If you can take your skills and experience and pass them on to another in such a way that they receive value from it;
Yet also take their knowledge, learn from it and pass it on as well.
If you can talk to people to find out what they want
And then fulfill their needs in a format that they can grow from
If you can prepare and plan until everything is perfect,
Yet make allowances for whatever will inevitable fail or break.
If you have the courage to present your material even though you feel uncomfortable
To stand before a group of strangers and ask them to trust you
If you can be an expert yet still be able to learn from a novice
Then yours is the class and everyone that’s in it...
And – which is more – you’ll be a trainer, my friend
- with thanks to Bart Simpson (yes that's his real name) of Trab Training Inc. who uses Kipling's poem "IF" to inspire his students.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
The Bride
"For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are - yet was without sin." - Heb. 4:15
"Good night, Simon", Jesus called to his friend.
"Goodnight, Master, we'll sleep well after our long trip." Simon called back as he climbed the stairs to the room he shared with his wife.
It had been three weeks since he and the others had last been home and he looked forward to a good sleep in his own comfortable bed; he looked forward to his wife. At the top of the stairs, just before entering the room, he turned to see his friend watching from the cot in the inner yard. There were others there as well, all sharing what little room there was, this ragtag band of followers sleeping on the ground with their master. For a brief moment Simon felt the urge to join them, but for three weeks he had missed his wife and now she was waiting.
"Sleep well, my friend," Jesus whispered as Simon turned into his room, "you've earned it."
Left now only to his thoughts, Jesus closed his eyes to sleep. It had been three weeks, and while the work was pleasant, there were times when the load was almost too burdensome. The crowds kept getting larger, to the point now where there was little time to teach his followers. Even when he turned people away they kept coming back. He who could turn back the demons of hell could not keep even a child from coming to him for healing. He longed for the crowds to see that what he came to give was not temporal healing but eternal. His feet ached from the long walk and his mind was tired from the challenging Pharisees.
As fatigue gave way to half sleep, his thoughts began to wander to his friend. He imagined Simon asleep cuddling his wife, her head resting on his chest and her long black hair draped across his shoulders. This scene of intimate togetherness shot a pain through his heart - loneliness!
Fired by the agony of loneliness, his mind raced through time. He gazed with David, from atop the palace, upon the beauty of Bathsheba bathing below, and he wanted her. He felt with Samson reclining on cushions, the caresses of Delila, and he wanted her. He heard with Abraham, from the door of his tent, Sarah's words, "Take my maidservant", and he wanted her. He saw at his feet, a beautiful woman, naked and muddied from the dust clinging to a body moist from sweat and tears, and he wanted her.
"Why," he asked himself, "why can my friend enjoy the comfort of his wife and I remain alone? I created woman, why can I not have one?"
He gazed back at the woman weeping at his feet, shaking with the expectation of the first stone. Bending toward her he lifted her face and looked into her eyes, eyes that he had seen across the eons of time.
"Be gone, Deceiver!" He yelled. "She is not my bride, she is only a maidservant. You will not win tonight, or any night. I shall wait, for soon you will lose and I will take my Bride."
In victory his thoughts raced ahead to a hilltop split in two, and all around he gazed upon his Bride as she walked to him. Her beauty and purity outshone the sun and as she approached their two glories blended into a single radiant brilliance.
Relishing in the burning delight of their union, the corners of his mouth raised in a divine smile. Pleasant dreams.
God slept!
"Good night, Simon", Jesus called to his friend.
"Goodnight, Master, we'll sleep well after our long trip." Simon called back as he climbed the stairs to the room he shared with his wife.
It had been three weeks since he and the others had last been home and he looked forward to a good sleep in his own comfortable bed; he looked forward to his wife. At the top of the stairs, just before entering the room, he turned to see his friend watching from the cot in the inner yard. There were others there as well, all sharing what little room there was, this ragtag band of followers sleeping on the ground with their master. For a brief moment Simon felt the urge to join them, but for three weeks he had missed his wife and now she was waiting.
"Sleep well, my friend," Jesus whispered as Simon turned into his room, "you've earned it."
Left now only to his thoughts, Jesus closed his eyes to sleep. It had been three weeks, and while the work was pleasant, there were times when the load was almost too burdensome. The crowds kept getting larger, to the point now where there was little time to teach his followers. Even when he turned people away they kept coming back. He who could turn back the demons of hell could not keep even a child from coming to him for healing. He longed for the crowds to see that what he came to give was not temporal healing but eternal. His feet ached from the long walk and his mind was tired from the challenging Pharisees.
As fatigue gave way to half sleep, his thoughts began to wander to his friend. He imagined Simon asleep cuddling his wife, her head resting on his chest and her long black hair draped across his shoulders. This scene of intimate togetherness shot a pain through his heart - loneliness!
Fired by the agony of loneliness, his mind raced through time. He gazed with David, from atop the palace, upon the beauty of Bathsheba bathing below, and he wanted her. He felt with Samson reclining on cushions, the caresses of Delila, and he wanted her. He heard with Abraham, from the door of his tent, Sarah's words, "Take my maidservant", and he wanted her. He saw at his feet, a beautiful woman, naked and muddied from the dust clinging to a body moist from sweat and tears, and he wanted her.
"Why," he asked himself, "why can my friend enjoy the comfort of his wife and I remain alone? I created woman, why can I not have one?"
He gazed back at the woman weeping at his feet, shaking with the expectation of the first stone. Bending toward her he lifted her face and looked into her eyes, eyes that he had seen across the eons of time.
"Be gone, Deceiver!" He yelled. "She is not my bride, she is only a maidservant. You will not win tonight, or any night. I shall wait, for soon you will lose and I will take my Bride."
In victory his thoughts raced ahead to a hilltop split in two, and all around he gazed upon his Bride as she walked to him. Her beauty and purity outshone the sun and as she approached their two glories blended into a single radiant brilliance.
Relishing in the burning delight of their union, the corners of his mouth raised in a divine smile. Pleasant dreams.
God slept!
Treasures
“I choose the appointed time; it is I who judge uprightly.”
The voice ringing across the heavens declared. But in my heart for the first time I heard the rest of the announcement:
“Now is your time, enter into the Judgement Room of the King; Present yourself before the Judgement Seat to give an account for your life.”
I had been there before, to stand witness to the accounting of my friends and colleagues. I had seen a number of them so far, and I had to testify to the truth of the judgement. Each had some area of failure, as I knew I did, but for the most part their lives were lived for our King and each had received their crown of glory. Now it was my turn.
Eagerly I picked up the bag at my feet and heaved it one final time with joy upon my shoulder. It was very heavy. Loaded with the treasures gathered over a lifetime of service; gather for my King. As a groom yearns to put the ring on his bride’s finger, I had yearned for this time, this moment when I would lay my treasures at the feet of my beloved King, my Savior, my Friend, my Lover, my Jesus. Oh what a glorious time, it had arrived, at last.
As I climbed the steps to the great hall I rejoiced in the brilliance of its white marble and golden roof and doors, glistening in the ever-present brightness of Heaven. Guarding the entrance, on either side of the door where two lions. Unlike the statues on earth, these were very much alive and I suspect their presence was far more symbolic decoration than practical guards for here everyone knew Who ruled. Their thick golden manes flittered in the gentle breeze of the cherubim’s wings who stood by their sides holding scales of justice in one hand and swords of fire in the other. Beneath these mighty beasts with heads resting on their powerful toes were new-born lambs. I smiled at the profound symbol of love as I passed between their watchful eyes and through the entry way into the Judgement Room.
It was a plain room. At the end opposite the entrance stood the Judgement Seat, upon which the King of Heaven sat. Around the room were twelve pillars, each with an elder sitting on its base - my jury. Between the pillars stood my assembles witnesses. Those with whom I had lived, Who, like I had done before, would bear silent testimony to the truth of the justice. In front of the Seat was a table. On one end of the table the Book of the Law lay opened; on the other end the Book of Grace. Two angels acting as scribes sat behind the table. And standing between the angels was my Lord, Jesus.
