Second Touch (26 page)

—“yes, your ancestors ate manna in the wilderness, but they all died! Only the true bread of heaven gives eternal life to ¬everyone who eats it. I am the living bread that came down out of heaven. Anyone who devours this bread will live forever. The bread is my flesh, offered so the world may live.”42 “What?” the Pharisee demanded in outraged tones. “What’s this?” the farmer asked a Torah scholar. “How can a man give us his flesh to eat and call himself bread?”43 “Don’t be daft,” another observer interjected. “He ¬doesn’t mean his body. I mean, I ¬don’t know what he means, but he ¬doesn’t mean that!” “Another wordplay,” Zadok explained to the boys. “Listen to his words. Lacham, ‘devour.’ Yeshua ¬doesn’t just say ‘eat.’ Lacham—lechem—L’Chaim. Devour the bread in order to have eternal life. But he also means his life,” Zadok rumbled. Yeshua elaborated, “For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. All who eat my flesh and drink my blood remain in me, and I in them . . . those who partake of me will live because of me.”44 “Drink his blood!” “Pagan evil! Grotesque!” The Pharisee pushed angrily through the crowd and set out down the road, shaking his head and waving his gloved hands in an elaborate show of exasperation. The cloth dyer and the farmer likewise backed away from Yeshua. The size of the crowd shrank, as from the outside knots of two and three melted away. “Drink, yes, but not just a hasty swallow,” Zadok mused. “Not shaqah, but shathah—drink deeply, fill yerself up completely with his life.” Avel heard John, Yeshua’s coarse-bearded, broken-nosed talmidim, say to his stocky, quieter brother Ya’acov, “What’s he talking about? This is very hard to ¬understand.”45 “How can anyone accept it?” brawny, bull-like disciple Shim’on added. “What’s the problem?” Emet asked Zadok. “Why’s ¬everybody leaving?” “Those who ¬don’t care what he says are disappointed because he won’t feed them for free,” Zadok explained as they moved forward against the retreating flow. “And those who actually listen to him ¬don’t like it because he’s made himself greater than Mosheh. The lawgiver never claimed he came down from heaven, ¬only that he was sent. But Yeshua just did. Said he descended from heaven like manna to feed our souls. Called himself manna, the bread from heaven that fed the children of Israel for forty years in the wilderness. They judge him badly because of something they ¬don’t ¬understand. When he says ‘eat his flesh and drink his blood,’ he means to fill yerself up completely with him . . . his life . . . his teaching . . . his Spirit. Aye. He’s telling them plainly who he is. The Anointed One of Adonai. Born in Beth-lehem, the ‘House of Bread.’ He is the Bread of Life. But they’ll have none of it.” Zadok halted, waiting for Yeshua to see him. Turning to the brawny fisherman Shim’on, Yeshua asked, “Are you going to leave too?”46

Frowning around at the others, as if daring any of them to challenge him, Shim’on said forcefully, “Lord, who else would we go to? You’re the ¬only one who has words that give eternal life. We believe”—the burly fisherman stopped, then corrected himself—“we know you are the Holy One of God.” Avel saw Yeshua nod and clap Shim’on on the shoulder. Then Yeshua said, “I chose the twelve of you. But even so, one of you is a devil.” The last phrase was said lightly, casually, and Shim’on and the Zebedee brothers laughed as if it were a good-natured jest. But Avel noticed that Yeshua’s intense gaze rested briefly on Judas. Judas looked quickly away, then raised his hand as if greeting someone across the field. A flash and he melted into the crowd. Avel shuddered, wondering if Judas was hurrying off to meet someone. Perhaps a member of the rebel band? “Come on, boy,” Zadok comforted Avel. “It’s not polite to stare.” “Even if you’re staring at a snake?” Zadok chuckled. “You’re safe. I’ve got my eye on him. Even if it’s ¬only one eye, I’ll keep sharp watch on that one.” His gaze followed the retreating Pharisee. “And ¬I’m watching others as well.” And then Yeshua’s face broke into a smile. He rose and called out as He advanced through the group with His hand extended, “Zadok! My friend! You’re a long way from home. You and the boys!” He mussed Avel’s hair and tapped Ha-or Tov and Emet each on the shoulder affectionately. Zadok smiled with relief for the first time in days. “I’ve left Migdal Eder at the urging of Caiaphas and with the sword of Eglon at my back. Y’ have powerful enemies. They hate even the sound of yer name. I spoke yer name boldly. Told of the night of yer birth. And so, here we are. Like yer talmidim, I ¬didn’t know where else to go but here. To y’.” Yeshua embraced the old man. “Zadok. ¬I’m glad you’ve come. Yes, old friend. I am glad to see your face again.”

