by Bodie Thoene
The boy recognized that something had happened: he was forgiven. It had been a greater struggle, a tougher thing to achieve, than opening his ears, because that miracle of Yeshua’s had been so effortless. Forgiveness of sin was harder than making the deaf hear, but it was no less real.
Nor would Emet ever forget the lesson.
Zadok seemed to sense that the time had come to close that chapter and move on, for he said, “Can y’ imagine what Father Abraham was feeling on the night before he reached Mount Moriah?”
A threefold refrain of boyish voices urged the old man to explain, which he willingly did. “Our father, Abraham, was a man of enormous faith. When he was well along in years—the same age as I am now—he left his home, family, friends, and all his comfortable surroundings. He journeyed to a far country, this very land on which we sit, because the Almighty had promised it to him and his heirs. You heard me speak of this today, because that was the subject of the blood covenant made by the Most High.”
Affirmative replies echoed around the circle. Emet noticed a strengthening of the old shepherd’s voice, as if he had recently gained extraordinary power.
“Many years later, the Almighty gave Abraham an heir—his only son, Isaac. And Abraham loved the boy, cherished him, watched him grow, and thanked the Lord God daily for the gift more precious than cattle or land.”
Avel waved for Zadok’s attention. “Abraham was old when his son was born?”
“Very,” the shepherd said. “And his wife, Sarah, was well up in years too. But that’s not the story I’m telling now.”
Red Dog stood and stared off into the darkness. Zadok stopped speaking and observed for a time. When Red Dog stretched and lay down again, Zadok resumed.
“Many years passed and a time came when the Most High put Abraham to the test. He told our forefather to take his only son to Mount Moriah to sacrifice him.”
“No!” Ha-or Tov protested. “He didn’t, did he?”
Regarding each child in turn, Zadok explained, “Abraham trusted Adonai Elohim more than he feared for his son. He didn’t know what the Almighty planned, but he still believed. And so they traveled three days from their home near Hebron toward where Yerushalayim is now. Think of it: in Abraham’s mind for all those three days it was as if Isaac was as good as dead. Remember: not only was Isaac Abraham’s son, he was his only true son and the son of the promise. The one means to fulfill the oath sworn by the Most High in the blood covenant. On the second night they reached just about where we are sitting right now.”
Avel and Ha-or Tov glanced around.
Emet wondered if that was why Zadok had brought them out here on this night and why he had come with them. In the next breath the shepherd replied to Emet’s unspoken queries.
“It was about this same time of year, so the sounds were similar . . . the stars much the same. Isaac slept, not knowing what was in his father’s heart. In my younger days I often stood the night watch in this very spot and pondered what Abraham thought about through that long darkness.”
Emet wondered too. How could a father who loved his only son still go forward knowingly toward the child’s death? What sort of faith could overcome that sort of fear? Did Abraham hold on to the hope that the Almighty would change His mind? Or did he believe that the Most High would bring Isaac back from the dead as Yeshua raised Deborah? But a deliberate killing?
Even though the fire burned brightly, Emet tossed a tangle of dried brambles into the flames, as though the brilliance could drive back his dread of what would happen in the tale.
“The next day Abraham looked ahead and saw the holy mountain, where the Temple stands today. He made his servants stop then, while he and his son went forward together. Abraham even made Isaac tote the wood for the holocaust offering, just as the Romans make condemned prisoners carry their own crosses to the place of execution.”
Emet shuddered. He had seen the grisly remains of men crucified by Rome, their bodies left to rot in the sun.
“When they reached Mount Moriah, Isaac realized they had not brought a lamb. He said to his father, ‘Here’s the wood and the fire, but where is a sheep for the sacrifice?’ ‘The Lord God himself will provide,’ Abraham told him.”
The heap of rocks on which Red Dog perched resembled an altar. Emet, peering through the leaping flames, was terrified of what was coming.
“Abraham built an altar where the rock of sacrifice is,” Zadok said. “Stone by stone, placed carefully and neatly. And he arranged the wood for the fire. Then he trussed up his son, who did not resist, and put him on top of the wood on the altar. Then Father Abraham reached out and took the knife to slay his son.”
