Jerusalem's Hope

by Bodie Thoene

  Who was this man who was such a mix of contradictions? What was his story? And why had Yeshua sent them to him?

  Emet looked away quickly when Zadok raised up, before the old man caught him staring at the eyepatch.

  When Zadok finished patting Emet’s feet dry, he rubbed goose grease into the worst sores and bound them loosely with linen strips. “That should serve for now,” he said. “There’s broth in the other kettle. Help yourself. Bowls on the shelf.”

  As Zadok proceeded to minister next to Ha-or Tov, Emet selected a bowl from the stack on a shelf. The walls of Zadok’s home were bare except for the shelves that ran around three sides of the room. Clay pots, drinking cups, and utensils were neatly arranged in a precise, orderly fashion.

  Emet couldn’t explain exactly, but the home displayed a feminine touch. It had no finery about it, but something spoke of a now-absent woman’s loving care.

  Ha-or Tov wasn’t shy about Zadok’s injury. “You know,” he said, “you should go to Reb Yeshua. He’d fix your eye for you. I know.”

  Emet tensed. Was that too much of a challenge to the man? Would he turn surly again, or get angry?

  Zadok grunted. “Is that so? Well . . .” Then he refreshed the medicinal soak and began to work on Avel.

  Emet breathed a sigh of relief.

  When Avel’s feet had likewise been doctored and all three boys had eaten their fill of broth, Zadok directed them into the room at the rear. “Straw-filled pallets in the corner,” he said. “The sheep fleece is to lay on. Go to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ve got my accounts to cast up.”

  The soft white wool beneath him was unlike anything Emet had ever felt against his skin. Both Ha-or Tov in the middle and Avel against the far wall lapsed into sleep seconds after lying down. Emet, on the outer edge of the bed, closed his eyes. He inhaled the aromas and breathed a sigh of contentment. Such luxury! Was he dreaming? If he had lain down in a palace, could he have experienced such comfort? He forced himself to stay awake, to relish this sense of well-being and to observe the old shepherd as he moved about the other room.

  Zadok produced a wax tablet from inside the fold of his robes. With a sharpened goose quill dipped in ink, he transferred the tally of lambs born to a more permanent record on a parchment scroll.

  All the while the dogs blinked up from where they lay by the fire. They followed their master’s every move.

  Emet struggled against sleep. He watched as Zadok finished his work, then took down a tall clay jar from a shelf. From it the old man removed another scroll covered with columns of Hebrew script. Zadok spread the document out on his table and began to study, line by line, in the lamplight. What was he searching for?

  The old man glanced up at Emet. A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Still awake?”

  Emet pressed his lips together. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do y’ know what day it is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Shabbat. The day of rest.”

  “I’m not tired, sir.”

  “The only ones excused from rest on Shabbat are shepherds of Migdal Eder at lambing time. The Almighty makes exception for those who tend his sheep.”

  “I like it here,” Emet ventured.

  “So y’ must have a shepherd’s heart then, eh boy? Else you’d be resting.”

  “I hear the sheep. Far off. Like music.”

  Zadok scanned the text before him. “The one who sent you to me?”

  “Yeshua?”

  “How old a man is he, now?”

  “Couldn’t say, sir.” Emet could merely judge faces as young, middle, and old. He did not know what “how old” meant. “Not as old as you. Older than Lev. I don’t know.”

  “Did he tell y’ why you’re to come here? To Migdal Eder? To me?”

  “He said you needed us.”

  The corner of Zadok’s mouth turned up. “Did he, now? I need you? To tend the flocks? To herd the sheep?”

  “To remind you, he said. I don’t know what he meant. He said . . . since she was gone . . . you needed us. We didn’t know who she is. But he said what he said . . . and then he left. We came to Beth-lehem to find you and give you the message.”

  “To tell me Immanu’el was coming?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The old shepherd’s face clouded with unexpressed emotion. He leaned forward with interest. “Do y’ know the meaning of Immanu’el, boy?”

  “I don’t know much of anything, sir.”

  “Well, then. It’s enough you’ve come.” Zadok lapsed into silence and returned to his study.