Avel lay near the fire, his arm encircling the ruff of Red Dog. There was comfort in the nearness of the animal. Somehow Zadok sensed the boy’s need for that comfort and allowed the creature to remain close by. That night, around the campfire, word came that Yeshua and the talmidim, as well as those of His other followers who remained with Him, would leave on a journey out of the Galil and into Gentile territory. Avel wondered if the change of location was prompted by Zadok’s warning about Caiaphas and the possibility of Eglon’s pursuit. Did the challenge of Simon the Pharisee have anything to do with it? Avel had heard that there were many who reported directly back to the high priest. And now Herod Antipas had also returned to his palace in the Galil. Slipping out of the ¬Jewish province altogether seemed to Avel like a good idea. The trio of boys snuggled near to the campfire. Firelight deepened the scars on Zadok’s weather-beaten face. The old shepherd stirred up the embers and stared in silent contemplation at the orange glow. Avel ventured, “Why do so many people hate Yeshua?”

Zadok shook his head. “Never mind. Aye, boy. It’s all coming to pass as it was written in Torah long ago. What will be is written. And them as seek to silence Yeshua may as well throw stones at the sun to keep it from rising.” “So many left him today. They won’t follow him again, will they?” “Not surprising. Aye. Caiaphas and his band ¬don’t believe in life after this life. And all Herod Antipas can think about is his own power. To that end both factions are bound by oath to trap Yeshua. Or to kill him. To do harm to his reputation. Yeshua has said now, straight-out, that he’s the Bread of Life. So he is. And also the Lamb of God. He’ll feed all who call on his name. We shepherds knew the meaning of it from the first night. He is the true Manna from heaven.” “Why does that make them so angry?” “Because he is not ¬only our Manna; he is the Omer, the full measure of Yahweh’s truth offered freely, like manna, to feed mankind. He alone can fill our hungry souls. All truth and righteousness in this life and the life to come must be measured by Yeshua’s life and words. He is the full Omer of spiritual manna come down from heaven. Anything less than his righteousness is a counterfeit. Those who live for themselves and not for God can never measure up. Yeshua is a reminder of how empty our hearts truly are unless God fills them.” “It seems like they would want to be like him.” Zadok tossed another stick onto the flames. “Aye. So it would seem. But these fellows serve no god but their pride. They make a big show of their religion so ¬everyone can admire them. They heap rules upon rules when the truth is, the true bread God offers mankind is a simple fare. Humble. ‘Love the Lord with all your heart . . . and your neighbor as yourself.’47 Aye. If we all followed that command with all our hearts, minds, and strength, that’s bread enough to feed the whole world ¬every day. No one on earth would ¬ever go hungry or live out a life of loneliness if this was the bread we broke and shared together. That is what Yeshua is. Manna from heaven. Enough love and mercy for ¬everyone. Enough to go around. Those who gather much have just as much as those who gather little.” “When I was a beggar I was happy to have bread three times a day. Just bread.” Avel remembered hoarding a loaf, making it last because he did not know if there would be enough for tomorrow. “Aye. Just so,” Zadok praised. “The Lord nourishes the humble soul with the simple bread of his love. The proud man, like that Pharisee we heard today, feasts on other things. Aye. I know that fellow. I wonder what sort of sign he wanted from Yeshua. Something to do with himself, no doubt, for that’s the ¬only petition a man like him knows how to present.” Avel considered Zadok’s words for a time. “What should we ask for? If we ask anything at all?” “That the will of the Lord will be done in our lives. Aye. God’s will for us is never wrong. Never. The Lord feeds the humble man because he loves us. If we make the Lord as much a part of our daily lives as eating, then truly he is our ‘bread of life.’ Y’ heard Yeshua apply that name to

himself. Has he not proved the truth of it by the Omer, the measurement of his words and deeds? Anyone who calls himself ‘the bread of heaven’ must be measured, judged, by the Omer, the standard of God’s Word. That is what the Torah scholars in the crowd objected to . . . and so do Herod Antipas and Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin: Because, in ¬every way, Yeshua measures up! Yeshua is truly the bread sent down from heaven. His words spoken to us are the daily Omer, the exact measure that feeds our souls. It ¬doesn’t take a doctor of the law to ¬understand what Yeshua meant. Now, get some sleep. There’s a long road ahead of us.” It seemed to Avel that it might also be a difficult road. Dreams of Eglon, the high priest Caiaphas, and Judas Iscariot tumbled together through Avel’s sleep. It was not a restful night.