As I scan the crowd of witnesses my eyes fall on my three greatest treasures; Josiah, my miracle son, born at a time when children weren’t supposed to be conceived, he lit up my later years and renewed my understanding of my Father’s heart. Next to him was his sister, Bethany. Behind them both was Brittany, my wife. Her auburn hair cascading like a crimson tide across the beach of her fair-skinned shoulders. She was my confidante, my helper, my lover, my friend. By myself, I was good, but she was all that was excellent in me. In her presence I could take on the world, and did. In her smile I saw understanding. In her eyes - pools of love I called them - I saw the forgiveness of God. In her arms I felt the comfort of the Holy Spirit. And in our kiss and embrace I knew the love of Jesus for His church.
I approached the table and lowered my treasure bag to the floor. Made of tightly-woven purple cloth embroidered with and intricate design of pure golden thread and sealed with a cord of golden silk, it contained my items of treasure; gathered over my lifetime for this one moment. Each representing a talent, a gift, an ability, a dream. One is a picture of Paul - a homeless AIDS patient I took home to die with us so he’d know love - real love; another is a book I’d written; another is a small chest full of thousands of gold pieces representing the church I pastored, each gold piece a soul saved thru my ministry; the last was a double-edged, sharp, shiny sword representing the powerful effectiveness of my intercessory prayers. Each treasure was lifted out of the bag and placed on the table before my king. Finally just the bag itself lay on the floor at my feet. It was a glorious moment as my Lord leaned over to pick up my treasure, until I saw the fire in His eyes.
As each piece was examined and held out to my cloud of witnesses, it either disappeared altogether or melted into insignificance. Finally I saw my bag itself, now a tattered, torned, muddied scrap of rucksack, frayed and course.
The Lord showed His anger as He challenged me to produce my treasure again. Each one He said were freely given, but each was returned unopened and unused. Like a jilted lover whose letters and gifts are returned to sender, so my gifts had been buried under the fear of risking and failure.
The book was never written by me but by another because its message was fundamental to the will of God for my generation, but I was too selective, too afraid to write just another book; I wanted significance before I would write, in case my book met with failure and insignificance. As the man to whom my book was given - the one who really wrote it - stepped forward from the gallery of witnesses, he whispered to me:
“Thanks, without your refusal, I never would have received this gift.”
The treasure chest was lifted up and the gold pieces thrown into the air as my Lord’s anger raged at the lost souls because of my delay. The chest, not as full now, was lowered and given to another, all because I was too afraid to risk rejection and ridicule to preach about my Jesus. I was afraid my sermons would not be good enough, powerful enough, significant enough. It belonged to another because the gates of hell would not prevail against it even though I would not prevail for it. As the real pastor claimed his chest full of souls, he mouthed the words:
“Thanks for my people”
Next Jesus picked up the picture of Paul, with tears in His eyes He turned the picture for me to see. The face was missing. With fire in His voice he pronounced the justice of this treasure. Paul died in bitterness and sin, cursing God because no-one showed him real love and after all isn’t God a God of Love? I walked right by him and never showed him love because I was too afraid to touch this leper of sin. My heart cringed as a sulphery voice, allowed in only for this moment, was heard from beneath the room:
“Thanks, he’s mine now.”
By now I was on my knees, barely able to look up as Jesus lifted high my sword of intercession. His silence deafened me as he swung it around in the air. Nothing was heard. That was the problem. I had seen other swords swung around and then the prayers of intercession sang out, creating a melody of prayer that filled the room; but my sword sang nothing. Finally, as my head lowered to the floor, I heard the clang of my sword hitting the floor. Thrown down by a God angered to silence. Opening my eyes I saw not my shiny double-edge saber, but a rusty, bent, dull, decaying butter knife of selfish “Save me, help me, comfort me” cries of a spoiled child too afraid of the dark to venture forth with the light.
Reduced to tears now, I looked over to Brittany, my only treasure left, and my heart was pierced. Beside her stood another man, one arm around her waist, the other around the children. As my eyes understood the justice of this scene, he looked at her and she kissed him. She, like all the others, given freely, were not mine because I was too afraid of love that I doubted anyone could or would ever truly love me. Therefore I worked in each relationship to subtly sabotage it so that she would leave and I would be painfully, and martyrly proven right. As I crumbled into a sobbing heap on the floor I heard her husband voice:
“Thanks, for everything.”
In the presence of an angry, hurt, loving Father, I knew I could never reproduce my treasure. I lay on the floor, face buried in the rag of my life, weeping uncontrollably at the futility of a life full of promise, but imprisoned and extinguished in fear.
Like the foolish servant with only one talent I heard from the lips of the one I said I served, the words of dread:
“You foolish, wicked servant, depart from me.”
The voice ringing across the heavens declared. But in my heart for the first time I heard the rest of the announcement:
“Now is your time, enter into the Judgement Room of the King; Present yourself before the Judgement Seat to give an account for your life.”
I had been there before, to stand witness to the accounting of my friends and colleagues. I had seen a number of them so far, and I had to testify to the truth of the judgement. Each had some area of failure, as I knew I did, but for the most part their lives were lived for our King and each had received their crown of glory. Now it was my turn.
Eagerly I picked up the bag at my feet and heaved it one final time with joy upon my shoulder. It was very heavy. Loaded with the treasures gathered over a lifetime of service; gather for my King. As a groom yearns to put the ring on his bride’s finger, I had yearned for this time, this moment when I would lay my treasures at the feet of my beloved King, my Savior, my Friend, my Lover, my Jesus. Oh what a glorious time, it had arrived, at last.
As I climbed the steps to the great hall I rejoiced in the brilliance of its white marble and golden roof and doors, glistening in the ever-present brightness of Heaven. Guarding the entrance, on either side of the door where two lions. Unlike the statues on earth, these were very much alive and I suspect their presence was far more symbolic decoration than practical guards for here everyone knew Who ruled. Their thick golden manes flittered in the gentle breeze of the cherubim’s wings who stood by their sides holding scales of justice in one hand and swords of fire in the other. Beneath these mighty beasts with heads resting on their powerful toes were new-born lambs. I smiled at the profound symbol of love as I passed between their watchful eyes and through the entry way into the Judgement Room.
It was a plain room. At the end opposite the entrance stood the Judgement Seat, upon which the King of Heaven sat. Around the room were twelve pillars, each with an elder sitting on its base - my jury. Between the pillars stood my assembles witnesses. Those with whom I had lived, Who, like I had done before, would bear silent testimony to the truth of the justice. In front of the Seat was a table. On one end of the table the Book of the Law lay opened; on the other end the Book of Grace. Two angels acting as scribes sat behind the table. And standing between the angels was my Lord, Jesus.
As I scan the crowd of witnesses my eyes fall on my three greatest treasures; Josiah, my miracle son, born at a time when children weren’t supposed to be conceived, he lit up my later years and renewed my understanding of my Father’s heart. Next to him was his sister, Bethany. Behind them both was Brittany, my wife. Her auburn hair cascading like a crimson tide across the beach of her fair-skinned shoulders. She was my confidante, my helper, my lover, my friend. By myself, I was good, but she was all that was excellent in me. In her presence I could take on the world, and did. In her smile I saw understanding. In her eyes - pools of love I called them - I saw the forgiveness of God. In her arms I felt the comfort of the Holy Spirit. And in our kiss and embrace I knew the love of Jesus for His church.
I approached the table and lowered my treasure bag to the floor. Made of tightly-woven purple cloth embroidered with and intricate design of pure golden thread and sealed with a cord of golden silk, it contained my items of treasure; gathered over my lifetime for this one moment. Each representing a talent, a gift, an ability, a dream. One is a picture of Paul - a homeless AIDS patient I took home to die with us so he’d know love - real love; another is a book I’d written; another is a small chest full of thousands of gold pieces representing the church I pastored, each gold piece a soul saved thru my ministry; the last was a double-edged, sharp, shiny sword representing the powerful effectiveness of my intercessory prayers. Each treasure was lifted out of the bag and placed on the table before my king. Finally just the bag itself lay on the floor at my feet. It was a glorious moment as my Lord leaned over to pick up my treasure, until I saw the fire in His eyes.
As each piece was examined and held out to my cloud of witnesses, it either disappeared altogether or melted into insignificance. Finally I saw my bag itself, now a tattered, torned, muddied scrap of rucksack, frayed and course.
The Lord showed His anger as He challenged me to produce my treasure again. Each one He said were freely given, but each was returned unopened and unused. Like a jilted lover whose letters and gifts are returned to sender, so my gifts had been buried under the fear of risking and failure.