  For a long time Emet watched the old man search column after column of text. The fleece beneath the boy was soft and warm. Emet struggled to keep his lids from closing. But in the end . . . no use. No use.

  The shepherd, buried in concentration, was hunched over the writings when Emet finally gave in to sleep.

  That same night, over cold chicken, apples, cheese, and wine, Nakdimon told the story of Yeshua and the events in the Galil to his mother.

  Skeptical and wary, she received the message coolly. “I’m an old woman, Nakdimon. I’ve seen enough of this sort of thing come and go to know that hope for a Messiah always ends in someone’s death. Stand back from it awhile before you carry such tales to Gamaliel and the Sanhedrin.”

  “I have to tell what I’ve seen. What I know.”

  “There’s a frenzy in the streets already. People whisper in the souks that the hour has arrived. I’m sure I don’t know what hour they’re talking about, but it’s making the cohanim nervous I can tell you!”

  “If he comes . . .”

  “If he comes it won’t end well. I didn’t raise a fool for a son. You know what could happen.”

  “Em, I don’t believe he’s preaching the overthrow of any government. Only the tearing down of what’s false in us . . . in our hearts . . . and building something pure and clean again.”

  She exhaled in disapproval. “Fanatic.”

  “Righteous man.”

  “Fanatics usually are righteous until you peel away the message and find pure lust for power underneath.”

  “Em . . . Mother . . . his is a different sort of power . . . mercy and love . . . I wish you could hear him.”

  “If he comes to Yerushalayim, the whole world will hear him! In chains he’ll give testimony about his kingdom, and Rome will nail him to the nearest cross. Mark my words! Could he be such a fool as to come here now?”

  “When the time is right . . .”

  “So much for another Messiah. They’re as common as sparrows these days. A Messiah in every family tree and on the branch of Jesse . . . or whatever it was Isaiah wrote about him. It’s a fable. Not meant to be taken literally. It costs too much to believe such things! There’s always a slaughter of little lambs at the end of the story. Or have you forgotten?”

  Nakdimon fell silent for several minutes. Then he finally said, “Well then. We have come to a disagreement about him. He may be the one who could restore our nation to the glory of King David’s throne.”

  “Those are words of revolution, Nakdimon! Treason. Dangerous. King David is dead. His tomb is a half mile from here. I’m saying that your Rabbi from Nazareth would join David within the week if he comes into the city. What good is a dead Messiah to anyone? Or a dead member of the Sanhedrin with seven orphan children? You speak openly in favor of this fellow and you’re a dead man too. Think of your children. Your position.”

  Nakdimon nodded, deferring to her opinion. “I’ll give my report to Gamaliel in the morning. And then we’ll see.”

  A short time later Nakdimon made his way up the stairs to the dormitory room where his seven children slept.

  Strange how coming home again had instantly reemphasized his loneliness. Since Hadassah had died there had not been a waking hour in which she was not somehow vivid in his mind. It was the absence of her that bored a hole in his heart. The continuity of grief had connected the moment of her leaving to the present. A bleak f
uture had stretched out before him . . . existence without Hadassah!

  And then, in the eyes of Yeshua, he had glimpsed hope again, a tangible awareness that time and this earthly existence were an aberration in eternity.

  You will see her again. Yeshua promised.

  How could Yeshua have known that this was the one question for which Nakdimon required an answer in order to go on! Death was not the final chapter. It was a beginning of something else. Beyond this life was life eternal, and somehow Yeshua held the key to that door. He alone had stepped out of eternity and demonstrated the power to call back the soul and breathe life into clay once again.

  I am the resurrection and the life! No man comes to the Father except through me!

  What could he mean by that? Was Yeshua’s claim arrogance? Madness? Or truth?

  Before the foundation of the world you were given to me!

  Before? How could that be?

  Nakdimon’s visit to the Galil had burdened him with more questions than answers. And yet he was certain of this one thing: Yeshua of Nazareth was no mere mortal man. He held a power of life and death, and more so than the temporal authority of an earthly king who could condemn or spare a man from execution. Every human, including kings and princes, was on a journey toward the grave. Man’s destiny led him irrevocably to physical death. But Yeshua proved that death had no power over those who trusted him and called on his mercy!

