Jesus slowly turned back so that he was facing Amram, who was still on his feet. “And Abraham said unto the rich man, ‘They have Moses and the prophets. Let them hear them.’ And the rich man said, ‘Nay, Father Abraham, that will not change them. But if one went unto them from the dead, they would repent.’”
Jesus paused. Amram shrank back a little before that unflinching gaze. “And,” Jesus concluded, emphasizing the words with great care, “And Abraham said to him, ‘If they hear not Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded even if one rose from the dead.’”
V
“All right, Deborah,” Yehuda said, “let’s hear you explain why dishonesty is commended.” He said it with a teasing smile, but his eyes clearly indicated he was serious about the question. Jesus had finished, and the crowd was breaking up.
“And I have another question,” Livia said, before Deborah could respond. “What is this about Abraham’s bosom?”
“That one is easy,” Yehuda said. “I’ll answer that one for you, if Deborah can answer the other one for me.”
Deborah smiled. “You first.”
Yehuda grew more serious. “To be in Abraham’s bosom is our way of saying that when you die and enter the life after this, you will be in paradise.”
“Why?” Livia asked.
“Well, first, you know how Abraham is revered as the father of the faithful.”
“Yes, I am familiar with that.”
“So when he died he clearly went to paradise. To be in Abraham’s bosom means that you are in paradise too.”
“Oh,” Livia said. “So the rich man ends up in hell—what in Greek we call Hades—but the beggar is in paradise.”
“Just so,” Yehuda said enthusiastically. “An image which I find quite pleasing, being a poor man myself.” He turned to Deborah. “But the first parable is very troubling.”
Deborah sighed. “Yes, the first story. It does seem a little strange, but here are some thoughts David and I had as Jesus told it before.” She smiled briefly. “I wish David were here. He sees so much more than I do when Jesus teaches.”
“I find you also do very well, Deborah,” Miriam said. “So tell us what you’re thinking. To be honest, the first story caught me by surprise too.”
“Well, for one thing,” Deborah said, “the two stories are closely tied together.”
“How?” Yehuda shot right back.
“Think about the unjust steward for a minute,” Deborah said. “Why did he go to those two debtors and offer to falsify the accounts?”
“Because he was a crook,” Yehuda said bluntly. “And Jesus commended him for it.”
“No,” she said patiently. “First of all, Jesus said that the man’s master commended him. And, as I said, he didn’t commend his dishonesty, he commended his shrewdness because he had done wisely.”
“I think you’re splitting hairs,” Yehuda grunted.
“But that was not really my question,” Deborah said, ignoring his response. “Why did the steward go to those two men? Why did he choose them over others?”
Livia began to nod slowly. “He must have known that they would agree to the deceit.”
“Yes, and what else?”
Miriam finally saw what she thought Deborah was after. “Because he hoped that once he lost his position—which he clearly knew was going to happen—these men would help him.”
Deborah turned and gave Yehuda a knowing look. “Do you agree?”
His eyes were thoughtful. “Yes, I see that.”
“What was the steward most afraid of when he thought he might lose his position with the Master?”
“He did not want to be poor,” Yehuda answered without hesitation. “He was too proud to beg and didn’t want to dirty his soft white hands digging ditches.”
“Very good. Or to put it another way, he was worried about his future, right?”
Both Miriam and Livia were nodding.
“So let’s not talk about his honesty for a moment. Let’s talk about how shrewd he was in trying to prepare for his future. He made lasting friends with these men by offering them gain. Would you say he ‘did wisely’ as Jesus suggested?”
“I suppose,” Yehuda said, half grudgingly, half intrigued.
“Now, think for a moment what Jesus taught us after the story was over. What did he say?”
Miriam answered first. “He said that the children of the world are wiser than the children of light.”
“And,” Livia added, “that we should make friends for ourselves with the mammon of unrighteousness. That seemed really strange to me.”