The book was never written by me but by another because its message was fundamental to the will of God for my generation, but I was too selective, too afraid to write just another book; I wanted significance before I would write, in case my book met with failure and insignificance. As the man to whom my book was given - the one who really wrote it - stepped forward from the gallery of witnesses, he whispered to me:
“Thanks, without your refusal, I never would have received this gift.”
The treasure chest was lifted up and the gold pieces thrown into the air as my Lord’s anger raged at the lost souls because of my delay. The chest, not as full now, was lowered and given to another, all because I was too afraid to risk rejection and ridicule to preach about my Jesus. I was afraid my sermons would not be good enough, powerful enough, significant enough. It belonged to another because the gates of hell would not prevail against it even though I would not prevail for it. As the real pastor claimed his chest full of souls, he mouthed the words:
“Thanks for my people”
Next Jesus picked up the picture of Paul, with tears in His eyes He turned the picture for me to see. The face was missing. With fire in His voice he pronounced the justice of this treasure. Paul died in bitterness and sin, cursing God because no-one showed him real love and after all isn’t God a God of Love? I walked right by him and never showed him love because I was too afraid to touch this leper of sin. My heart cringed as a sulphery voice, allowed in only for this moment, was heard from beneath the room:
“Thanks, he’s mine now.”
By now I was on my knees, barely able to look up as Jesus lifted high my sword of intercession. His silence deafened me as he swung it around in the air. Nothing was heard. That was the problem. I had seen other swords swung around and then the prayers of intercession sang out, creating a melody of prayer that filled the room; but my sword sang nothing. Finally, as my head lowered to the floor, I heard the clang of my sword hitting the floor. Thrown down by a God angered to silence. Opening my eyes I saw not my shiny double-edge saber, but a rusty, bent, dull, decaying butter knife of selfish “Save me, help me, comfort me” cries of a spoiled child too afraid of the dark to venture forth with the light.
Reduced to tears now, I looked over to Brittany, my only treasure left, and my heart was pierced. Beside her stood another man, one arm around her waist, the other around the children. As my eyes understood the justice of this scene, he looked at her and she kissed him. She, like all the others, given freely, were not mine because I was too afraid of love that I doubted anyone could or would ever truly love me. Therefore I worked in each relationship to subtly sabotage it so that she would leave and I would be painfully, and martyrly proven right. As I crumbled into a sobbing heap on the floor I heard her husband voice:
“Thanks, for everything.”
In the presence of an angry, hurt, loving Father, I knew I could never reproduce my treasure. I lay on the floor, face buried in the rag of my life, weeping uncontrollably at the futility of a life full of promise, but imprisoned and extinguished in fear.
Like the foolish servant with only one talent I heard from the lips of the one I said I served, the words of dread:
“You foolish, wicked servant, depart from me.”
Rachel's Tears - A Different Kind of Christmas
Prologue:
The stars seemed especially bright as Joseph raised the skin of water to quench his thirst. Lowering the skin, his eyes remained fixed on the heavens. So many stars; the rabbis said that they told stories; that those who studied them, could read and understand the mind of God. Joseph used to think those claims were meant to keep the common man – those not learned in the Scriptures or the stars – down and the rabbis above them. He used to think that way, until recently, until his dream; the dream where an angel spoke to him, to him, a common carpenter. Then there was that night, not two years ago, when Mary gave birth, and shepherds came saying they were sent by angels, angels appearing where the stars were. Could it be that God was speaking to the common man and not the learned rabbis?
“Joseph? Is everything alright?”
Mary’s question stirred his mind back to the present. He turned to look at Mary, her face confused yet loving. He admired her, even as he hated that he had to keep secret the reason for this trip. He remembered her puzzlement as he woke her and told her to pack only a few things, quickly and quietly; they were leaving immediately, in the middle of the night, and most confusing to her was that they couldn’t tell anyone. When she asked why, all he could say was: a dream. He couldn’t even risk telling her where they were going. It was hard for her, he could tell. It was hard for him too.
They had just begun to be settled in Bethlehem, where no one knew of their past – that Mary was pregnant before they were married. Remembering the scorn and derision they had suffered, even from family, because of Mary’s pregnancy, it was obvious for them to stay in Bethlehem and not return to Nazareth. His business was starting to pick up as word of his skill got around. But then the visitors, just last week, began to fuel rumors; people were saying all sorts of things. Men were coming by his workshop and asking so many questions about the visitors that he barely got his work done. He couldn’t blame them really. He probably would have done the same thing, if it had been his neighbour they had visited. It’s not often – indeed, it never happens to common people – that foreign dignitaries come seeking a meeting. But they came, with directions from King Herod; they came to Bethlehem asking about a baby king. That sure got the neighbours talking. They came bringing gifts; that got the neighbours begging. They came and worshipped; that got Joseph and Mary thinking. They came following a star; they were astronomers, learned stargazers, who claimed to have read the stars. Could it be that God was speaking to the learned man as well as the common man?
“Joseph?” Mary’s face betrayed the fear in her heart, fear that was more than just traveling at night. It betrayed the fear of uncertainty. He remembered seeing it on her face, only once before, when she told him she was pregnant; and that God was the father. His thoughts came full circle as he now remembered, first his disbelief, then his first dream, and now his most recent dream.
“Yes, Mary, everything is alright. God is speaking to both the common and the learned; speaking through stars, and angels, but mostly through this child. And in order for this child to speak, this child must live. And in order for this child to live, we must go to Egypt. That is where we are going, Mary. That is why God had those visitors bring us gold, so we can travel to Egypt.”
Turning to descend the other side of the hill, Joseph saw the faint glow of a campfire in the distance, its smoke rising like incense to the stars; probably shepherds, not unlike those that visited two years ago. “Yes, Mary”, he thought, “with God everything is alright.”
Shepherds watching their flocks by night:
“What can a shepherd know about God speaking to man?” Isaac stated as much as asked. “Benjamin, we have all heard the stories, but who of us were there? Is it not possible that they could have had a dream? I mean angels? Why would angels – not to mention God – come to shepherds? And how can a king be born to the poor?”
Benjamin rose from his blanket and picked up a piece of wood to throw on the fire. He and his friends were finally relaxing around the fire after ensuring the flocks were secure in their pens. He had only been a shepherd for a short time when the story started making its way around town. Shepherds, from Bethlehem, had been visited by angels and told that the Messiah – the promised saving king of Israel – was born in Bethlehem. Later he even had a chance to meet two of those shepherds, who convinced him that what they had seen was, indeed, true. Later, about a year ago, in the market, he saw the baby being carried by its mother. She looked too young to be the mother of a king, and the child looked rather plain, nothing special about him. Then a couple months ago, he met Joseph, the carpenter, the father of this messiah. His hands were rough and calloused, a working man’s hands. He was quiet and unassuming; almost, as if he were hiding something. Surely, if his son was the messiah, wouldn’t he want everyone to know how important he and his family were going to be. Why would anyone want to continue to work hard, when your son is going to be king? Yet, despite his doubts, Benjamin still clung to hope that perhaps, God was no longer silent; perhaps God was indeed speaking to His people again.
The fire sparked and crackled as the fresh wood was tossed onto the embers.
“Isaac, you are right, we are only shepherds, and poor ones at that. But wasn’t David, our great king, a shepherd on these very hills as a boy? And didn’t he come from a poor family? Yet God spoke to him. And didn’t our father, Jacob, have a dream, where God not only spoke to him but wrestled with him?”
“Ah, the enthusiasm of youth!” Isaac responded. “Haven’t you heard Benjamin, God is finished speaking to us. It’s been centuries since the prophet’s voice was heard. Now, it is only work, and obey the law as best we can. We raise these sheep for one purpose mainly. Isn’t that right, Joseph?” Isaac called out to his friend who had just joined them around the fire.
“Yes, raise them spotless and unblemished so they can die at Passover, when the price is best. Benjamin, never forget that Passover is a great feast for us shepherds; a feast of redemption, when our little lambs redeem us, by both their blood and their price,” laughed Joseph.
“I didn’t expect to hear you mock the feast, Joseph.” Benjamin replied. “You believe in Messiah, a deliverer that God is going to send to rescue us from these Romans. And I know you keep the Sabbaths and the feasts. So your mocking surprises me.”