The chief shepherd’s knife appeared from inside his sleeve. Rays of firelight glinted off the blade, as if the weapon were a tongue of fire in Zadok’s hand.
Now Emet pictured what was going through Isaac’s mind! “Make him stop!” he shouted.
Zadok smiled. “That is just what the Almighty did. His messenger said to Abraham: ‘Do not lay your hand on the boy. Do not do the least thing to him. I know now how devoted y’ are, since you did not withhold from me your beloved son.”
Avel and Ha-or Tov cheered. Emet shouted also, but his voice squeaked because his throat was tight.
“Abraham used his knife to free his son instead of to kill him! Next he spotted a ram caught by its horns in a thicket of brambles. And so he offered the ram as a sacrifice instead of his son. He named the place, ‘the Lord God will provide.’ ”
The boys applauded, but Zadok was not quite finished. “Another message came to Abraham from heaven: The Lord God said, ‘I swear by myself that because y’ acted as y’ did in not withholding from me your beloved son, I will bless you abundantly and make your descendants as countless as the stars of the sky.’” Zadok waved his hand overhead at the myriad of glowing pinpoints of light. “ ‘And the sands of the seashore; your descendants shall take possession of the gates of their enemies, and in your descendants all the nations of the earth shall find blessing—all this because y’ obeyed my command.’”
Emet cheered again, a piping note of joy.
Zadok held up a cautionary finger. “Know this: there was a test, and there was still a sacrifice, even though the Lord God made an escape for Isaac.” Zadok’s brow furrowed and the creases of his forehead spilled into the vertical scar that crossed his eye and cheek. “A time will come when bulls and goats and lambs won’t any longer die as sacrifices. The prophets tell of the Anointed One, the Messiah, and many want him to be king. Isaiah calls him Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Father-Forever, Prince of Peace. He’s named Son of the Most High.”
Emet thought then of Yeshua, of the miracles, and of the cheering crowds. How did that vision tie in with the story they had just heard?
Zadok said, “And Isaiah says his name shall be Immanu’el, God-with-us.”
Three tousled heads snapped upright at that utterance.
“But that’s what Yeshua . . . ,” Ha-or Tov gushed.
“Shh!” Avel hissed.
“The prophet Isaiah also said this about Messiah,” Zadok continued, his scowl deepening. “ ‘It was our infirmities he bore, our sufferings he endured. He was pierced for our offenses, crushed for our sins. Upon him was the punishment that makes us whole. By his stripes we are healed.’ ”
Zadok stopped and stared toward Herodium and the ruined Tower of Siloam. His face was twisted, as if he had eaten something sour; as if his own words were distasteful to him and yet he could not stop himself from uttering them. He gestured toward the lambs. “We had all gone astray like sheep, each following his own way; but the Lord laid on him the guilt of us all. . . . Like a lamb led out to be slaughtered, like a sheep silent before its shearers, he did not open his mouth. . . . He poured out his life unto death, and was numbered with the transgressors. For he bore the sins of many. . . . The death of a completely innocent sacrifice . . . what can it all mean?”
Was the final question something written by Isa
iah? Emet wondered. Or had Zadok’s own thoughts crept into the open?
Whichever it was, with those words the old man halted abruptly. He stared into the fire while Avel, Emet, and Ha-or Tov exchanged puzzled frowns. The story of Abraham and Isaac was a good one, Emet thought, about trusting the Almighty. Why did Zadok act so morose?
“Get up, then,” Zadok ordered at last as he himself stood. Red Dog alertly jumped to his feet, while the boys were slower to unfold their cramped limbs. “Time to make the rounds of the flock.”
This was a night of too little sleep for Avel, Emet, and Ha-or Tov. Their watch over the flock completed, Zadok led the boys back to the house in Beth-lehem.
Early tomorrow, after chores, they would head to Jerusalem.
But for now, one Passover duty remained before they could go to bed. Special preparations for the Feast of Unleavened Bread had already begun at sunset. Throughout Israel households were searched and cleaned of all traces of leaven as a symbol of clearing away the secret sins of the heart.