It was no good trying to go farther. Jekuthiel was exhausted, barely able to put together three steps in a row without stopping to rest. Nor was he the ¬only member of Peniel’s straggling band to feel a need. “What about food?” Gideon yelled from a hundred yards back. “Don’t have any,” Peniel returned. “You?” “How’d you expect us to eat?” Amos challenged in his implausibly deep voice coming from his child-sized body. “No place to buy from if we had money, which we ¬don’t! No one to beg from! God should bless me so I ¬don’t need to eat!” Since turning aside from the main road in fear of the guards’ return, the quartet of beggars had seen no other travelers on the chosen byway. Recent rains had muddied the path, and it displayed no footprints. “So this miracle worker of yours can make bread?” Gideon challenged. “You ¬didn’t make him show you how? You bring us out here to starve?” “I . . . think,” Jekuthiel observed, leaning on his staff, “there’s an orchard down . . . there.” He gestured with his walking stick toward dark green treetops just visible above a neighboring ridge. “Maybe . . . we can . . . find something.” Just where the footpath negotiated a horseshoe bend around the slope stood a massive fig tree. It loomed large against the hill, away from the other trees, as if planted as a representative—a model of how fig trees were supposed to look. Peniel ran toward it, passing Jekuthiel. Here they would find food! The tree was rounded, in full leaf, possessing the glory of early summer foliage . . . and bare of any fruit. Peniel was bitterly disappointed. “Don’t . . . worry,” Jekuthiel puffed, coming alongside. “Trees off . . . by themselves . . . often . . . ¬don’t bear fruit. The others . . . will have.” How did a leper know that? Peniel wondered. What chance did someone who slept in graveyards have to learn anything about farming? But Jekuthiel was right. Below the brow of the knoll were orderly rows of

trees. The thunderstorm had battered the orchard. The ground was littered with greenish purple figs and a swarm of rust-and-orange butterflies. Disturbed by humans, insects fluttered aloft, like a cloud of fallen leaves trying to reattach themselves to the trees. Gideon arrived, scooped up an armful of figs, and bit down on one. “Ha!” he shouted. “Good?” Amos selected one for himself. “Terrible! Hard! Sour!” “Wait . . . watch a . . . minute,” Jekuthiel instructed. “Watch what?” Gideon asked doubtfully. “Watch.” Presently the flock of butterflies settled to the ground again, flitting amongst and bouncing up and down on the fig bulbs. “Watch . . . them,” Jekuthiel said. “If they . . . come back . . . to the same fig . . . more than once . . . it’s ripe.” Amos brushed aside two sets of russet wings to pluck a piece of fruit from the ground. Sniffing it suspiciously, he took a bite. “Right!” He stuffed half in his mouth and reached for another. “Where the flies swarm there is honey . . . well? True with figs and butterflies, eh?” “How does a . . . I mean, how does a . . . a . . . a . . . ,” Peniel stammered. “A leper,” Jekuthiel finished. “Right. How do you know about . . . that sort of thing?” Peniel asked. “My friend . . . Cantor . . . showed me,” Jekuthiel explained. “There are . . . fig trees . . . in our Valley.” This was another new thought. It had never occurred to Peniel that lepers had friends. Companions in misery, perhaps, but friends who spoke of commonplace wisdom like figs and butterflies? Jekuthiel sat some distance from the others. Resting against the trunks of trees, the beggars ate their fill of windfall figs, then stuffed their pouches full of fruit. Jekuthiel fell asleep. Amos nudged Peniel, “Here’s our chance! He’s sleeping.” From the look on his face, Gideon was clearly tempted. “Leave now and you’re on your own,” Peniel warned. Amos pouted then conceded. “If you’d stick with a leper you’ll be loyal to a small man too. There must be merit in that. It’ll come to me.” Amos did not leave. Nor did Gideon. After a time they slept at the base of a tree. Butterflies lit on them, checking for ripeness, Peniel mused. Peniel was drowsing when a lean, sun-darkened man yelled at them from the trail: “Hey! Get! Away from here! You! You! Stealin’ fruit, are you? From my master?” Peniel jumped up quickly; Amos and Gideon more slowly. Jekuthiel remained asleep. The farm steward bustled up to them, brandishing a stick. “We’re not,” Gideon argued. “Just gleaning. Our right, it is! We know the rules about gleaning! We ¬haven’t picked any except what’s on the ground!

Isn’t that right?” The cripple got agreeing nods. “Go on! Go on! See for yourself,” Amos blustered up at the fellow. “All over the place, they are!” “Well—” the steward sniffed—“all right then. Enough! On your way now.” “We’ve traveled far. Could we rest a bit?” Peniel asked. “Our friend there. Done up.” The steward, who had not noticed Jekuthiel before, strode closer to the sleeping leper and inhaled sharply. “Lord have mercy! One of them!” he cursed. “Lepers! You! Lepers! Out! The stink of it! Out of my orchard with you! Unclean!” “We’re not . . .” But Peniel’s protest went unheard as the steward’s stick whistled through the air, hitting Peniel on the arm. Amos took flight, spilling figs from his sack as he scurried toward the path. Gideon backed up into the trees, put a row of trunks between him and the steward, and scraped away in retreat. “Clear off!” Another blow, aimed at Peniel’s head, missed as he jumped aside. “The trees! The crop! The stink of it! Clear off!” Jekuthiel woke up, struggled to hoist himself upright. “We’re . . . going.” The steward grabbed up a handful of figs, throwing them at Peniel. One hit him in the face. Another bounced off his chest. “Too bad they’re not rocks!” the steward shouted. “You! You! Clear off! Hear me? I’ll set the dogs on you! Clear off!”