“You’re right, my young friend. I am hoping for Messiah. And I heard the stories too, direct from their mouths. We’ve all met them – Daniel, Stephen, Jacob and young Micah. And what’s more, I believe them because I know them. As you know, I used to tend the flocks with them. In fact, the only reason Micah was there that night was because he was looking after my flock.”
“That was right after your Joshua was born, wasn’t it?” interrupted Isaac.
“You remember well,” Joseph replied. “Joshua, was eight days old and Rachel and I were in Jerusalem to have him dedicated. It was young Micah’s first assignment tending a flock on his own.”
“Then why the mocking?” Benjamin asked, searching for a reason to keep hoping - to keep believing.
“Because I am old,” Joseph sighed, leaning back against a rocky rise in the hillside, “and age has a way of stealing the dreams of youth. But, Isaac is also wrong, God is not finished speaking to us. Someday, Messiah will come, and every father hopes that his son will be Messiah.”
“And every father knows, he’s not worthy to raise the Messiah,” interjected Isaac.
“Is that why you named your son Joshua - the Lord saves?” asked Benjamin, “Is he our deliverer?”
“He is my deliverer.“ Joseph replied, “If not from the Romans, someday at least from these cold nights tending sheep. And for now, he fills my life with joy. I am alive again in each new thing he discovers. Why, just before I left four days ago, he called me Abba. He is talking and walking and he’s not yet two.”
“Ah, yes, spoken like a true father,” Isaac said, “we see in our sons a chance to live our lives again. Perhaps, that is our deliverance; that our name will continue forever like the stars; they shine on us tonight, yet also shone on King David, and will shine forever. So, Benjamin, our young friend, dream your dreams; that is the privilege of youth. But look to the stars. Perhaps you will see angels, perhaps, someday, only your son, but in them – whether stars or your sons – you will see your deliverance, your Messiah.”
“Perhaps,” Benjamin stated, gazing at the stars, “I will see my sons, as numerous as the stars.”
“But first, you must marry, my friend,” Joseph laughed.
Benjamin smiled at the thought, “Now that, will be my deliverance.”
The lamb of God:
The following day, the sun had just dipped beneath the western ridge. Joseph and Isaac had their flocks bedded down for the night and were preparing their dinner by the fire. Benjamin was still getting his flock settled, when the evening quiet was broken by cries in the distance, “Father!”
Isaac stood to listen at the faint recognition of his son’s voice.
“Father!” the voice grew clearer as the dim figure of a runner could be seen lower on the hill.
“Simon!” Isaac yelled back.
“Father!” this time the clarity of the voice revealed the tearful urgency through which it spoke.
“Simon!” Isaac shouted as he raced down the hill to meet his son.
Benjamin, hearing Isaac’s yells, ran to the fire, and stood beside Joseph. “What could be so urgent that Simon would be sent out in the early night to find his father?”
Joseph put his hand on Benjamin’s shoulder, for he knew that only death could send a boy, not yet old enough to tend sheep, out into the night to search for his father. Joseph thought of Isaac’s wife, Ruth, and his daughter, Rebecca. Was it one of them, or was it Dan or Rueben, or…no, not Levi, not his youngest? Barely a year older than Joshua, Joseph couldn’t bring himself to think of death to such a young and joy-giving child.
In the crouching darkness, they could see the shadowed figures of father and son meeting, and watched as both embraced and fell to their knees; it was then they heard the chilling wail of a grown man pierce the evening sky. Joseph’s heart broke for his friend. He turned, followed silently by Benjamin, back to the fire to give his friend the privacy of grief. When the time is right, they will be there to comfort him, but not now.
Within a few minutes – although it seemed like an hour – father and son approached the small level terrace in the hillside that was their camp. Joseph handed a skin of water to young Simon and a skin of wine to his friend. On his face he read the look of grief that didn’t need to speak; he also noticed that Simon wouldn’t look at him.
“You will need that, Joseph,” Isaac whispered. “It is your grief, you share, as if it were mine.”
Benjamin rose and Joseph sank to the ground, as the implications of Isaac’s words sank in.
“Tell me…” Joseph stared at the ground, his voice beginning to crack, “tell me what happened.”
“The soldiers,” Isaac began to recount the news Simon had told him, “under orders from Herod, that prostitute king, sealed off Bethlehem today. They are searching the houses with orders to kill any child two years old or younger.”
“Joshua? My son? Why?” Joseph weeped.
After some time, Joseph looked up at Simon: “Simon,” he growled, as much with urgency as with grief. “Simon, is Joshua dead?”
As the words spilled from his mouth, Joseph, fuelled by grief and rage, jumped to his feet and ran to the top of the hill screaming to the stars, “Why? Why, must the innocent die? Whether sheep or goats or turtledoves? Are they not enough? Must my son also die to please your thirst for blood? Take me instead; I am the one who breaks Your law. I am your sinner. A man should pay with his own blood for his own sins. Why must an innocent die for my sins?”
His race of rage returned him to the fire where now, like a madman, he reached for Simon, who was hiding behind his father’s back.
“Simon, where is Joshua?” Joseph demanded.
“He…he’s hidden.” the young boy stuttered from behind his father’s back.
“Hidden?” the three friends asked almost simultaneously.
“Yes, many of the children are hidden. As soon as the soldiers arrived and started to…” his young heart couldn’t force his mouth to say the words.
“It’s alright Simon, we understand.” his father said as he knelt beside his son. “Go on. Tell us where they are hiding.”
“I don’t know,” he cried. “At first all the children hid, but when it became known that only those two or younger…well, then mother made the rest of us come out from hiding…but, she kept Levi hidden. Becca is hiding with him, to keep him quiet.”
Joseph eyes dried, as he looked at his friend, a wine of hope fermenting in his mind. “Joshua is hidden…if hidden, then safe…But, for how long?”
“I must go to Bethlehem!” Joseph declared. “I must rescue Joshua.”
“Joseph, you can’t. The soldiers will kill you, if they find you,” Isaac tried to restrain his friend.
“I MUST go!” he screamed as he pulled away. Then he stopped and calmly spoke, “How can Joshua –‘the Lord saves’ – be my deliverer, if I don’t give him my life? He cannot rescue me, if I’m not willing to die for him?”
“But how Joseph? How, will you defeat the soldiers of Rome? How can you, a shepherd, rescue and sneak your son out of Bethlehem?”
“Why Isaac,” Joseph replied with a glint in his eye, “you of all people should remember what our father, Abraham, promised his son, Isaac: ‘God, will provide Himself a lamb.’ Yes, I am only a shepherd and a shepherd will provide a lamb…a lamb to deliver my son….and me.”
With that said, he ran to the pens. Shortly, he returned with a lamb over his shoulders.
“Simon, you are old enough to bring us this news. With your father’s help, you are old enough to care for my flock. Will you do that for me?”
Simon, too shocked by the events of the day, could only nod in consent.
“Joseph,” Isaac whispered as they began to walk down the hill, “I don’t want your fear and grief to deceive you into doing something rash. How, will you get into town and then how will a lamb save you?”
“Do you remember when we were boys younger than your Simon, and we used to play by the stables at the far end of town?”
“The old leper’s cave, the one that connects with the stables…” Isaac remembered how they used to sneak into the leper’s cave to spy on the outcasts, with the naïve curiosity of youth.
“And from there into town,” Joseph revealed his plan for sneaking into the town.
“So you have a way into town, but how will a lamb save you? This is not some sacrifice that you can offer to redeem your son from God. It’s Herod, not God, who wants him killed.”
Joseph’s eyes flashed with anger as he spoke firmly and slowly, “God places kings in their position. Herod, God, what’s the difference? I will take this lamb into my house. If I’m discovered, then I am just a shepherd caring for one of his lambs. Once there, I will kill it and wrap Joshua in it’s fleece and carry him out of town. How will a lamb save us?”
Joseph repeated the question as he raised the lamb to the stars, “Behold, Isaac, the lamb of God! This lamb of God will die and my son will live and, in him, I will live forever.”
Lowering the lamb back to his shoulder, he turned and walked alone down the hill.
