Jesus and Menachem. Siegfried E. van Praag
Sarah and Samuel for the sake of Hannah. You have not taken him away, that cannot be.’ Then I found peace. A whole morning I had peace but his father still wandered around seeking him with eyes cast down. At midday I became uneasy again. One’s confidence does not last long when something dear to you is lost. It is a sin; one should have faith but so much had happened. At midday I became sorely uneasy once more so I sought him in the multitudes again. God heard me calling and imploring ‘Yeshua, Yeshua, my child!’
He did not come. Had the bears caught him? I covered my eyes with my hands. Could it be that the Samaritans had carried him off for service on top of Mount Gerizim because he was a Jew?
‘We may not mourn yet, wife,’ said my husband.
‘We may not mourn yet,’ I said to him.
Then God gave me peace. We went on. We gave ourselves additional respite. And when we arrived in Nazareth, the child stood at the door. I fell upon the ground and I called out: ‘Blessed be God. Praised be the Lord, for He gives children to a mother and He does not take them away before He has taken the mother!’”
“Amen!” said Joseph. “May His Name be praised forever and ever.”
“But Yeshua did not understand; he stared at us with eyes wide. He only asked: ‘Why were you afraid?’”
“Later we heard that he had been with some pious learned men and had talked to them like a wise man from Jerusalem.”
Then Miriam began to weep. “But now he has gone away and I know not whither. Then he was nine years old. Now he is twenty. I cannot be with him anymore.”
“God is with him,” said Menachem.
“I cannot be with him anymore,” said Miriam sadly. “God keeps a reckoning with a man of twenty years but not with his mother.”
“Yeshua believes that a man should have faith,” declared Menachem, although he knew that Yeshua meant a type of faith that did not exclude the dead. “Yeshua has useful work to do, he will return. You will see him walking on the roads of Galilee with friends who hearken to him eagerly. Yeshua is not like other children, Miriam.”
“I know it, I know it,” sighed his mother. “He is a strange person. That I already heard when I still had to give birth to him. Unusual children weigh heaviest in the arms and heart of a mother. Heaviest and warmest. When they leave, the concern and the fear become worse.”
“It is so,” said Menachem, “but I think of Yeshua. He drives and dedicates himself ever harder. I must go now, Miriam. I shall seek him for you.”
“Why are you so good to me, Menachem?”
“Because Yeshua is my friend.”
“But he has spoken little of you to me.”
“Yeshua speaks little. Yet he is my friend.”
“Is there no other reason, Menachem?”
“Because the mothers in Israel weigh heavy upon my heart, Miriam.”
“Comforter!”
“Perhaps, of those who remain behind! I will return on the festival to see you again, and to speak with you more about Yeshua.”
She took his hand and said again: “Ben ami!”
“Bath ami” he whispered, which means “daughter of my people.”
For in Menachem a calling was growing to be a friend of his people.
Afterwards Menachem went to seek Ben Nesher. He could not understand why the patriot had left earlier than the time they had agreed upon.
Menachem knew Lower Galilee like the back of his hand. He wandered along the paths that trailed over the hills, he searched in forests and behind the trunks of cedars. He watched all the roads which led out from Nazareth but he found Ben Nesher nowhere. The few trusted ones whom he could question about the captain did not even know he had been in the area. What to do now? Go north to the Syrian border where the threatening Hermon rose up like a misty giant? To the east where the Roman servant in Tiberias availed himself of the corrupt times to fill his pockets? To the sea where the comfortable Roman rests his legs on Israel’s gaunt belly? Or to the south? He surmised that Ben Nesher had set out for the mountains of Judea where rebels had in the past felt safest. Thus he decided to quit his beloved Nazareth with the people he knew and the fertile bed of Galilee under its blankets of grass and crops. He would go to austere Judea which God had designed Himself and there seek Ben Nesher. For he wore the rebel leader’s brand and chain until another encounter would bring another instruction.
But first Menachem turned back to Nazareth to bid his friend Yocheved farewell. He entered the front door of the house of the Pharisee Abba Alexander and headed straight to the rooms where he expected Yocheved to be. The apartments through which he passed were dark. Suddenly he felt two arms holding him captive.
“Is it you, Menachem?”
“Aye. I come to take farewell of you for the present and to see the child. Then I go to Judea. My mother awaits me.”
“It is not true, Menachem. You are going into danger. You are afraid that you are neglecting your duty. Speak softly. There is danger here. A stranger has pushed himself into the house. I fear for the life of my father. Feel this and follow me.”
Menachem touched Yocheved’s hands. They were gripping a sharp object.
She took his hands and said: “Follow me.”
They came to the room of Abba Alexander and overheard a heated dispute.
“Two thousand drachmas, not a coin less!”
“I repeat it, man. I cannot give it to you and I won’t!”
“So, old miser, you have nothing left for your people then? My men and I sleep on the rocks, eat locusts, can be captured and slain by the idolators at any moment, and you refuse the small relief with which we must buy food and weapons?”
“And how do I know you do not extort the gold for yourself?”
“If you had eyes in your head, you would be able to discern that.”
“I will not give it.”
“I must have it, otherwise . . .”
“I won’t give it!”
“You do not wish to help your people then?”
“I do not wish to plunge my people into misfortune!”
“There you have now the Pharisees. Fine detached people. They study the Law day and night but God’s honor is not worth two thousand drachmas.”
“You are exposing us to danger.”
“We wish to purify the land. It is impossible to wear the yoke of the Romans and serve God at the same time.”
“For him who follows the Law nothing is impossible, young man. If you wish to be true to God’s Law you can live everywhere, and if that is not possible, die everywhere. There is no other way.”
“Only two thousand drachmas!”
“There is no other way. Life outside the Law is a shadow, it is separation from the substance. But you think only of life outside the mitzvoth.7 You speak of God’s Honor and you mean your vanity!”
“Hand over, man. He who permits himself to be defiled by the Romans on the outside, reflects it on the inside. I demand two thousand drachmas.”
“You think I’m a miser. I shall give to the Temple.”
“The Temple receives enough. I demand two thousand drachmas, otherwise . . .”
“Otherwise, what?”
“Your house goes up in flames and for you I have something too!”