Chosen (6 page)

“Professor O’Malley,” Alexana said, “this is Ridge McIntyre.” She smiled from one man to the other, enjoying the look of surprise on Ridge’s face before it was quickly buried. She was pleased to see that Ridge had heard of the famous biblical scholar.

“Ridge,” she explained as the men shook hands, “I invited Jerome up here because last night you said you didn’t know how to start your search for God.” She ignored his subtle scowl. “All my life, Professor O’Malley has been there for me when I wrestled with details of my excavations and even my own beliefs. As you probably know, he is the preeminent scholar at the École Biblique. If anyone can field your questions, he can.”

Ridge ducked his head and sat down, his face now expressionless. No doubt he would not appreciate her meddling into his affairs. He might have discussed it with her alone, but to bring in an expert? But she hadn’t a choice. She felt as if God had directed her to do so. Fortunately, Ridge appeared caught up in the spectacular view of the city before them, which was entirely visible from north to south. He whistled in appreciation. “It’s almost as good a view as from the Intercontinental,” he said, shooting Alexana a look.

Alexana smiled and sat down, pulling off her backpack as she did so. “Have you guys eaten?”

Professor O’Malley nodded, but Ridge shook his head. She
unzipped the bag and pulled out fresh challah, a Jewish braided egg bread, and several huge, ripe oranges. Then she dipped her hand into the bag and lifted out three bottles of water. “Hope you don’t mind simple fare—I don’t have time to pack elaborate picnics.”

“Looks great. It was quite a hike up here,” Ridge said as she sat down beside him. “I didn’t even think about food after breakfast this morning.” He looked out to the city, then back toward her. “I do appreciate all this,” he said, raising his eyes to hers.

Alexana met his gaze, never faltering. “I’m happy to do it.” As she peeled an orange, she first studied the ripe fruit, then her companion.

The elderly professor interrupted their semiprivate moment. “So, Mr. McIntyre, your body is here … in the city of religion. Where do you find your soul?”

Ridge raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Forgive me, but you’re about as subtle as my guide here.” He leveled a stony gaze at the man, who appeared to be in his late seventies.

Jerome was unflappable. He peered unflinchingly at Ridge from beneath heavy folds of skin. Age spots and wrinkles covered his balding head. “I need to know more about your own foundation. Were you raised as a Christian?”

“On Christmas and Easter,” Ridge said simply. He watched the professor for a reaction.

“Ah,” O’Malley said knowingly. “So you know about biblical teachings? The importance of this place for Christians worldwide?”

“I reread the Gospels on the plane over.,” Ridge began.

“You don’t understand your own spiritual beliefs, yet you’re trying to understand the religious fervor and passion of an entire nation?”

“Hey, now, don’t go slapping some judgment on me,” Ridge said angrily.

Jerome sighed. He looked at Alexana, who was gazing at the city as if she were only half listening, then back to Ridge. “I’m not judging, Mr. McIntyre. I am simply trying to determine where you are beginning so I can help you understand others—like you requested of Alexana.”

Alexana halved the orange and handed Ridge a juicy section.

“This wasn’t exactly what I requested … what I wanted to know. Oh, okay,” Ridge accepted haltingly. He chewed a bite of orange and swallowed. “Treat me like a rookie,” he said, carefully looking at the city and not at his companions.

Alexana smiled. Like herself, Ridge apparently did not enjoy admitting that he did not have everything under control.

Jerome said, “Let me begin with what we know best—Christianity. If you can understand, feel the passion Christians feel, you can transfer that knowledge to other religions. It will give you a start.” He measured his words carefully.

“We are sitting on the Mount of Olives. Below us is the Garden of Gethsemane. This is the place where Jesus Christ spent his final days as a free man. It is here that the enormity of the task before him truly hit him and his companions. Looking out at that city,” he said, gesturing forward, “Jesus knew what God had called him to do. It was here that in a moment of fear and anger, he said to his Father, ‘Take this cup from me.’ Before coming here to pray, he had distributed the bread and the wine, telling his friends that they should practice communion in remembrance of him. He had prepared them, you see, to go on without him.