The little lamb:
Crawling through the lepers cave, Joseph found the tunnel that connected to the back of the stables. It was almost midnight when he opened the gate from the stables and began to walk thru the back streets of Bethlehem. Even though the hour was late, many houses had lights on and in too many were the sounds of wailing and grief. Each new sound of weeping that reached his ears gripped his heart with both fear and resolve. “My son shall live,” he kept repeating to himself this mantra to drive away the fear of death that gripped this town. Unseen by Joseph, a figure, lurking in the darkness, followed him.
When Joseph reached his house, he paused only long enough to check the street to make sure no-one saw him. Reaching for the latch, he found it locked. His heart began to race as he knocked on the door. How hard to knock without drawing attention to himself.
“Rachel” he called in whispered panic, “Rachel, open the door. It is Joseph!”
“Joseph?” He heard Rachel’s voice from the window above the door. Her sweet melodic voice strangled by grief and fear. “Joseph, why are you here?”
“Never mind why, just let me in Rachel.” He tried not to sound angry, but his heart and mind was a maelstrom of urgency, panic, and impatience.
Finally, the latch lifted and Joseph pushed thru the door and quickly closed and locked it behind him. The lamb fell from is shoulders as Rachel collapsed weeping into his arms.
“Where’s Joshua?” he asked
“The soldiers are searching the houses…”she began.
“I know. Where is Joshua hidden?” he demanded with an abruptness that shocked and comforted her. For the first time this day, she felt that someone was taking charge, someone with whom she could trust her son. Yet, Joseph’s single-mindedness, betrayed that he was on a mission; a mission full of risks. She feared trusting her son into her husband’s care could mean losing both.
“Rachel”, he said with firm compassion as he gently pushed her away from him and looked in her eyes, “we have no time. Where is Joshua?”
Rachel looked back at Joseph, reading the look in his face, she realized that while a mother nurtures, loves and if needed, will defend her child there comes a time when the fight for the child belongs to the father. She resigned herself to the fact that to not trust her husband was to lose both of them. She was left with one choice: to trust God with both husband and son.
“He’s on the roof, in a basket hidden among the bundles of wool.”
“Have the soldiers been here yet?” Joseph asked.
“They came this morning but didn’t find him. I lied, Joseph, I told them I had no children. They searched the house, I prayed to God to hide him. I was afraid God was going to punish me for my lie; but they didn’t find him. Even those who searched the roof; they didn’t hear him or find him. Joseph, God kept Joshua hidden, despite my lie.”
“Sometimes God honors our lies, when they are done to save lives. But I will take Joshua away with me to the flocks. Prepare some food and skins of water and goats milk, while I kill and skin this lamb. Then we shall wrap Joshua in the fleece and I will carry my little lamb back to the flock.”
“That is your plan Joseph?” Rachel cried, “What if he cries? How will you care for both flock and son in the hills? Joseph God hid him today.”
“It is THE plan! If he cries the sound will be muffled both by the fleece and my cloak; it will sound like bleating. Isaac’s son Simon is with us in the hills, he can help me with both flock and Joshua. And God, God can hide us better in the hills than on some rooftop. Now go get the food and skins, we have work to do”
Soon all the preparations were ready; the fleece lay open and bloodied on the table and the skins and satchel of food beside it.
“It is time. Get the child.” Joseph said, as he began to drape the skins and satchel over his shoulders.
Rachel brought Joshua down from the roof and as she laid him on the fleece he began to cry both because of disturbed sleep and joy at seeing his father. It was all they could do to keep Joshua quiet. Softly, Joseph spoke to him, “Joshua, we are going to play a game. I’ve always called you my little lamb, well now I will wrap you in this fleece to keep you warm and carry you like a lamb to see the flock. But you must be quiet, for it is night and the lambs are all sleeping.”
Soon Joshua was sleeping wrapped in the fleece and Rachel smiled for the first time that day, smiled at the soft bundle, lying still, she knew was her child.
“We must be going, send word when it is safe.” Joshua said as he picked up his “little lamb.”
“How can I send word, when I am coming with you?” Rachel replied as she threw a cloak over her shoulders and grabbed another skin of water.
“Don’t be foolish, woman!” Joshua replied, “The hills are no place for a woman, besides, you told the soldiers you had no children. Stay here and wait, otherwise they will be suspicious.”
“Don’t be foolish, my dear husband. A shepherd can raise sheep, but a mother raises children. Besides, you said that God can hide us better in the hills than on some roof. Lead the way, I am coming with you.”
Joseph turned and opened the door, stepping out into the street.
Rachel’s Tears:
They had barely closed their door behind them, when the first set of torches came around the corner.
“Soldiers!” Rachel gasped. Turning for the door, she saw another group of soldiers coming from the other direction. “A trap!” she whispered, as her legs went faint and she leaned against the wall of their house.
“Well done, stable master.” The centurion spoke, tossing a bag of coins to the old man who cleaned the stables. Holding up a torch the centurion asked: “Where are you going shepherd at this third watch of the night?”
“I’ve got a lamb that needed some care. I’m taking it back to the flock before sunrise.” Joseph stuttered a fearful response.
“A lamb?” the centurion replied, “How fortunate, just what we need for our sacrifice. Seize the lamb!” he ordered.
“NO!” Joseph screamed as a soldier stepped toward him. But his cry brought only the swift butt of a Roman spear crashing into his belly, dropping him to his knees and causing the bundle to fall from his arms.
Joshua wailed in pain as he hit the ground, his cries piercing the night. Rachel dove to cover her child, but was met with a swift kick in the ribs, which sent her sprawling backwards. As she landed against the house her head hit the wall and mercifully, she lost consciousness.
“So this is your little lamb, shepherd!” the centurion growled. “For defying the soldiers of Rome, you will be scourged and your flock slaughtered. Seize him!”
Immediately, three soldiers descended on Joseph. As one grabbed his arms behind his back and another forced him to the ground by pressing the shaft of his spear across his back, the third pressed the cleated sole of his sandal on his neck and into the side of his face. As the cleats punctured his cheek and he tasted his blood running across his lips, Joseph could see Joshua kicking, trying to free himself from the fleece. He heard his cries; cries of a baby, who understands neither life nor death, but feels pain.
“Kill it!” the centurion ordered. And immediately a spear was thrust into Joshua’s side, piercing his heart. Quickly, the child stopped kicking and the fleece turned red with blood. Sounds of weeping were heard as Joseph was dragged off through the streets.
Rachel woke to silent darkness. Was it a dream? Was Joseph there? Why was she in the street? What is that bundle in the…the pain in her head was over-taken by the death-grip in her heart. It was no dream, Joseph was there, Joshua is…Her heart burst forth in wailing and tears, as she crawled to her bloodied son. She picked his lifeless body into her arms and rocked him, as she had done so often before. Only this time, it was a not a lullaby, but a song of sorrow; a song of death, not sleep.
Epilogue:
The sun was just beginning to cast its first advancing rays against the darkness, when Joseph staggered to his house; the roman scourge had done its job, leaving him half alive, wishing for death. He couldn’t bear to look at the crimson pool of blood in the street. He slumped thru the door into his house. Rachel was there; as weak from grief and tears as he was from the scourge. She had aged overnight. It was as if Joshua had lived his life and Rachel and Joseph were old; except, Joshua would not be bringing grandchildren to redeem youth. She was indeed a woman with no children.
His grief quickly transformed into too many questions demanding an answer. Why? The question pounded again in his brain as it did on the hillside. Why did God hide Joshua on the roof, but didn’t hide Joseph from the traitorous stable master? Why did God appoint a king who orders the slaughter of the innocents? Why only those two years old? Why did that night two years ago mean the death of his son? If indeed, the messiah was born then in Bethlehem, why must he now die? Or if he escaped, why did God allow another to die in his place? If God was still speaking to people, then God must answer their questions. Joseph walked over to the table and picking up the lifeless body of Joshua, he carried it up to the roof. As the early rays of sunrise peaked over the horizon, Joseph lifted Joshua’s body to the sky and screamed the question of the ages:
“Why? My God, my God, why have you forsaken us? What good can come from the death of the innocent? What good comes from a father watching his son die?”
The stars seemed especially bright as Joseph raised the skin of water to quench his thirst. Lowering the skin, his eyes remained fixed on the heavens. So many stars; the rabbis said that they told stories; that those who studied them, could read and understand the mind of God. Joseph used to think those claims were meant to keep the common man – those not learned in the Scriptures or the stars – down and the rabbis above them. He used to think that way, until recently, until his dream; the dream where an angel spoke to him, to him, a common carpenter. Then there was that night, not two years ago, when Mary gave birth, and shepherds came saying they were sent by angels, angels appearing where the stars were. Could it be that God was speaking to the common man and not the learned rabbis?