  What a wonder was in this revelation!

  What joy and illumination would come to the hearts of all mankind if every knee would bow to such a one as this! If only it was true! If Messiah’s kingdom was established now, could he not call forth the righteous dead from the dust and make them live again?

  All these things were in Nakdimon’s thoughts as he stood over the beds of his sleeping children. He whispered their names with renewed hope for their future. “Shalom. Peace. Hannah. Susanna. Ruth. Sara and Dinah. Leah. Little Samuel.” What would their world be like if Yeshua came to Jerusalem as Messiah and King?

  “Shalom,” he said again.

  KI IM

  In the midst of a dream Emet heard the click of a dog’s nails on pavement and the tramp of footsteps approaching the door of Zadok’s home. A muted whine was hushed by a low command.

  Were these things parts of his dream?

  A rapping intruded on Emet’s vision. He felt the vibration of the knocking come through the air, then noticed the scrape of the bench legs on the stone floor as Zadok pushed away from the table.

  “What?” the shepherd demanded.

  Red Dog and Blue Eye stood beside the entry, their tailless hindquarters showing a slight quiver of unalarmed anticipation.

  Not an enemy, then, or a threat, Emet thought.

  “Sir, she’s having an awful time,” Emet heard Lev’s voice explain. “I couldn’t do nothing, so I come for you.”

  Zadok coughed, cleared his throat, and opened the door, nodding Lev into his front room where a lone lamp flickered above a length of scroll.

  Everything outside remained pitch black. Which watch of the night was it? How long had Emet been asleep?

  “Did I do right, sir?” Lev queried with downcast gaze. Evidently disturbing the chief herdsman at his dwelling was not undertaken lightly.

  “Yes, yes,” Zadok assured him. “Go back. Keep her quiet. I’ll be there soon.”

  Emet sat up and watched as Zadok took the time to carefully roll up the scroll he’d been studying and replace it in the urn. Avel and Ha-or Tov, wakened by the disturbance, stirred as well.

  Avel queried, “What’s . . .”

  “The matter?” Ha-or Tov concluded when a yawn interrupted his friend’s question.

  Beside the shelf Zadok studied the three staring children, then made a decision. With a peremptory gesture he said, “Come on, then. Time to find out what we’re about here. Hurry it up.”

  Merely seconds passed before the trio were ready to follow the old shepherd.

  With a rattle of the door on its leather hinges, Zadok, two dogs, and three sleepy and curious boys exited into the Judean night, heading again for the lambing barn.

  The pregnant ewe remained stock-still and shivering. As Emet neared the pen, a convulsion passed through her body and she strained without visible result.

  Zadok took down a lamp in his giant callused hands and passed it to Lev, saying softly, “Not any too soon. You were right to get me. She’s in a bad state.” Then to the boys he added, “Keep out of the way and out of the light. Pay attention and y’ might learn something.”

  Lev patted the ewe, assuring her in soothing tones that the master was here and everything would be all right, that they would help her.

  Despite the breadth of the load she bore, it was clear to Emet that the ewe was rather narrow and delicate compared to other sheep. Zadok’s hands were too big to assist easily in the birthing.

  “I tried all I know’d,” Lev offered apologetically. “Nothing worked.”

  “You’ve grown since last lambing,” Zadok observed. “Your hands are big as mine. Watch me: I’ll try to hook a foreleg with one finger.” Zadok expended the utmost care as he worked to extract the lamb. Beads of perspiration appeared above the strap of his eyepatch and trickled down the crease of his scar.

  Emet saw Avel and Ha-or Tov staring with the same wide-eyed wonder that he experienced himself.

  “Got it!” Zadok announced with terse excitement, then, “No. No. That foot doesn’t belong to the same body. I’ll have another go.”

  Once more the scene in the lamplight was a frozen tableau of Lev’s anxious grimace, the silently intense onlookers, and Zadok’s minute, almost imperceptible movements. Zadok remarked to his young audience, “Sheep are tough in one way: they can live rough, crop poor grass, and make do with little water. But delicate in another: can’t be rough in birthing lambs.”

