Second Touch (12 page)

Peniel huddled in the doorway of the shoemaker’s shop. Even though darkness concealed him, closed around him, sleep would not come. He felt shattered, like one of Papa’s clay lamps thrown against a stone wall. Despite Peniel’s new eyes, Mama and Papa could not accept him. Nor would they hear the good news he had returned to share. Fear of being separated from all that was familiar prevented them from embracing him. Messiah had come at last . . . and there was no one he could tell! All his life Peniel believed blindness had separated him from his family. He imagined that if he had vision ¬everything would be different. Mama and Papa would love him. Accept him. They would be a family, whole and happy. And now that he could see? Now that he could prove his worth? Ah, well.

What difference did it make? Nothing changed. Mama was still Mama, hating him. Papa was too afraid of her to argue. So. Having sight made no difference to the one thing in the world that mattered to Peniel. He was useless. No one listened to him when he was blind; no one would listen to him now that he had eyes. Why not lie down here and wait for Eglon to arrest him? wait to die? He could never, ¬ever go home again. In all the years Peniel had been blind he’d felt grief, yes. Sorrow, in plenty. Aching loneliness, often. But never despair. Not like this. The miracle had been wasted. He must rejoin Yeshua. The Rabbi was Peniel’s ¬only hope to escape from the despondency that threatened to drown him. Maybe in the morning. Maybe I’ll go find him. If Eglon ¬hasn’t caught me by then . . . maybe? At last Peniel slept. It was halfway between the call of the sentries for the midnight watch and the tramp of feet for the changing of the guard at cockcrow when Peniel heard the voice, smelled the stench of a leper. A rustle. A stirring. The stink of rotting flesh was intense. “Who’s there?” Shalom, a voice whispered gently to Peniel. May I share your doorway with you? “Depends. Are you a leper then?” A deep sigh of resignation replied. It’s cold. Herod’s guards are searching everywhere. “Not for you.” No. For you, I think. If you’re Peniel ben Yahtzar, the potter’s son. “¬I’m no one,” Peniel replied bitterly. “The Sanhedrin says ¬I’m dead.” Well then, said the visitor, we have something in common. Yes, the smell was something like death. “You’re a dream,” Peniel whispered, covering his face and peering out at the apparition. Of course. A dream. A very bad dream. The thing was dressed in rags. Where the face should have been was a veil. Peniel could hear the labored breathing, characteristic of the late stages of leprosy. And yet he was polite enough. Pleasant. May I sit with you? share your shelter? Somehow Peniel had not expected a visit tonight. How kind of Adonai to send a Ushpizin. “Te-vu Ush-pi-zin.” Peniel murmured, remembering his manners. “Welcome, exalted wanderer.” Exalted? returned the other. It’s been a long time since anyone called me that. “What’s your name?” You’ve dreamed my dream before. Don’t you remember? Peniel searched his memory, hoping to recollect the voice. “I’ve never dreamed a leper before.”

You were never before in need of a leper’s help. “Keep talking. It’ll come to me.” What should I say, Peniel? “Do you have a story for me?” Peniel asked. Is that the fee for joining you? A brace of nightingales offered a chorus to the rising moon. The two beggars crouching in the doorway listened to the warble of rising and falling chords. A story, eh? Peniel’s visitor reflected. How’s this? Do these words jar your memory? “Who am I that anyone wants to listen to me?”20 Peniel studied the shapeless form beside him. “Mosheh the lawgiver said such a thing to the Lord when he was sent. But Mosheh ¬didn’t stink like a leper or wear the rags of a beggar when he went to deliver the children of Israel from bondage.” Rags. Ah, well. The term is all relative. I was a prince of Egypt before I was driven out to become a shepherd. After wearing the robes of a king, putting on the clothes of a shepherd is . . . humbling. But I did it. No other way, ¬really. And as for being a leper? Well, think now. Think what you’ve heard in Torah about me. “You’re the lawgiver. They still talk about you. About how they follow you.” Talk is cheap. They’ve missed entirely what is written in Torah. Not myself. Not others. No. Everything . . . ¬everything is about the One who gave you sight, Peniel: the Great Leper. “What’s gone wrong in Israel? First, the Sanhedrin throws me out because I was blind and Yeshua gave me eyes. Next they’ll kill him. And me too. Nothing I say makes a difference. What’s wrong with ¬everybody? Are they blind too?” Yes. Yes. Blind souls. But you know that. “People listened to you when you spoke. Why ¬don’t they listen to Yeshua?” But they ¬didn’t listen to me! It was the same in my time as now. Humans seldom listen. Not ¬really. The truth is inconvenient. The rulers have their own agenda. The common folk ¬don’t want to be bothered. “How will they ¬ever learn the truth? If even this sign with my eyes ¬doesn’t convince them, what will it take?” There was a long pause. In the distance Peniel heard the tramp of boots. Harsh voices called his name, demanding he give himself up. The visitor seemed unperturbed. Nothing is too hard for God. “I believe that. I do. Now that I have eyes.” If you believe it, then why doubt? Nothing . . . nothing . . . is too hard for God. “No one else seems to believe it.” You find this discouraging. “Yes. Honestly. Well? Who ¬wouldn’t?” You should have tried wandering forty years in the wilderness with a