“Joseph? Is everything alright?”
Mary’s question stirred his mind back to the present. He turned to look at Mary, her face confused yet loving. He admired her, even as he hated that he had to keep secret the reason for this trip. He remembered her puzzlement as he woke her and told her to pack only a few things, quickly and quietly; they were leaving immediately, in the middle of the night, and most confusing to her was that they couldn’t tell anyone. When she asked why, all he could say was: a dream. He couldn’t even risk telling her where they were going. It was hard for her, he could tell. It was hard for him too.
They had just begun to be settled in Bethlehem, where no one knew of their past – that Mary was pregnant before they were married. Remembering the scorn and derision they had suffered, even from family, because of Mary’s pregnancy, it was obvious for them to stay in Bethlehem and not return to Nazareth. His business was starting to pick up as word of his skill got around. But then the visitors, just last week, began to fuel rumors; people were saying all sorts of things. Men were coming by his workshop and asking so many questions about the visitors that he barely got his work done. He couldn’t blame them really. He probably would have done the same thing, if it had been his neighbour they had visited. It’s not often – indeed, it never happens to common people – that foreign dignitaries come seeking a meeting. But they came, with directions from King Herod; they came to Bethlehem asking about a baby king. That sure got the neighbours talking. They came bringing gifts; that got the neighbours begging. They came and worshipped; that got Joseph and Mary thinking. They came following a star; they were astronomers, learned stargazers, who claimed to have read the stars. Could it be that God was speaking to the learned man as well as the common man?
“Joseph?” Mary’s face betrayed the fear in her heart, fear that was more than just traveling at night. It betrayed the fear of uncertainty. He remembered seeing it on her face, only once before, when she told him she was pregnant; and that God was the father. His thoughts came full circle as he now remembered, first his disbelief, then his first dream, and now his most recent dream.
“Yes, Mary, everything is alright. God is speaking to both the common and the learned; speaking through stars, and angels, but mostly through this child. And in order for this child to speak, this child must live. And in order for this child to live, we must go to Egypt. That is where we are going, Mary. That is why God had those visitors bring us gold, so we can travel to Egypt.”
Turning to descend the other side of the hill, Joseph saw the faint glow of a campfire in the distance, its smoke rising like incense to the stars; probably shepherds, not unlike those that visited two years ago. “Yes, Mary”, he thought, “with God everything is alright.”
Shepherds watching their flocks by night:
“What can a shepherd know about God speaking to man?” Isaac stated as much as asked. “Benjamin, we have all heard the stories, but who of us were there? Is it not possible that they could have had a dream? I mean angels? Why would angels – not to mention God – come to shepherds? And how can a king be born to the poor?”
Benjamin rose from his blanket and picked up a piece of wood to throw on the fire. He and his friends were finally relaxing around the fire after ensuring the flocks were secure in their pens. He had only been a shepherd for a short time when the story started making its way around town. Shepherds, from Bethlehem, had been visited by angels and told that the Messiah – the promised saving king of Israel – was born in Bethlehem. Later he even had a chance to meet two of those shepherds, who convinced him that what they had seen was, indeed, true. Later, about a year ago, in the market, he saw the baby being carried by its mother. She looked too young to be the mother of a king, and the child looked rather plain, nothing special about him. Then a couple months ago, he met Joseph, the carpenter, the father of this messiah. His hands were rough and calloused, a working man’s hands. He was quiet and unassuming; almost, as if he were hiding something. Surely, if his son was the messiah, wouldn’t he want everyone to know how important he and his family were going to be. Why would anyone want to continue to work hard, when your son is going to be king? Yet, despite his doubts, Benjamin still clung to hope that perhaps, God was no longer silent; perhaps God was indeed speaking to His people again.
The fire sparked and crackled as the fresh wood was tossed onto the embers.
“Isaac, you are right, we are only shepherds, and poor ones at that. But wasn’t David, our great king, a shepherd on these very hills as a boy? And didn’t he come from a poor family? Yet God spoke to him. And didn’t our father, Jacob, have a dream, where God not only spoke to him but wrestled with him?”
“Ah, the enthusiasm of youth!” Isaac responded. “Haven’t you heard Benjamin, God is finished speaking to us. It’s been centuries since the prophet’s voice was heard. Now, it is only work, and obey the law as best we can. We raise these sheep for one purpose mainly. Isn’t that right, Joseph?” Isaac called out to his friend who had just joined them around the fire.
“Yes, raise them spotless and unblemished so they can die at Passover, when the price is best. Benjamin, never forget that Passover is a great feast for us shepherds; a feast of redemption, when our little lambs redeem us, by both their blood and their price,” laughed Joseph.
“I didn’t expect to hear you mock the feast, Joseph.” Benjamin replied. “You believe in Messiah, a deliverer that God is going to send to rescue us from these Romans. And I know you keep the Sabbaths and the feasts. So your mocking surprises me.”
“You’re right, my young friend. I am hoping for Messiah. And I heard the stories too, direct from their mouths. We’ve all met them – Daniel, Stephen, Jacob and young Micah. And what’s more, I believe them because I know them. As you know, I used to tend the flocks with them. In fact, the only reason Micah was there that night was because he was looking after my flock.”
“That was right after your Joshua was born, wasn’t it?” interrupted Isaac.
“You remember well,” Joseph replied. “Joshua, was eight days old and Rachel and I were in Jerusalem to have him dedicated. It was young Micah’s first assignment tending a flock on his own.”
“Then why the mocking?” Benjamin asked, searching for a reason to keep hoping - to keep believing.
“Because I am old,” Joseph sighed, leaning back against a rocky rise in the hillside, “and age has a way of stealing the dreams of youth. But, Isaac is also wrong, God is not finished speaking to us. Someday, Messiah will come, and every father hopes that his son will be Messiah.”
“And every father knows, he’s not worthy to raise the Messiah,” interjected Isaac.
“Is that why you named your son Joshua - the Lord saves?” asked Benjamin, “Is he our deliverer?”
“He is my deliverer.“ Joseph replied, “If not from the Romans, someday at least from these cold nights tending sheep. And for now, he fills my life with joy. I am alive again in each new thing he discovers. Why, just before I left four days ago, he called me Abba. He is talking and walking and he’s not yet two.”
“Ah, yes, spoken like a true father,” Isaac said, “we see in our sons a chance to live our lives again. Perhaps, that is our deliverance; that our name will continue forever like the stars; they shine on us tonight, yet also shone on King David, and will shine forever. So, Benjamin, our young friend, dream your dreams; that is the privilege of youth. But look to the stars. Perhaps you will see angels, perhaps, someday, only your son, but in them – whether stars or your sons – you will see your deliverance, your Messiah.”
“Perhaps,” Benjamin stated, gazing at the stars, “I will see my sons, as numerous as the stars.”
“But first, you must marry, my friend,” Joseph laughed.
Benjamin smiled at the thought, “Now that, will be my deliverance.”
The lamb of God:
The following day, the sun had just dipped beneath the western ridge. Joseph and Isaac had their flocks bedded down for the night and were preparing their dinner by the fire. Benjamin was still getting his flock settled, when the evening quiet was broken by cries in the distance, “Father!”
Isaac stood to listen at the faint recognition of his son’s voice.
“Father!” the voice grew clearer as the dim figure of a runner could be seen lower on the hill.
“Simon!” Isaac yelled back.
“Father!” this time the clarity of the voice revealed the tearful urgency through which it spoke.
“Simon!” Isaac shouted as he raced down the hill to meet his son.
Benjamin, hearing Isaac’s yells, ran to the fire, and stood beside Joseph. “What could be so urgent that Simon would be sent out in the early night to find his father?”
Joseph put his hand on Benjamin’s shoulder, for he knew that only death could send a boy, not yet old enough to tend sheep, out into the night to search for his father. Joseph thought of Isaac’s wife, Ruth, and his daughter, Rebecca. Was it one of them, or was it Dan or Rueben, or…no, not Levi, not his youngest? Barely a year older than Joshua, Joseph couldn’t bring himself to think of death to such a young and joy-giving child.