Deborah sat back, trying to think how best to say it. “That’s right. Mammon is another word for worldly riches. So think for a moment about the rich man and Lazarus. What if the rich man had not ignored Lazarus every time he went in and out of his house? What if he had fed him and given him clothes? Or taken him to a physician to cure his sores? Would that have made a difference in how the parable was told, do you think?”
“Of course,” Yehuda said.
“When the rich man died, he would have had friends in the next world,” she said slowly, letting her words sink in. “Lazarus would have spoken up in the rich man’s behalf. Abraham would have been pleased with what he had done.”
Livia’s mouth had opened slightly as the meaning became clear. “And thus the rich man would have used his wealth to prepare for his future.”
Deborah gave her a warm smile. “Which would be a very shrewd and wise move, don’t you think? When Jesus said that we should make friends with mammon, I think he was saying that we should make friends for ourselves by using righteously the mammon that is so often used unrighteously. We can help people here who will be our friends after death, people who will speak in our behalf.”
Miriam saw it too. She looked at Yehuda to see if he understood it as well. She tried to make it even clearer. “The steward, who was a child of the world, was wise enough to try to prepare for his future. We, the covenant people, who are supposedly the children of light, need to be concerned about preparing for what lies in our future, especially what will happen to us after we die.”
The three women watched Yehuda closely. He didn’t want to, but he did have to admit that it now made sense. And he could see how the two stories were interconnected.
“That’s why Amram was angry,” Deborah pointed out. “He understood exactly what Jesus was saying. He is a Pharisee, who more than all others claim that God is first in their lives. But his whole focus is on accumulating worldly wealth. So he is not as wise as the unjust steward. He is not using his wealth to prepare for eternity.”
Yehuda blew out his breath. “All right, I see it. And it does make sense. But why does Jesus have to make things so obscure? I’m a simple, unlearned man. I like it better when people just come right out and say what they mean.”
Deborah laughed and punched him softly on the arm. “First of all, I think his message was very clear. Second, Yehuda of Beth Neelah, if you are a simple, unlearned man,” she laughed, “then we are but babes still in swaddling clothes. You are as shrewd and cunning as that unjust steward.”
He winced, feigning great pain. “How can you say such a thing?” he yelped.
“Because you got Livia to agree to come to Beth Neelah with you and Leah and Shana,” she said, poking him again. “Now that’s about as shrewd as it comes.”
Chapter Notes
The parable of the unjust steward is found in Luke 16, as is the parable of Lazarus and the rich man (Luke 16:1–31). The latter story is often referred to as “Lazarus and Dives,” dives being the Latin word meaning riches.
Of the expression, “Abraham’s bosom,” Fallows explains: “There was no name which conveyed to the Jews the same associations as that of Abraham. As undoubtedly he was in the highest state of felicity of which departed spirits are capable, ‘to be with Abraham’ implied the enjoyment of the same felicity; and ‘to be in Abraham’s bosom’ meant to be in repose and happiness
with him. The latter phrase is obviously derived from the custom of sitting or reclining at table which prevailed among the Jews in and before the time of Christ. By this arrangement, the head of one person was necessarily brought almost into the bosom of the one who sat above him. . . . The guests were so arranged that the most favored were placed so as to bring them into that situation with respect to the host” (Fallows, 1:28).
Chapter 5
And in terror they deemed the things which they saw, to be worse than that unseen appearance.
—Wisdom of Solomon 17:6
I
Jerusalem, Upper City 16 November, a.d. 31
Mordechai ben Uzziel was glad he had decided to walk home from the house of Caiaphas, high priest of Jerusalem. The feast had been long, sumptuous, and raucous. He had drunk too much wine, and his knees felt a little wobbly when he got up from the table. But the cold, crisp air had cleared his brain, and he felt much better as he approached the gate to his courtyard. There was a perfect half moon, and he could see some distance along the street in both directions. He hoped his bearers had told Levi he was coming so someone would be ready at the gate to let him in.