  A measured groan came from a nearby pen, but no one paid it any heed. All were focused on the present drama.

  Just when Emet wondered how much longer they could remain motionless, Zadok declared, “Got the right one. Tangled, though. Have to maneuver around more.”

  Lev studied the panting ewe. Her head drooped and her mouth hung open in silent agony. He pointed out these signals to the concentrating flock master.

  “No time, then,” Zadok concluded, “we’re losing her.” And he exerted pressure with two fingers of one hand.

  At this crucial instant Avel leaned forward, blocking Emet’s view. Ha-or Tov put his hands over his face.

  But Emet wanted to see! Careful not to interfere with the light, Emet worked his way around the pen for a better view.

  Zadok’s thumb and forefinger gripped something. The muscles in the shepherd’s neck tightened as he tugged.

  A tiny hoof appeared, followed by a foreleg, then a shoulder and then another foreleg.

  So that was what Zadok meant: twin babies, entangled in the womb. And the mother was too diminutive to allow easy correction of the snarl.

  The scruffy head of a lamb appeared, then the shiny nose of another followed, then another tiny hoof. “That’s it,” Zadok muttered to himself.

  “One foreleg bent back and caught in the hind of the other. Have to bring them both together.”

  Emet was entranced and horrified at the same time. How could this be so urgent and move so slowly? What would happen to the lambs if the mother didn’t survive?

  Hands around the heads and shoulders of the half-birthed lambs, Zadok braced himself and tugged.

  From immobility everything came with a rush.

  The lambs came free together in a gush of blood. Zadok sat back in the straw, cradling both babies in his arms.

  The ewe gave a single feeble bleat, then toppled over on her side. She was dead.

  A bulge in her flank caught Zadok’s attention. “There’s the cause,” he said. “Third lamb in there.” Turning toward a startled Avel and Ha-or Tov, he commanded gruffly, “Take these two. Rub them with straw, but keep out of the way
.” He thrust the two infant lambs at the boys.

  Emet tried to climb into the pen with the others but was roughly ordered back by Lev. “Not you, stump!” the shepherd said. “Too little.”

  Zadok first checked the ewe’s glazed eyes and protruding tongue, and then drew a short, curved knife, like a small claw, from somewhere in his robes.

  Almost before Emet could comprehend what was happening, Zadok had sliced open the sheep’s belly and produced a third lamb, identical to the others. Lev took it without being told and plumped down in the pen, showing Ha-or Tov and Avel how to rub the babies briskly with knots of straw. The chafing dried the damp fleeces and encouraged the infants to breathe and move, just as their mother’s tongue would have done had she lived.

  Emet cried without realizing it. Three lambs, all born alive and all orphaned at the same time, and he was too little to even help them!

  Straightening up, Zadok surveyed the scene. “Well,” he said, as if considering what was to be done next. Stretching cramped muscles, he peered into an adjacent pen and remarked, “Seems Old Girl got along without us.”

  Since he was of no use to anyone, Emet clambered around the rails to where he could also see into the other enclosure. There a ragged, patchy-fleeced, knock-kneed elderly ewe nudged an oversized lamb lying on the straw. Bumping it with her nose, she pushed her baby to stand, but there was no response.

  Another death! Birth was hard and cruel and dangerous.

  “That’s the answer,” Zadok mused aloud. Then to Lev he explained, “Old Girl’s had a stillborn. We’ll put these three onto her to foster. She’s always let down milk enough for three.”

  Soon the three white orphans—“All ewe-lambs,” Lev remarked—were in the same pen with Old Girl. But the aged ewe would have none of them. As they plaintively circled her flanks, Old Girl dodged and sidestepped, wanting nothing to do with babies that were not her own.

  Would this tragedy never end? Was there no remedy that would save the lives of the babies?

  Zadok and Lev conferred over the limp body of Old Girl’s stillborn offspring. “She’s mostly blind,” Lev put in. “It’s possible.”