In the crouching darkness, they could see the shadowed figures of father and son meeting, and watched as both embraced and fell to their knees; it was then they heard the chilling wail of a grown man pierce the evening sky. Joseph’s heart broke for his friend. He turned, followed silently by Benjamin, back to the fire to give his friend the privacy of grief. When the time is right, they will be there to comfort him, but not now.
Within a few minutes – although it seemed like an hour – father and son approached the small level terrace in the hillside that was their camp. Joseph handed a skin of water to young Simon and a skin of wine to his friend. On his face he read the look of grief that didn’t need to speak; he also noticed that Simon wouldn’t look at him.
“You will need that, Joseph,” Isaac whispered. “It is your grief, you share, as if it were mine.”
Benjamin rose and Joseph sank to the ground, as the implications of Isaac’s words sank in.
“Tell me…” Joseph stared at the ground, his voice beginning to crack, “tell me what happened.”
“The soldiers,” Isaac began to recount the news Simon had told him, “under orders from Herod, that prostitute king, sealed off Bethlehem today. They are searching the houses with orders to kill any child two years old or younger.”
“Joshua? My son? Why?” Joseph weeped.
After some time, Joseph looked up at Simon: “Simon,” he growled, as much with urgency as with grief. “Simon, is Joshua dead?”
As the words spilled from his mouth, Joseph, fuelled by grief and rage, jumped to his feet and ran to the top of the hill screaming to the stars, “Why? Why, must the innocent die? Whether sheep or goats or turtledoves? Are they not enough? Must my son also die to please your thirst for blood? Take me instead; I am the one who breaks Your law. I am your sinner. A man should pay with his own blood for his own sins. Why must an innocent die for my sins?”
His race of rage returned him to the fire where now, like a madman, he reached for Simon, who was hiding behind his father’s back.
“Simon, where is Joshua?” Joseph demanded.
“He…he’s hidden.” the young boy stuttered from behind his father’s back.
“Hidden?” the three friends asked almost simultaneously.
“Yes, many of the children are hidden. As soon as the soldiers arrived and started to…” his young heart couldn’t force his mouth to say the words.
“It’s alright Simon, we understand.” his father said as he knelt beside his son. “Go on. Tell us where they are hiding.”
“I don’t know,” he cried. “At first all the children hid, but when it became known that only those two or younger…well, then mother made the rest of us come out from hiding…but, she kept Levi hidden. Becca is hiding with him, to keep him quiet.”
Joseph eyes dried, as he looked at his friend, a wine of hope fermenting in his mind. “Joshua is hidden…if hidden, then safe…But, for how long?”
“I must go to Bethlehem!” Joseph declared. “I must rescue Joshua.”
“Joseph, you can’t. The soldiers will kill you, if they find you,” Isaac tried to restrain his friend.
“I MUST go!” he screamed as he pulled away. Then he stopped and calmly spoke, “How can Joshua –‘the Lord saves’ – be my deliverer, if I don’t give him my life? He cannot rescue me, if I’m not willing to die for him?”
“But how Joseph? How, will you defeat the soldiers of Rome? How can you, a shepherd, rescue and sneak your son out of Bethlehem?”
“Why Isaac,” Joseph replied with a glint in his eye, “you of all people should remember what our father, Abraham, promised his son, Isaac: ‘God, will provide Himself a lamb.’ Yes, I am only a shepherd and a shepherd will provide a lamb…a lamb to deliver my son….and me.”
With that said, he ran to the pens. Shortly, he returned with a lamb over his shoulders.
“Simon, you are old enough to bring us this news. With your father’s help, you are old enough to care for my flock. Will you do that for me?”
Simon, too shocked by the events of the day, could only nod in consent.
“Joseph,” Isaac whispered as they began to walk down the hill, “I don’t want your fear and grief to deceive you into doing something rash. How, will you get into town and then how will a lamb save you?”
“Do you remember when we were boys younger than your Simon, and we used to play by the stables at the far end of town?”
“The old leper’s cave, the one that connects with the stables…” Isaac remembered how they used to sneak into the leper’s cave to spy on the outcasts, with the naïve curiosity of youth.
“And from there into town,” Joseph revealed his plan for sneaking into the town.
“So you have a way into town, but how will a lamb save you? This is not some sacrifice that you can offer to redeem your son from God. It’s Herod, not God, who wants him killed.”
Joseph’s eyes flashed with anger as he spoke firmly and slowly, “God places kings in their position. Herod, God, what’s the difference? I will take this lamb into my house. If I’m discovered, then I am just a shepherd caring for one of his lambs. Once there, I will kill it and wrap Joshua in it’s fleece and carry him out of town. How will a lamb save us?”
Joseph repeated the question as he raised the lamb to the stars, “Behold, Isaac, the lamb of God! This lamb of God will die and my son will live and, in him, I will live forever.”
Lowering the lamb back to his shoulder, he turned and walked alone down the hill.
The little lamb:
Crawling through the lepers cave, Joseph found the tunnel that connected to the back of the stables. It was almost midnight when he opened the gate from the stables and began to walk thru the back streets of Bethlehem. Even though the hour was late, many houses had lights on and in too many were the sounds of wailing and grief. Each new sound of weeping that reached his ears gripped his heart with both fear and resolve. “My son shall live,” he kept repeating to himself this mantra to drive away the fear of death that gripped this town. Unseen by Joseph, a figure, lurking in the darkness, followed him.
When Joseph reached his house, he paused only long enough to check the street to make sure no-one saw him. Reaching for the latch, he found it locked. His heart began to race as he knocked on the door. How hard to knock without drawing attention to himself.
“Rachel” he called in whispered panic, “Rachel, open the door. It is Joseph!”
“Joseph?” He heard Rachel’s voice from the window above the door. Her sweet melodic voice strangled by grief and fear. “Joseph, why are you here?”
“Never mind why, just let me in Rachel.” He tried not to sound angry, but his heart and mind was a maelstrom of urgency, panic, and impatience.
Finally, the latch lifted and Joseph pushed thru the door and quickly closed and locked it behind him. The lamb fell from is shoulders as Rachel collapsed weeping into his arms.
“Where’s Joshua?” he asked
“The soldiers are searching the houses…”she began.
“I know. Where is Joshua hidden?” he demanded with an abruptness that shocked and comforted her. For the first time this day, she felt that someone was taking charge, someone with whom she could trust her son. Yet, Joseph’s single-mindedness, betrayed that he was on a mission; a mission full of risks. She feared trusting her son into her husband’s care could mean losing both.
“Rachel”, he said with firm compassion as he gently pushed her away from him and looked in her eyes, “we have no time. Where is Joshua?”
Rachel looked back at Joseph, reading the look in his face, she realized that while a mother nurtures, loves and if needed, will defend her child there comes a time when the fight for the child belongs to the father. She resigned herself to the fact that to not trust her husband was to lose both of them. She was left with one choice: to trust God with both husband and son.
“He’s on the roof, in a basket hidden among the bundles of wool.”
“Have the soldiers been here yet?” Joseph asked.
“They came this morning but didn’t find him. I lied, Joseph, I told them I had no children. They searched the house, I prayed to God to hide him. I was afraid God was going to punish me for my lie; but they didn’t find him. Even those who searched the roof; they didn’t hear him or find him. Joseph, God kept Joshua hidden, despite my lie.”
“Sometimes God honors our lies, when they are done to save lives. But I will take Joshua away with me to the flocks. Prepare some food and skins of water and goats milk, while I kill and skin this lamb. Then we shall wrap Joshua in the fleece and I will carry my little lamb back to the flock.”
“That is your plan Joseph?” Rachel cried, “What if he cries? How will you care for both flock and son in the hills? Joseph God hid him today.”
“It is THE plan! If he cries the sound will be muffled both by the fleece and my cloak; it will sound like bleating. Isaac’s son Simon is with us in the hills, he can help me with both flock and Joshua. And God, God can hide us better in the hills than on some rooftop. Now go get the food and skins, we have work to do”
Soon all the preparations were ready; the fleece lay open and bloodied on the table and the skins and satchel of food beside it.
“It is time. Get the child.” Joseph said, as he began to drape the skins and satchel over his shoulders.