“The soldiers came and took him from this mountain. Jesus
went peacefully. They led him into the city, to the house of Caiaphas, then to the palace of Herod, where Pilate was staying. Pilate believed Jesus was innocent, despite the fact that the Jewish leaders themselves proclaimed him guilty.” He paused. “It must have been awful for Pilate. Can you imagine looking into the eyes of God, Mr. McIntyre, and knowing that what you were about to do would condemn you? Even if he did not recognize him as the Messiah, he certainly knew Jesus was innocent.”

During the moment of silence that followed, neither Ridge nor Alexana chewed or spoke as they contemplated such an idea. Jerome began again: “When Jesus would not speak in his own defense, Pilate ‘washed his hands’ of him and sentenced him. They took him to ‘skull hill’—Golgotha, a rocky outcropping that resembled a human skull—and crucified him.

“After he died, his followers took him down and laid him in a tomb. Tradition holds that the tomb lies under those domes over there,” he said, gesturing to the west, “beneath what is now the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. There he was laid to rest; three days later, his body was gone. He had risen. In his passage, he began the Great Hope for us: Because of his ultimate sacrifice, we are forgiven of our sins and promised eternal life. Through ourselves, we die; through him, we live.”

Ridge nodded, trying to absorb the information. His brow was furrowed in concentration. “Go on,” he urged.

“You have heard Jesus referred to as ‘the Lamb of God’?”

“I believe so.”

“It builds upon the biblical imagery and Jewish tradition from which he emerged. The Jews traditionally offered a lamb in the temple each year as a sacrifice. Ideally, it was a perfect lamb—
unblemished, in good health, of a good demeanor. To give up such an animal was truly a sacrifice—in the modern sense of the word. One lamb could provide food or money for a family. It could even be bred to produce more food and money. But they wanted to atone for their sins, and so they sacrificed the animals as God had dictated.

“When Christ—the Lamb—was sacrificed, Jesus gave the ultimate gift, and the need for animal sacrifice was eliminated forever. For how could one compare the death of an animal to that of a man, let alone the man we consider to be the Son of God? It was the end of salvation based on observance of religious law and the beginning of grace. Some believed Jesus was the Savior; others condemned him, seeing not the Messiah, but a weak, beaten man. They wanted a political king, the new David. By turning away, they missed the King of kings. They missed salvation.”

Ridge looked at the professor, then at Alexana, appearing a little irked at their obvious religious enthusiasm. “So you’re saying that all of the Jews and Muslims and any other religion in the world are condemned?” His voice was tense.

Alexana spoke up for the first time. “The Bible and Christ were very clear. Jesus said, ‘No one comes to the Father except through me.’ I know,” she said, placing her hand emphatically on her chest, “that I am saved. I know the Messiah in a very personal way. That brings me great hope for my life, now and in the future.

“Will everyone else be condemned?” She echoed his question. “I don’t know. My God is a gracious, loving, and fair God. I trust him to make those decisions; I’m not capable of saying who will ‘get in’ and who will not. But as for me, I know. I
know.”
She stared into Ridge’s eyes, willing him to understand, to grasp the passion, until he looked away.

“I hear you,” he said, “I must admit, I don’t understand.”

O’Malley turned back toward Jerusalem, and the others followed his gaze. “The City of David,” the professor mused. “The Golden City. To understand Jerusalem is to understand a piece of God. Passion for their Lord drives Palestinians to despair in their displacement, Christians to panic at the thought of losing access to their holy sites, and Jews to distraction at their tenuous hold on things. They all want to hold her. But you cannot ‘hold’ the Golden City any more than you can hold God.”

He gained momentum as he spoke, becoming more impassioned with each word, and Alexana suddenly saw him as a young man: strong, stalwart, intense. “It is like a volcano, ready to erupt. It is foolish to think that anyone could hold a natural phenomenon like a volcano.” O’Malley smiled benevolently.

“Yet despite its potential for destruction, a volcano warms the earth’s crust and spews forth minerals that enrich her soil, bringing new life. God is like a volcano—capable of destroying at a moment’s notice, yet seeming to slumber peacefully for centuries. Can you grasp it?” He turned toward Ridge. “It is a primal, basic need, to know God.” He looked at Ridge curiously. “You know him, Mr. McIntyre. You’ve just forgotten him.”