million Jews who had a five-minute memory about Adonai’s miracles! Now that’s discouraging. Why should it matter what others believe? You’ve met Him. You know the truth. Is creation wiser than the Creator? Why does it matter what they think? “Point taken. Well spoken.” Thank you. And yet I was once like you. It mattered to me what people thought. Remember when Adonai Elohim picked me to return to Egypt? to tell the Hebrews I had been sent? “Ah,” Peniel said, pleased with the way the dream was unfolding. I was afraid to go. I believed Adonai must have chosen the wrong messenger: “Who am I, that I should go? What if they ¬don’t believe me or listen to me, and they say Adonai did not appear to you?”21 Then Adonai said to me, “What is that in your hand?” “A staff.” “Throw it on the ground.” I threw it on the ground and it became a snake. Not just any snake. Deadly. Same sort as the cobra that adorns the golden crown of Pharaoh. Symbol of Egyptian power and divine protection. A cobra . . . yes. Scared me witless, I can tell you! I ran from it as any man in his right mind would do. Just as I had run from Pharaoh years before. Then Adonai said to me, “Reach out your hand and take it by the tail.” By the tail, Adonai said! Ever try taking a cobra by the tail? One blink and it’ll hook its fangs in you. You’re dead within minutes! But I did as Adonai commanded. Now that took courage. By the tail . . . I picked it up! And the thing I most feared—Pharaoh’s might—turned into an ordinary shepherd’s crook. And later my staff swallowed up the cobras Pharaoh’s magicians produced. The lesson was hard to miss. True might is found ¬only in Adonai. But still I ¬wasn’t convinced. Then Adonai said, “Put your hand inside your cloak.” I obeyed Him. “Now remove it again.” And when I took it out again my hand was white as snow, encrusted with leprosy! Worse than a cobra, I can tell you! No way I could run from my own rotting flesh! All of my hand! Consumed! Neh-geh! This means “One Touched” by the judgment of Adonai! I was afflicted! Smitten! Tsara! In that moment I became one of the living dead! Chedel! Cut off from all others. Chadel! From my family. Forsaken! Likewise, anyone who touched me became unclean. Adonai showed me the truth of what I ¬really was! Unclean! Corrupt! Powerless! I cried out in anguish at the sight of my own mortality. And then Adonai said to me, “Put your hand back into your cloak and take it out again.” Weeping, I did as He told me. And when I took it out again my hand was completely healed. “I had forgotten about that,” Peniel mused. “Leprosy on the hand of Mosheh the lawgiver. Curious. But that sign was never used to convince anyone that

Adonai spoke to you.” Until now. “Now?” Peniel was puzzled. All these things are written not simply as stories about Mosheh the lawgiver. These are prophecies, recorded in Torah, which speak of the One yet to come. Written so this generation and those yet to be born will read and know the true identity of Messiah. Like Mosheh, Messiah is the Son of a King. The King of Heaven! The Prince of Light has laid aside His royal robes and clothed Himself in the poverty of our human flesh, taking on the appearance of an ordinary man. And yet He is the Good Shepherd that David sang about in one of his psalms! He will confront and defeat the Prince of Darkness and liberate His flock, not by the rod of fear and oppression, but by raising the simple staff of righteousness and love. And by the staff of our Shepherd-King, all power that the Prince of this world has over mankind will be swallowed up just as the staff of Mosheh swallowed the serpents of Pharaoh’s magicians! “But your hand. The leprosy. You were stricken by the Almighty! Tell me what it means!” And Adonai said, “It’s not who you are . . . it’s who I AM! Fear not, Peniel!” “Fear not? There’s nothing more horrifying than being eaten alive by leprosy! Tell me! What meaning can such an awful sign have?” Everything in Torah foretells something about Messiah. Remember, Peniel, nothing is too hard for God. The whisper receded as Peniel cried out, “But what’s it mean? Mosheh? Mosheh?” The lawgiver did not reply. The twittering night birds stopped abruptly. From around a nearby street corner came the noise of tramping feet, low commands, harsh words. “Check ¬everywhere! Look ¬under those steps. Down in that culvert. He’s here somewhere.” Dancing torchlight appeared less than a block away. Peniel’s eyes snapped open. Searchers! Coming this way. He knew, felt with a certainty, that he was the object of their quest. He cowered back in the doorway. With a gasp he saw that the leprous Ushpizin was still with him! “Mosheh?” The thing whirled and hissed him to silence. The indistinct form of a cloaked and hooded man crouched between Peniel and the street. His outline was blurred by the orange glow of the firebrands. The figure stretched out his arms. No hands emerged from the empty sleeves. A twisted shape writhed up from the ground like a snake uncoiling. Eyes reflected the light. But his face . . . where was his face? A smear of less-than-human features, a misshapen, distorted countenance, almost like a child’s charcoal rendering of a face! Peniel drew back. Yes. Yes. Leprosy was more horrifying than a deadly snake! He was more frightened of this apparition than of impending capture.