As he approached the door and reached for the thick brass knocker, to his surprise the door abruptly swung open. “Good evening, Master.”
“Levi! You startled me.”
“Sorry, sire. I had come to secure the gate and looked out and saw you coming. So I waited.”
Mordechai ignored the sudden pounding in his heart. “Thank you.”
“You have company, sire.”
Mordechai’s eyes narrowed. “At this hour?”
“He’s been here for some time, Master.”
He swore under his breath.
“He wouldn’t give his name,” Levi rushed on. “Said he has a matter of important business with you.” He lowered his voice. “A Galilean, judging from his accent. He’s very nicely dressed, sire, and he’s carrying a considerable sum of money. I hefted the bag onto the table for him, and it must contain several hundred shekels.”
That piqued Mordechai’s interest and explained why Levi had been willing to let a stranger into the house.
Inside, Mordechai allowed his steward to remove his cape and winter boots. He held up one foot, then another, and Levi put on the slippers made of calf’s leather and soft wool. Then he started toward the library.
“Would you need anything of me further, sire?”
“Not unless I call you.” Then he considered that. “But don’t go to bed until I say. I’m not sure what this man wants.”
“Of course, Master. I shall be in my room.”
Mordechai opened the door and went inside the large room that served as his library and office at home. The man seated on the marble bench stood immediately. Mordechai noted the leather bag on the table. It was fat and round.
“Erev tov,” the stranger said.
“Erev tov,” Mordechai answered, with a flash of anger. At this hour—it was well into the second watch of the night—Lailah tov, or good night, was a more appropriate greeting than “good evening.” But he pushed the thought away as he studied the man’s face. He looked vaguely familiar, and yet Mordechai knew he had never met him before. He had an excellent memory for faces. The man was about his own age, solidly built, with little sign of fat. His hair and short beard were sprinkled with gray, and he had clear blue eyes. It was the eyes that looked familiar to him. But Levi had been right. His robes and outer cloak bespoke a man of considerable means.
“My servant tells me you have business with me. Do I know you?”
The man gave a quick smile. “Well, yes and no.” He withdrew a rolled parchment from his robe. “This will explain everything, I believe.”
Definitely from the Galilee, Mordechai noted. The accent was unmistakable.
The man stepped forward and handed the roll to Mordechai. “If you don’t mind,” he went on, as Mordechai took it and examined the wax seal, “I’ve left two items in your courtyard that will be important in our discussion. May I have your permission to retrieve them while you read the document?”
“I can have my servant—”
“No.” He smiled enigmatically. “In this case, I think it better if I bring them in myself.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left the room.
Mordechai watched him go, still puzzled by what was proving to be a highly unusual meeting. He moved behind the table and sat down. As he started to break the wax seal, his eye fell again on the large brown bag resting in front of him. He reached across and hefted it, grunting at the unexpected weight. Levi was too conservative. It felt more like a thousand shekels—not an insignificant amount, even to a man as wealthy as Mordechai ben Uzziel. His curiosity only deepened as he broke the seal, unrolled the scroll, and smoothed it on the table.
To his surprise, the document was written in elaborate classical lettering, very formal, very impressive. Then his brow furrowed as he saw the title:
KETUBAH
Mordechai’s mouth pulled down. The word meant “marriage contract” or “marriage license.” Its primary purpose was to record the groom’s financial and other obligations to his bride. In a world where a man could divorce his wife without her consent, this gave the woman a guarantee of some financial security in the case of divorce or the death of her husband.
But why would this man be handing him a ketubah? It only heightened his sense of strangeness and a growing concern that something was not right. He leaned forward and began to read.
Be it known to all men everywhere, through the formal declarations of this ketubah, which are duly witnessed by those whose signatures appear below, that I, Simeon ben David ben Joseph, of Capernaum . . .