“It is,” Zadok explained soberly, “like sweeping out from our souls even small fragments of sin. Like a tiny fragment of yeast in flour makes a lump of dough swell up, even a pinch of sin can take over a man’s life. And if y’ search, you’ll find yeast and sin in the most unexpected places. So tonight, with all of Israel, let’s clean our house and our hearts. Sweep away blame and anger at others. Remove all self-deceptions so we’ll have a new start.”
In the home of Zadok, the ritual began after midnight. The old man lit a candle and commanded the threesome to sit in utter silence as he conducted the first search and spoke this blessing: “Blessed are You, our God, King of the Universe, who has sanctified us by your commandments, and commanded us to remove all leaven.”
First, he took up the obvious sources of yeast. Two loaves of bread, and a handful of crusts were dropped into a cloth sack. Then he swept the floor and gathered crumbs of bread from the table. With a feather he dusted the ledge of the windowsill and the corners until, at last, a significant pile of crumbs lay heaped on the floor.
He searched the entire house by candlelight three times. At the conclusion he faced Jerusalem and intoned, “All the leaven that is in my possession, that which I have seen and that which I have not seen, be it as null, be it accounted as the dust of the earth.”
Avel could hardly keep his eyes open as Zadok finished the ceremony.
“In the morning,” Zadok told them, “which is nearer than we wish to think about, we’ll carry this leaven to Yerushalayim. There we will deliver the last of the sheep to the Temple and at the signal from the priests we’ll burn this leaven. For seven days we’ll eat unleavened bread as our fathers did when the Lord brought them out of bondage from Egypt. After the putting away of the old things, lads, we’ll be prepared to stand boldly before the council of seventy elders and give account of what we know about what transpired here. Are y’ ready?”
The thin reedy snoring of Emet replied. He was fast asleep, resting heavily on Avel’s arm.
Zadok softened and scooped up the boy in his arms. “I suppose I’m overly verbose. It’s been awhile since I had three little boys under this roof at Passover. There now.” Zadok smoothed back a lock of Emet’s hair and kissed his brow. “Poor lamb. And who could blame y’ for dozing off? What a day. What a terrible long day it’s been.” Zadok carried Emet to the pallet and summoned the others to come along. It was time, he said. Past time to sleep.
Ha-or Tov was out before Zadok finished his sentence.
Zadok studied Avel. “And one left. You hate to give it up, don’t you, boy?”
Avel nodded. “It’s just . . . I never spent Passover in a real house before. Never saw a real father search with the candle. I don’t want to miss anything.”
Zadok smiled gently at this revelation. “A father, you say?”
“What happened to your boys?”
“Ah. A long story, that. Not for telling tonight.”
“When?”
Zadok mussed Avel’s hair, indicating that the conversation was at an end. “I’ll tell you all about it . . . when Messiah comes. How’s that? Now, morning will be here soon enough,” Zadok warned Avel. “And it’ll likely be another long day for us.”
“We’ll be ready,” Avel whispered hoarsely. And then he too promptly drifted off to sleep.
VEKOAH
Morning broke over the Valley of the Sheepfold after the long night of grief, explanation, and cleansing.
Lev did not come to the lambing barn, so it was left to Avel, Emet, and Ha-or Tov to clean the pens and feed and water the ewes. A painful duty. Avel took over the care of Old Girl and her babies so Emet wouldn’t have to look at the vacant space left by the death of the one he loved best.
Emet was sent to draw water from the well.
The ewe who had lost her lamb through Zadok’s choice had not stopped mourning. Although Zadok had left her with one remaining twin, the ewe paced and bleated pitifully and would not be comforted.
Old Girl stood calmly as the triplet babies nursed. Bear’s fleece cap lay discarded in the straw. The ewe nudged it with her nose as if to inquire where the black sheep had gotten off to.
Avel scooped it up and thrust it into the pocket of his tunic.
He loaded the barrow with old straw and wheeled it out toward the light. Emerging, he saw that Emet stood stock-still beside the well. Avel shielded his eyes and stared off across the pastures.