Rachel brought Joshua down from the roof and as she laid him on the fleece he began to cry both because of disturbed sleep and joy at seeing his father. It was all they could do to keep Joshua quiet. Softly, Joseph spoke to him, “Joshua, we are going to play a game. I’ve always called you my little lamb, well now I will wrap you in this fleece to keep you warm and carry you like a lamb to see the flock. But you must be quiet, for it is night and the lambs are all sleeping.”
Soon Joshua was sleeping wrapped in the fleece and Rachel smiled for the first time that day, smiled at the soft bundle, lying still, she knew was her child.
“We must be going, send word when it is safe.” Joshua said as he picked up his “little lamb.”
“How can I send word, when I am coming with you?” Rachel replied as she threw a cloak over her shoulders and grabbed another skin of water.
“Don’t be foolish, woman!” Joshua replied, “The hills are no place for a woman, besides, you told the soldiers you had no children. Stay here and wait, otherwise they will be suspicious.”
“Don’t be foolish, my dear husband. A shepherd can raise sheep, but a mother raises children. Besides, you said that God can hide us better in the hills than on some roof. Lead the way, I am coming with you.”
Joseph turned and opened the door, stepping out into the street.
Rachel’s Tears:
They had barely closed their door behind them, when the first set of torches came around the corner.
“Soldiers!” Rachel gasped. Turning for the door, she saw another group of soldiers coming from the other direction. “A trap!” she whispered, as her legs went faint and she leaned against the wall of their house.
“Well done, stable master.” The centurion spoke, tossing a bag of coins to the old man who cleaned the stables. Holding up a torch the centurion asked: “Where are you going shepherd at this third watch of the night?”
“I’ve got a lamb that needed some care. I’m taking it back to the flock before sunrise.” Joseph stuttered a fearful response.
“A lamb?” the centurion replied, “How fortunate, just what we need for our sacrifice. Seize the lamb!” he ordered.
“NO!” Joseph screamed as a soldier stepped toward him. But his cry brought only the swift butt of a Roman spear crashing into his belly, dropping him to his knees and causing the bundle to fall from his arms.
Joshua wailed in pain as he hit the ground, his cries piercing the night. Rachel dove to cover her child, but was met with a swift kick in the ribs, which sent her sprawling backwards. As she landed against the house her head hit the wall and mercifully, she lost consciousness.
“So this is your little lamb, shepherd!” the centurion growled. “For defying the soldiers of Rome, you will be scourged and your flock slaughtered. Seize him!”
Immediately, three soldiers descended on Joseph. As one grabbed his arms behind his back and another forced him to the ground by pressing the shaft of his spear across his back, the third pressed the cleated sole of his sandal on his neck and into the side of his face. As the cleats punctured his cheek and he tasted his blood running across his lips, Joseph could see Joshua kicking, trying to free himself from the fleece. He heard his cries; cries of a baby, who understands neither life nor death, but feels pain.
“Kill it!” the centurion ordered. And immediately a spear was thrust into Joshua’s side, piercing his heart. Quickly, the child stopped kicking and the fleece turned red with blood. Sounds of weeping were heard as Joseph was dragged off through the streets.
Rachel woke to silent darkness. Was it a dream? Was Joseph there? Why was she in the street? What is that bundle in the…the pain in her head was over-taken by the death-grip in her heart. It was no dream, Joseph was there, Joshua is…Her heart burst forth in wailing and tears, as she crawled to her bloodied son. She picked his lifeless body into her arms and rocked him, as she had done so often before. Only this time, it was a not a lullaby, but a song of sorrow; a song of death, not sleep.
Epilogue:
The sun was just beginning to cast its first advancing rays against the darkness, when Joseph staggered to his house; the roman scourge had done its job, leaving him half alive, wishing for death. He couldn’t bear to look at the crimson pool of blood in the street. He slumped thru the door into his house. Rachel was there; as weak from grief and tears as he was from the scourge. She had aged overnight. It was as if Joshua had lived his life and Rachel and Joseph were old; except, Joshua would not be bringing grandchildren to redeem youth. She was indeed a woman with no children.
His grief quickly transformed into too many questions demanding an answer. Why? The question pounded again in his brain as it did on the hillside. Why did God hide Joshua on the roof, but didn’t hide Joseph from the traitorous stable master? Why did God appoint a king who orders the slaughter of the innocents? Why only those two years old? Why did that night two years ago mean the death of his son? If indeed, the messiah was born then in Bethlehem, why must he now die? Or if he escaped, why did God allow another to die in his place? If God was still speaking to people, then God must answer their questions. Joseph walked over to the table and picking up the lifeless body of Joshua, he carried it up to the roof. As the early rays of sunrise peaked over the horizon, Joseph lifted Joshua’s body to the sky and screamed the question of the ages:
“Why? My God, my God, why have you forsaken us? What good can come from the death of the innocent? What good comes from a father watching his son die?”
Prisoners of Love
Alone he cries himself to sleep
His heart is torn his pain runs deep.
"You have the gift" the viewers cry
to bring the story line alive
to be a star upon the stage
Your latest play the latest rage
His father does not approve
"A doctor, not an actor, you'll be
so I can be proud of you, my son
I've planned it all, I've just begun
You have opportunity I never had
Don't disappoint, don't make me mad".
It hurts him so to make the choice
To obey his father, or to raise his voice
The struggle within destroys his will
His father wins - His bitter pill.
To the stage he knows he'll never return
But to be a doctor in hell he'll burn
And so begins his final night
His final play, His final fight.
"Why Dad Why?" he cries inside
Could you've not loved me for being me
And not the one you want to be.
To give up acting, a pain too great.
To speak against his father is hate.
So "Dad you win, an actor I won't be;
But neither a doctor ‑ Please forgive me""
Downstairs he walks his final steps
A gun in a desk, his final help.
The gun to his head, the trigger he pulled.
His father's "love" he would never see full.
What is this "love" that imprisons the dream
that make the child's heart to scream
Surely the ONE who reigns above
Does not make HIS children
Prisoners of "love".
- inspired by a tagic scene in "Dead Poet's Society"
His heart is torn his pain runs deep.
"You have the gift" the viewers cry
to bring the story line alive
to be a star upon the stage
Your latest play the latest rage
His father does not approve
"A doctor, not an actor, you'll be
so I can be proud of you, my son
I've planned it all, I've just begun
You have opportunity I never had
Don't disappoint, don't make me mad".
It hurts him so to make the choice
To obey his father, or to raise his voice
The struggle within destroys his will
His father wins - His bitter pill.
To the stage he knows he'll never return
But to be a doctor in hell he'll burn
And so begins his final night
His final play, His final fight.
"Why Dad Why?" he cries inside
Could you've not loved me for being me
And not the one you want to be.
To give up acting, a pain too great.
To speak against his father is hate.
So "Dad you win, an actor I won't be;
But neither a doctor ‑ Please forgive me""
Downstairs he walks his final steps
A gun in a desk, his final help.
The gun to his head, the trigger he pulled.
His father's "love" he would never see full.
What is this "love" that imprisons the dream
that make the child's heart to scream
Surely the ONE who reigns above
Does not make HIS children
Prisoners of "love".
- inspired by a tagic scene in "Dead Poet's Society"
LORD God Jehovah
LORD God Jehovah, maker of heaven and earth
Weaver of my fragile body, knower of me before birth
maker of stars and planets, grower of grass and trees
How could you love me, I'm tiny, a leaf passing in the breeze?
LORD God Jehovah, Lover of me in your word
All around are signs, you are graceful, swooping like a bird.
Faithful, you bring me home to your nest,
When I wander in sin, away from your rest.
LORD God Jehovah, Guide me in your truth
teach me your ways
let my branches wave at you, let my breathing tell your news
let my eyes share your vision, let my feet wear your shoes
let me be your servant too
All I want is found in You.
Weaver of my fragile body, knower of me before birth
maker of stars and planets, grower of grass and trees
How could you love me, I'm tiny, a leaf passing in the breeze?
LORD God Jehovah, Lover of me in your word
All around are signs, you are graceful, swooping like a bird.
Faithful, you bring me home to your nest,
When I wander in sin, away from your rest.
LORD God Jehovah, Guide me in your truth
teach me your ways
let my branches wave at you, let my breathing tell your news
let my eyes share your vision, let my feet wear your shoes
let me be your servant too
All I want is found in You.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)