Mordechai visibly jerked. Simeon ben David! Instantly his eyes narrowed, and his face darkened. He had something to do with this?
. . . That I, Simeon ben David ben Joseph . . .
His head came up again, and he stared at the door. Simeon, son of David, son of Joseph. David ben Joseph! No wonder the man looked familiar! It was Simeon’s father. The resemblance was not striking, but it was there. And the eyes. How could he have missed that? They were Simeon’s eyes. He should have seen that at once.
Anger exploded inside him. He started to raise his voice to shout for Levi, but then his eyes were drawn downward again.
. . . I, Simeon ben David ben Joseph, of Capernaum, do hereby declare before the Holy One of Israel, blessed be his name, and to all the world, my intentions to betroth myself on the 5th day of Tevet (in the Latin calendar, also known as the seventh day of December), to Miriam bat Mordechai ben Uzziel, formerly of Jerusalem, more recently of the city of Rome . . .
He shot to his feet, nearly overturning the table. Miriam! Simeon and Miriam! He gave a strangled cry of fury and started for the door. Then he stopped, remembering the short Roman sword he kept hidden in a lower cabinet behind the table. First that, and then he would rouse the servants.
Before he reached the table, however, the sound of the door opening spun him around. “You!” he spat in utter disgust.
Simeon smiled thinly. “But surely you were expecting me, Mordechai ben Uzziel.” The tone was calm, which only added to the sense of being mocked.
Mordechai swore, reaching for the cord that would ring the bell in Levi’s quarters.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Simeon said quietly.
Though he didn’t move, Mordechai’s hand dropped, and he stepped back quickly. “Where is my daughter?”
“In Capernaum. She is staying with your cousin Lilly and her husband, Ezra. As you already know, I’m sure, they live in Capernaum now. A member of their family drove them out of Joppa when they chose to stand by his daughter in a time of need.”
His eyes never left Simeon’s face. “So it was you that kidnapped her.”
Simeon’s eyes went cold. “No, Mordechai, you are the one who took Miriam prisoner. Ezra and I only freed her.”
“I want her back!”
“She’s you
r daughter, not a dog or a sheep that you’ve lost.”
The rage almost blinded Mordechai. He took a step toward the other man, fists clenching and unclenching. “I’ll have you—” He stopped. Two other figures had appeared at the door.
David ben Joseph came into the room. He held a man by the elbow, a man whose hands were tightly bound with cords. There was also a rope around his ankles, short enough that he had to hobble to move forward.
Mordechai drew in a sharp breath when he saw who it was . . . Gedaliah of Motzah, the man he had sent to the Galilee to learn if Miriam was there.
Simeon turned and in two quick movements slashed the man’s ropes. “Go,” he commanded. “You can settle with your employer later.”
The man rubbed his hands, looking back and forth between Simeon and Mordechai. “It would not be wise to show your face in Capernaum again,” Simeon murmured. “Not for any reason. Not for a very long time.”
Gedaliah swallowed hard, then looked at Mordechai. Mordechai jerked his head, and the man backed out the door. A moment later they heard the front door open and shut again, and the man was gone. David pulled the door to the library shut and then came forward to stand beside his son. “Did you have a chance to examine the document?” he asked amiably.
Mordechai strode to the table and picked it up. “Is this your idea of a joke? You want my permission to marry my daughter?”
Simeon kept his voice even. “We are not here seeking permission. Miriam and I are to be betrothed in about three weeks. She wanted you to know that, and we wanted you to have the ketubah so you would know that all things will be done in order.”
“I forbid it. I’ll have the betrothal annulled.”
David shook his head. “Miriam is of age. Your permission, while desirable, is not legally required. Should the details be made known of how you treated her in Rome—seizing her mail, restricting her freedom against her will, and even confiscating those assets that are legally hers—I think even the Great Council would condemn your actions and give her permission to pursue her own way in life now. The Law is quite clear on such issues.”
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