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We all leave together in a single wagon the next morning from Aunt Elizabeth's home, so early the sun has not yet lit the border of sky nor the birds arisen to call it forth. Father and Zechariah sit on the front seat, while John and I, mother and Aunt Elizabeth sit in the wagon bed with the baby lamb and our other provisions for the evening's feast. The roadway is already crowded with other wagons, carts and foot travelers, and it soon becomes apparent that those on foot are making much better time than we are. As we reach the outskirts of the city father pulls the wagon off the road entirely and bids us all get down.
"We have too much to carry, husband," my mother protests timidly.
"We can manage," he assures her brusquely, beginning to hoist the bags of food and provisions down from the wagon. Zechariah, still wearied by his late return from working at the temple the night before, nods reluctantly.
"The roads will soon be impassable," he agrees.
Mother, Elizabeth, John and I pack up our food and eating utensils, our prayer rugs, cushions and religious artifacts, and begin the trek through the city of Jerusalem to the temple. Father carries the lamb over his shoulders. It has stopped crying for its mother, and hangs submissive and quiet, as if it knows and accepts its fate.
We stop for a brief rest and ritual cleansing at the Pool of Siloam before beginning the long trek up the hill to the Temple Mount, which presides over the city like a stony giant on his throne. The water is wonderfully cool, and John and I start a little splashing war before our mothers stop us with stern looks, with waggling heads and fingers.
We pass a secret smirk to each other as we bow our heads to their chastisement. It was worth it.
When we reach the temple walls, we must hold tight to one another or get swept apart by the flood tide of people pushing ahead. I grasp the hem of my mother's skirt at her command as the human river surges through a narrow inlet and spreads out into a more peaceable expanse, a large courtyard in which a great number of wooden stands are set up in rows, with noisy vendors hawking food, sacrificial lambs and goats, and other provisions that pilgrims might have forgotten to bring. There are also some tables where coins are being exchanged for other coins, with much arguing between the traders. None of this makes any sense to me. It is loud and boisterous, like market day in our village only not so friendly, and nothing like I expected this holy temple to be.
Finally we make our way to another gate, this one on the side of the temple where the sun still rises over the bright mid-morning sky, and through it enter a quieter, more peaceful plaza where we can set down our heavy packages in the shade and lean back against the wall with a sigh of relief.
Father and Zechariah almost immediately leave, taking the lamb. It looks back at me over father's shoulder, its big brown eyes locked into mine in a strange bond of understanding. I watch until it disappears into the sea of people between us, then turn away.
That night when it is time to partake of the feast, I have no appetite, but father says I must, so I eat my friend and offer a prayer for his little departed soul, hoping his sacrifice will not be in vain.
When we depart for home the next day, the taste of his blood is still in my mouth.
Boyhood Pranks
As I get older, I start to play more pranks, sometimes just for fun, but some with good reason. One day as I am walking to the village with my mother, I see this old woman striking her goat with a cane to make it move, and I cause the cane to fly up out of her hands and get stuck in the branch of a tree. She limps off, cursing the cane, the goat and the tree, but the cane remains where it is. Mother looks at me and shakes her head, but I just shrug my shoulders, trying unsuccessfully not to grin. She is having a hard time keeping the smile from her own face as well.
Another time, I see a sour-faced woman push in front of a small child to fill her bucket at the well, so I "help" the full bucket disintegrate when she draws it up, the metal bands and staves flying out in all directions, its water spilling all over her clothing as it breaks apart. Others around the well go into gales of laughter at this, for the woman is well known for her mean and selfish ways, but I myself keep an innocent expression and look the other way so no one will suspect it is my doing. The unfortunate woman bursts into tears, more because everyone is laughing at her than because her bucket broke or water spilled.
Mother, seems to feel sorry for the crone, and she looks at me sternly, as if she knows very well what caused the mishap.
Once we are out of earshot of the others, she scolds me severely for breaking the woman's bucket, and sends me to my room as soon as we get home. I have no supper that night, but plenty of time to think. What I think is that if God gives me the power to do what I do, what right does my earthly mother - who can't see the truth for lies sometimes - have to prevent me from using it? And further, why should she punish me when all I had done was to teach the cranky old woman a little well deserved lesson in humility?