A ghost? A demon? The nodding torches drew closer. “There’s someone there. Move up! Here’s someone.” Then, from the depths of the thing, a horrible wail rose up. “Unclean!” the apparition intoned loudly. “Unclean!” He glided forward into the center of the alleyway. He faced the soldiers and screamed, “Unclean!” The troops shouted in alarm to one another, “Leper! It’s . . . a . . . leper! Get back! Back!” They stumbled over each other in their haste to get away. Searching for a defenseless beggar was one thing; discovering a ghoul, one of the living dead, by flickering flames, was something else again. The hunters fled, pelting back around the corner. Peniel hunched in the corner, wondering if he should run away as well. Then the leper turned slowly toward him. The stench was like an open grave. “Come on.” The specter breathed with difficulty. “I ¬don’t . . . ¬don’t . . . think we . . . should be . . . here when . . . they get . . . their courage . . . back.”

8 An owl hooted in the branches of an ageless olive tree. The last dregs of a wine-colored sunset had drained into the basin of night. Simon ben Zeraim, out of breath from climbing a steep hill, paused for a beat, allowing the sheen of a newly risen moon to aid his steps. The lights of Hazor, less than ten miles north of the Sea of Galilee, twinkled nearby. The city, still a stop on the trade route connecting the Galil with Damascus, was ¬only a shadow of its former magnificence. At the height of its glory King Solomon had favored this northern outpost of his empire. He endowed it with massive city walls and enlarged its role to encompass royal storehouses of grain, wine, and oil. That was long before Hazor was sadly reduced by a millennium of conquest and neglect. As he rounded a sharp curve, a lantern hanging from an acacia limb attracted Simon’s attention. At first he saw no one near the camp. As he drew closer a lean, dark shape stood up and detached itself from the shadow of an olive press. It was as if the handle employed in rolling the crushing stone had suddenly come to life, advancing to meet him. “Greetings to Simon of the House of Zeraim,” the tall figure intoned. “And to you, Ma’im of Gadara.” Ma’im wore a blue turban around his head with the tail of the cloth across his throat and over one shoulder. His skin was dark brown and his eyes so deep set it was difficult for Simon to distinguish them except when they glinted in the lantern light. “Since the master of Zeraim ¬doesn’t wish to meet in the comfort of Hazor’s caravansary, shall we conduct our business here?” Ma’im suggested. He indicated the recumbent stone wheel of the olive press.

Simon looked nervously around. The highway was deserted at the moment, but it was ¬only a hundred yards away. A passing squad of soldiers might decide to investigate if they spotted the lantern light. “Isn’t there somewhere else?” he asked. Ma’im chuckled in his throat, then turned it into a feigned cough. “Certainly,” he agreed. “The wishes of the customer must always be considered. It’s why I suggested this location. Follow me.” Retrieving the lamp, Ma’im led the way toward the base of the acacia and seemingly disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed him up. “It’s quite safe,” came his voice, echoing hollowly. “Go slowly down the steps.” Beside the olive press was the entrance to an ¬underground water cistern. It was dug in times so long past that even the memory of the tale of its builders had long since vanished. Ninety-three worn stone slabs led downward, the incline so precipitous that the top of the shaft was lost to Simon’s view long before the bottom came into sight. When he was no more than a dozen paces down, Simon wanted to change his mind and get back up into the Galilean night. The air inside the tunnel felt close and muffled, as though something holding its breath was listening to the sound of his footsteps. The walls of the passage, three man-widths apart, towered overhead. The quarrymen must have been giants to need twelve feet of headroom. There was nothing wrong with this meeting, Simon reminded himself. What had he to fear of passing soldiers or the tales that would circulate after? What? Simon kept moving downward. Nearing the bottom, the light gleamed off a pool of water. The stone steps continued into its opaque surface, vanishing into its depths. Around the tip of the cistern there was a ledge, barely wide enough for one man to pass. On the far side of the circular chamber the shelf widened, and rough benches had been hewn out of the rock face. It was to one of these spaces that Ma’im conducted Simon. “Well?” Simon inquired brusquely. “You’ll have to do better than last time. That scroll ¬didn’t tell—” Simon stopped to compose and correct himself —“that source ¬doesn’t meet my needs.” Then, unable to keep the eagerness from his voice, he added, “Where is it?” Ma’im of Gadara took a seat on the stone protrusion and gestured for Simon to do the same. Reaching into a dark recess ¬under the bench, he withdrew a linen-shrouded object about the size of a man’s sandal. This he handed to Simon. “What’s this?” Simon challenged, hefting the inconsequential weight in his hand. “This ¬can’t be the scroll. I won’t pay except for the original article, as agreed.” “But of course,” Ma’im said soothingly. “If the good Pharisee would but open the parcel, all will be made clear.” Still suspicious, Simon undid the drawstrings of the pouch, withdrawing from it a wooden cylinder.