Jerome sat down again. Ridge waited patiently for him to finish. “Ask yourself if you’ve gone so far here,” Jerome said, pointing to his head, “that you cannot know the light here,” he said, pointing to his heart. “Sometimes we try to
think
out something that is better
felt.
”

Ridge looked from Jerome to Alexana, seeming unsure of what to say.

“Search, my friend,” Jerome entreated softly. “It will be here in Jerusalem, if anywhere, that you will understand the Christ or walk
away from him. He knocks; open the door, or your future will be darker than the Solomon’s Stables that Alexana will soon explore.”

His tone was sure and confident, and Ridge did not ask another question. The three finished their oranges and bread in silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts.

Later that afternoon Ridge and Alexana approached the West Jerusalem neighborhood of Mea Shearim. Before them, a sign proclaimed in poor English:
MODEST DRESS, SKIRTS REACHING UNTIL BELOW THE KNEE.
Ridge scanned the rest of the oddly translated sign, which asked visitors to respect the Jews’ code of righteous clothing, while Alexana removed her backpack and pulled out a paper yarmulke.

“Here,” she said, handing it to him. “I’m dressed to walk through, but you need to cover your head.”

Ridge unfolded the small disc and awkwardly placed the cap on his head, but his heavily moussed hair made it difficult for the yarmulke to stay in place. Alexana grinned at him, despite herself. As they were passed by several men in long, black coats and shaved heads with one long curl at each temple, she struggled to control her laughter. “You fit right in,” she managed to say, smiling behind her hand.

“Yeah, right,” Ridge said looking down at her. “Lead on, my new friend,” he said grandly.

She passed in front of him, through the limestone brick gates of the
haredi,
or “God-fearing community.” “As you might have been able to tell from the entrance, this is an ultra-Orthodox section of Jerusalem. They maintain the old traditions and religious lifestyle of the Eastern European Jews.” They turned a corner and walked
several blocks, then Alexana pointed toward the window of a classroom.

Ridge looked in at sixteen sleepy-looking boys. “They’re just tots! How old are they?”

“Four,” Alexana said. Catching the eye of the teacher, she waved and smiled and kept on talking. “That is Rabbi Josef Shek, a friend of my father’s. This yeshiva preschool is the heart of the community, where boys study and discuss the Torah and Talmud.”

She pointed past Ridge at three neatly bundled little girls walking down the street, following their mother like goslings after a goose. “For one of those haredi girls to marry one of the little scholars you see inside is the highest hope of any haredi father. They will most likely be properly educated and remain devout Jews.”

“Will it be a challenge to find a suitable match?” Ridge asked, grinning as a sleeping boy was jostled awake by the rabbi.

“Not too tough. Most will remain in the yeshiva until they’re eighteen, or older. In all of Eastern Europe before the Holocaust, there were perhaps thirty-five thousand yeshiva students. Today, in Israel alone, there are almost fifty thousand. The government obviously encourages these schools. They give grants to the families of the students; that tradition, and the high birthrate among haredi Jews, will keep the schools in business.”

“And find those girls the right man.”

“Of course.” Alexana grinned. They walked down several streets in silence, eventually making their way to the Western Wall of the Temple Mount.

“Ah, the Wailing Wall,” Ridge nodded in recognition. “Maybe you can enlighten me …”

Alexana nodded sadly. “It’s as close as they can come to their God
and an understanding of where he lives. So they stick prayers between the stones that Herod had placed there, and they pray that the Temple will be theirs again.”

“By the looks of the Dome of the Rock, that’s not likely to happen.”

“No, especially after 176 pounds of gold has just been plastered over it, a gift from King Hussein. You understand the significance of this place?”

“Not as deeply as you do. And that’s where you hope to excavate Solomon’s Stables—under the Haram, as Palestinians call it?”

“Yes. You can see that the Temple Mount is huge: the length and width of five football fields. Once it housed the grand Jewish temple. Or I should say twice. It was destroyed and rebuilt. People used to enter it from the eastern side, through the Golden Gate, or from the south end at the Triple Gate—you know, the ones we saw earlier, walled off, as we entered the Dung Gate?

“Behind the Double Gate is a staircase that Christ and his disciples walked. For centuries, erosion and filler, as well as political or religious differences, have kept scholars from exploring the structure underneath. The Crusaders used the caverns as stables. Thus, the name.”