we did with the sheep that night. Did we just leave them? Did someone stay behind to watch them? I cannot remember.”
“But you went to find the baby?”
“Yes. And we didn’t go to the palaces of Jerusalem. We didn’t go to any of the finer houses in Bethlehem. We went to a stable. In Bethlehem, as you know, the hills are honeycombed with many limestone caves that are used as stables and sheepfolds. Well, this was one of those. And there in the stable we found the babe and its mother.”
“And he really was in the manger?”
His father nodded slowly. “Yes. They had him wrapped in his swaddling clothes, but they had no bed, so they had made a place for him in the hay, there with the animals.”
“But why in a stable?”
That look of wonder filled his father’s face again. “That was the second shock of the night for Benjamin and me.”
“What?”
“When we finally found the place and went in, we—” He stopped, and again the tears overflowed.
“What?” Simeon asked again, unable to wait a moment longer.
“It was the couple we had earlier seen looking for a place to stay. That’s why the woman looked sick, Simeon. That’s why her husband said she needed to lie down. It was her time. She was heavy with child. And there was no place for them to stay.”
As Simeon marveled at what his father was saying, David sighed. “I’ve wondered since if the keeper of that khan didn’t take pity on them. Can you imagine having a baby in the middle of a caravanserai, with no privacy, with all the noise and tumult and crowds? Maybe it was the innkeeper’s stable. I don’t know. But that’s where the birth took place.”
Without being aware of it, Simeon was shaking his head. “That can’t be.”
“Why?” his father asked, already guessing what Simeon was going to say.
“The Messiah is to be our king, Father. A king isn’t born in a stable!”
David’s eyes were somewhat amused. “So the angel was wrong, is that it?” Before Simeon could answer, he waved that comment away. Now he sighed, a sound of deep stirrings within him. “Actually, I have pondered long on that, Simeon. For thirty years I have wondered about it.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. If I had heard this in any other way, my reaction would have been exactly like yours.” His head came up. “Why a stable? I don’t know. But I do know what I saw and heard that night. That knowledge burns like an unquenchable fire in my breast.”
He grew thoughtful now. “There is a more important question than why the stable.”
“What?”
There was a long silence, then: “It has been thirty years now, Simeon. Thirty years! Why haven’t we heard anything more? Why hasn’t he come?” His eyes took on an anguished look. “Where is he now, Simeon? Where is that Messiah who was born in a stable and cradled in a manger?”
Simeon was staring at him. His father was right. That was by far a more pressing question. Where was this Messiah, if that’s what he was?
II
When Simeon and his father reached Capernaum, they immediately sent one of the servants for Ephraim and began packing what they would need for their journey. But they had not been home for half an hour before they heard someone banging on the gate of the courtyard. “I’ll get it,” Simeon called to his father.
When he opened the gate he was surprised to see Andrew standing there. A fisherman’s best time for fishing was during the night, and they typically arrived back with their catch just at sunrise. They would sort the fish, hang out their nets to dry, then go home to sleep for the better part of the day. It was not yet the ninth hour of the day—still mid-afternoon—and the sun was still high in the sky. This was prime sleeping time for them.
“Shalom, Simeon.”
“Boker tov, Andrew. Good afternoon.”
“Did your father return with you?”
“Yes. We arrived just a short time ago. He’s inside. Come in.”
They padded silently across the courtyard and into the spacious home, both pausing to touch the mezuzah as they entered. “Father,” Simeon called as they shut the door behind them. “Andrew is here.”
A moment later David appeared, smiling broadly. “Andrew! How good to see you. Simeon and I were going to stop by your home in a little while. We are preparing to leave for Judea and wanted to get some directions on how to find Bethabara.”
“I thought as much. That’s why I’ve come.”
“Oh?” He motioned to their guest, and the three of them moved over and sat down around the table.
“There is no reason to go now.”
David’s eyes widened. “Why not?”
“John is in prison.”
Both father and son rocked back. “Prison?” David cried.
The fisherman was grim as he nodded quickly. “As I told you before, John has been fearless in denouncing evil. He calls everyone to repentance. Pharisees, Sadducees, Jews, Gentiles. For example, when some publicans asked what they should do, he told them to exact no more than that which was appointed to them.”
“Now that would be refreshing,” Simeon said dryly. “An honest publican?”
Andrew went on. “Even some Roman soldiers came out to hear him. When they asked what they should do, John told them to do violence to no man, to accuse no man falsely, and to be content with their wages.”
Simeon was taken by surprise. “You didn’t tell me that, Father.” He turned to Andrew again. “He really said that to the soldiers?” If so, that was remarkable. By law a Roman soldier could impose his will on the people at any time. He could compel them to give him their cloak if the weather was cold. He could make them carry his pack and march with him for up to one Roman mile. If a soldier made any kind of accusation against a person, no proof was required to substantiate it. Either the person paid whatever the soldier demanded or the accused could be beaten or dragged off to prison. It was the way many soldiers supplemented a legionnaire’s meager income.
“Yes, Simeon. It’s as I told your father; John is remarkable. This man is different.”
“If he is telling Roman soldiers they have to repent, no wonder they threw him into prison.”
“It wasn’t the Romans. It was Herod Antipas.”
They all turned at the sound of the voice. There at the door to the room stood Simeon’s uncle, his mother’s youngest brother. Simeon stifled a groan. Aaron ben Benjamin, a Pharisee from Sepphoris, was Simeon’s personal nemesis and the one thing over which Simeon and his mother clashed regularly.