I begin to feel a little rebellious at that thought, but - as I have been taught to do - I instead drop to my knees and pray to God to help me be more obedient and to honor my earthly father and mother as the Law of Moses said I should... even if they are wrong.
After that I notice that mother looks for reasons to keep me close to home, in order to stay out of trouble I guess. There are few children in the village that I can relate to: most of the boys in the area are either bullies or think themselves superior to a carpenter's son, or both, so I avoid them if I can. However I do have one friend, a sweet little girl one year younger than I named Rachel. With her I can be myself and can practice my "tricks" without worry she will judge or fear me. Rather, she looks up to me with something like awe, which I like. Lucky for me she lives nearby and our mothers are friends as well, so she can come over to visit me almost every day.
I show her how to bring the birds down from the trees, to move the wind and the stones and all sorts of fun things. I even hold onto her hand and take her up into the air with me, higher as the trees, but she has to promise never to tell. I try to convince her that she can do these things on her own, and even attempt to teach her my secrets, but she never quite gets the hang of it and is content just to watch me perform, clapping her hands in glee at my tricks, which inspires me to show off just a little more than I should sometimes.
One day on the Sabbath, as our parents rest at home waiting for the afternoon meal, Rachel and I sit beside the small brook with nothing to do. Bored, I move the water of the brook aside in order to expose the wet clay beneath, and start making little figures of birds out of the clay just to amuse her. After I make quite a few her older brother, who is visiting with his family, comes along and sees what I am doing, and he immediately becomes jealous and angry.
"I am going to tell your father you're breaking the Sabbath," he says, running back to the house.
My father comes out with the rest of the adults and - because the others are watching - chastises me severely in front of Rachel and her brother. I stand up, my pride in front.
"Which of the thirty-nine prohibitions of Sabbath have I broken father?" I challenge him. "There is nothing in the prohibitions that say I cannot play in a brook or make clay birds, is there?"
Rachel's father Annas, the village scribe, steps forward angrily and says that I should not speak to my father in such a tone.
"Further," he proclaims in an authoritative voice: "Any activity that is creative, or that exercises control or dominion over one's environment is prohibited on the Sabbath, young man!"
"Really?" I respond. "Then would that include this?" And so saying, I clap my hands and all twelve clay birds become animate, flying up into the sky and disappearing.
"Wizardry!" Shrieks Rachel's mother, drawing my little friend away from me as if I were some sort of terrifying demon, rather than a five year old child.
"I'll fix this law breaker," yells the older brother, who begins using a stick to break up my dams and flood the area where the clay was exposed, wash
ing it away.
I lose my temper then, mad at them all for their foolishness and meanness.
"Idiots!" I holler, stamping my feet like the five year old child I am and am not. "Godless fools! How dare you judge me! What harm did the pools and the clay birds do! You," I point at Rachel's brother; "You act like a stodgy old man in your ways, so now you can become one!"
Immediately her brother, who is only about 9 years of age, suddenly withers and wrinkles and stoops over, looking like a tiny, very elderly person of indeterminate gender. His parents scream, and he begins to cry, looking down at the sagging, age-mottled skin of his arms and legs. Rachel turns to me, tears streaming down her face. "Please Yeshua," she begs; "Please change him back."
"Only because you ask," I say, and thump the boy on the back of his head. Instantly he is restored to his former appearance.
The family quickly gathers their things and leaves without a word, dragging my sobbing Rachel away by the arm with them.
Hurt, angry, betrayed by my own father and mother - they who should know who I am and what I am about, and yet who refuse to acknowledge or defend me - I go directly to my room and refuse to speak or eat for several days.
Mary and Joseph
"Joseph, we need to talk," I say after our guests have stormed off.
He meets me with silence, so I persist.
"We know our boy is not an ordinary child, yet we keep expecting Him to act like one," I say.
Again silence: Joseph has that brooding look about him that I have come to recognize as a sign to shut up and let whatever it is go. But this time I can't.
"He is the son of God, Joseph...Nay, even God Himself made flesh, I think. So who are we to order Him how to behave, what to do with His powers, or how to interpret the Torah, when it is supposed to be a record of His own divine word and ordinance? If He chooses to do differently than what is written, perhaps the error is in the writers of His holy word and edicts, and not in their interpretation by the Writer Himself, don't you think?"