Lev was coming back. Dirty and disheveled, with his usual cocky swagger reduced to the trudge of a man who walked with the weight of sorrow on his back.
Avel dumped the straw and joined Emet at the well. He withdrew the lamb’s cap and pressed it into Emet’s hand. The child gazed at it a moment, then pressed it to his cheek. His eyes moistened and he murmured, “Poor Lev.”
“Yes,” Avel agreed. Even in pardon the load would be heavy on his soul. How could it not be?
At that instant Lev raised his eyes to Emet. The head bowed again and the pace did not alter. On and on he came up the hill to where the boys waited for him.
As he came near it was evident that he had been weeping. Eyes were red and swollen. His thick lips trembled. He raised his arm in greeting and let it fall again. And then he came to Emet. His shadow covered the boy. He shook his head, trying to speak. Again his head wagged from side to side. He groaned and fell to his knees before Emet. He reached out to touch Bear’s cap with his finger. He began to weep openly.
“Sorry! So sorry! So . . .”
“Ah, Lev!” Emet cried, embracing him. “Lev!”
There followed a time when man and boy hugged and sobbed together as Avel stood apart and watched an incomprehensible change in the two.
At last Lev sat back on his heels. He wiped Emet’s tears away with the scrap of fleece and then his own. “Stump,” Lev whispered. “I know what he meant to y’.”
“Yes,” Emet concurred.
“Today is the day of preparation for the Passover. I’d like to wear his covering as a sign of redemption. The blood of the lamb upon the door-post of my heart. As it was that first Passover in Egypt. I’ve been thinking on it all night, y’ see? They would’ve crucified me, and rightly so, for I’m guilty of shedding another man’s blood. But would y’ tie this fleece round my neck then as reminder to all who see it that the lamb was killed and the life of old Zadok stands as a payment if any more blood is spilled? And will y’ forgive me, boy, for the unkindness I lavished on y’? For y’ didn’t deserve my spite!”
“Gladly.” Emet placed his hand on Lev’s brow in a wordless benediction, a bond of forgiveness and peace between them. And then, knowing well enough how to tie, he tied the leather laces which had held the fleece on Bear and slipped the collar over Lev’s bowed head.
There was one thing more to do.
Lev sniffed and wiped his red nose with the back of his hand. “Blue Eye’s still down there. A fine, wise dog, he was. Come now, boys. We’ve a duty. Fetch me a spade. Call Ha-or Tov.
We’ll go together to the field where he lies. I’ll bury him.”
Zadok covered Avel, Emet, and Ha-or Tov with his tallith and faced in the direction of Jerusalem. He began to recite the words of Isaiah:
“In the last days the mountain of the Lord’s Temple will be established as chief among the mountains; it will be raised above the hills, and all the nations will stream to it. Many peoples will come and say, ‘Come let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob. He will teach us his ways, so that we may walk in his paths.’ The law will go out from Zion, the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. He will judge between the nations and will settle disputes for many peoples. They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore. Come, O house of Jacob, let us walk in the light of the Lord.”
Zadok recited these hopeful words on every occasion before he set out to travel to Jerusalem. But, Avel thought, as he observed Zadok’s somber demeanor, the chief herdsman didn’t sound too hopeful that he would see this promise fulfilled.
Something had changed in Zadok’s thinking between yesterday and today. He determined he would not stay in the Holy City overnight for the Paschal feast.
What troubled him?
The question rippled through Beth-lehem. Had the old shepherd ever before spent the first night of the Holy Week outside Jerusalem?
Perhaps in the distant past, but not in the living memory of anyone at Migdal Eder. For thirty years Zadok and his wife had driven the last of the lambs through the Sheep Gate and then remained in the city until the conclusion of the feast.
Perhaps this year, since the old woman’s passing, Zadok wanted to change the routine?
Whatever the reason, Avel was glad for it. The boy thought about bar Abba, Asher, Kittim, and the curved blade of Dan’s knife. The rebels were surely in the city of the Temple of the Most High, preparing to make their own sacrifice of human blood today. Avel did not want to be on hand if and when things broke loose!