“Boker tov, Aaron. Good day,” David said getting to his feet. “Come in.” Simeon knew that his father didn’t find his brother-in-law all that wonderful either, but unlike Simeon, he had long ago accepted the fact that he was a relative—Deborah’s only remaining family member—and so welcomed him warmly and treated him with respect. “What brings you to Capernaum?”
“We heard that Azariah, leader of the Pharisees in Jerusalem, was coming to visit Amram here in Capernaum. Several of us from Sepphoris were invited as well. I would never miss an opportunity like that.”
“No,” David said dryly, “I don’t imagine you would.”
If he caught the quiet jab, Aaron gave no sign. He came across the room and, without waiting to be invited, sat down. “Good afternoon, Andrew.”
“Hello again, Aaron. It’s been a time since I last saw you.”
They shook hands; then Aaron turned to his nephew. There was no mistaking the change in his voice when he said simply, “Simeon.”
“Boker tov, Uncle Aaron.”
“What is this about Herod Antipas?” Andrew asked of the new arrival.
“It was Herod who had this John arrested, not the Romans.”
“Because of Herodias?” David asked, guessing now what was coming.
“Of course,” Aaron said with just a trace of smugness. It pleased him to know something that his brother-in-law did not.
Simeon tried not to frown. This was what bothered him most about his uncle. It was the arrogance, the disdain for the unwashed—which was everyone who didn’t know as much as Aaron—his supercilious condescension that he made little effort to hide. These attitudes were all too common among the scribes and the Pharisees, but Aaron had raised them to a high art. Simeon almost chuckled aloud as he remembered a comment his father had once made after Aaron had left them. It was one of the few times he had ever heard his father say anything negative about his brother-in-law. “Aaron was born with a very high opinion of himself,” he said, “and he has greatly increased his birthright.”
“Yes,” Aaron was saying, “Antipas lusts after Herodias. The fact that she is his brother’s wife makes no difference. So Antipas divorces his own wife and sends her home to her father. As for Herodias, she has probably engineered the whole thing because Antipas controls a more lucrative kingdom than Philip, so why not change husbands and move up a step or two?”
“The Herods are like poisonous snakes in a field of tall grass,” Andrew said, knowing that what Aaron said was very likely true. “It is not safe to walk anywhere when they are around.”
“The difference here,” he went on, “was that unlike everyone else, the Baptist didn’t gossip about the marriage of Antipas and Herodias only behind closed doors. He condemned them both loudly and publicly.”
“Yes, he did,” Aaron said. “He is courageous; you have to grant him that.” It was a grudging admission, and that irritated Simeon. He decided to say something.
“According to Andrew, who heard him on more than one occasion, John spoke against all corruption courageously. Including the pompousness of some religious leaders.”
As was intended, Aaron instantly bristled. “Even fools can be courageous, Simeon.”
David’s hand shot out and grabbed Simeon’s arm before he could respond. “All right, that’s enough.” He looked at Aaron. “I was asking Andrew some questions about John. If that is of interest, you may stay and listen.” There was a soft emphasis on the last word. Then without waiting for a response, David turned back to Andrew.
“What a bitter disappointment. I really wanted to hear John for myself.”
“If you want to learn more,” Aaron said tartly, “why don’t you come to those who have been trained in the Law?”
Simeon hooted openly. “Because we are not interested in learning how to count leaves on a sprig of mint or determine how many times you have to wash your hands before a meal.”
Simeon’s father swung on him. “I said that’s enough, Simeon.”
“Yes, Father.” Simeon nodded, embarrassed that his father had been forced to correct him twice in front of his business partner. And yet, that jibe about fools and courage had not referred to John alone; it was meant for Simeon, and both of them knew it.
David shot Aaron a warning look as well, then continued talking with Andrew. Simeon was only half lis
tening now. He was glad his mother wasn’t here, for she would have gotten angry with him. How could two people from the same family be so totally, so completely different? Deborah, daughter of Benjamin of Sepphoris, had been orphaned when she was not quite fifteen years of age. Aaron had been ten at the time, and Deborah had become his mother. That tragedy had only deepened Deborah’s conversion to the Zealot cause, but somewhere along the way, Aaron had chosen a different path.
It did have a kind of perverse logic to it, Simeon had to admit. The Pharisees believed that Israel had first gone into bondage to Babylon because they had turned away from Jehovah in the reckless worship of false gods. The fact that they were still in bondage some six hundred years later was proof, in the minds of the Pharisees, that God was still not pleased with them. The Zealot answer was to be more courageous in standing up for God’s cause, even resorting to violence if necessary. The Pharisaical answer was to bring their lives into stricter compliance to the Law. Then God, pleased at last, would intervene in their behalf. He would be their Deliverer.
One day after a particularly hot interchange between uncle and nephew, David had taken Simeon aside and tried to explain all this. The fact that Simeon’s mother vigorously defended Aaron did not mean that she agreed with either his philosophy or his choices. In fact, she strongly disagreed with that philosophy, but she was still more mother than sister to him, and Simeon’s clashing with his uncle would only alienate him from his mother. Since then, Simeon had tried to hold his tongue, but sometimes Aaron could be such a—
He shook his head, unable to find a word that adequately described the man who sat across the table from him now, fuming at the imposed silence. His thin face and narrow-set eyes made him look like a pouting child. He was balding from his forehead back, and his beard, light brown and with a touch of red, was thin and uneven. That was a surprise, because his peyot, his side curls, were thick and dark brown, literally curling as though they had been wrapped around a hot iron and pressed into that shape. They bobbed gently now as his head moved back and forth to follow the conversation between David and Andrew. With an inward sigh, Simeon focused again on what his father was saying.
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