Chapter 5

Here I Raise My Ebenezer

Iclimbed fourteen steps, passed through the Beautiful Gate, and entered the Court of the Women, the first area of the inner temple compound. I noticed many people within the court worshipping in humble reverence or coming out of or going into the four large rooms at each corner. I crossed the marble floor eastward and headed toward a massive bronze door, the Gate of Nicanor, which led into the sacred inner courts where the great altar of sacrifice stood in front of the temple. I climbed fifteen more steps and entered the Court of the Men. In this narrow courtyard, I could observe the sacrifices being made on the altar in the innermost Court of the Priests, and beyond it, the holy temple.

The area was crowded, but not as much as the outer courts. I moved to a far corner, and there I prepared to plead with God for Miriam’s life. My heart was heavy with grief and anxiety. The weight of my burden pressed down on me so that every movement that I made seemed an exertion.

I prepared to pray, strapping my small, leathern phylacteries to my left arm and forehead, and then lifted my prayer shawl. I paused and considered its workmanship. Miriam had sewn it for me as a wedding present, “to abide under the shadow of the Almighty,” according to the psalmist. On the day of our marriage, we covenanted to live in the safety of obedience, under the watchful care for God. Now, in reverence, I draped the prayer shawl over my head, and prepared to offer up the prayer of my life. But I could not even utter the first word.

As I looked out upon the great altar of sacrifice, the fear returned that without a sacrifice, my prayer might fall short. I mourned that I had nothing to offer—nothing except my broken heart. I removed the prayer shawl from my head and looked toward the temple for courage. Twice a day a white cloud of incense would issue from the top of the temple and rise heavenward to God carrying the prayers of Israel. I longed that my prayer might likewise ascend to the Almighty.

I broke from my thoughts as a father and his young son walked past me. The father was instructing his son in the ordinances of the temple. Pointing to the altar, he said, “It is constructed of unhewn stones, as tall as three men, rising fifteen cubits into the air.” Then he indicated the rampart that led to the altar’s summit. Priests were ascending and descending with animal and meal sacrifices to place on the fire that burned on the uppermost surface.

The boy said, “It seems so cruel.”

The father said, “The law of sacrifice helps us remember that a price must be paid for every broken law.” When he said no more, I assumed that he was like most Israelites, who possessed a thin knowledge of their religion. On the other hand, my father had taught me that the law of sacrifice was profoundly sacred and rich in symbolism. The sacrifice of something valuable requires great faith, my father had said, and it is faith coupled with sacrifice that draws down the blessings of heaven and opens the door to reconciliation with God.

The father turned to me and began to apologize. “I am sorry if we disturbed you. My son is a son of the law now. This is his first visit to the temple.”

I smiled and addressed the boy. “Then you are bar mitzvah.”

The boy nodded, “Yes, I am a son of the law.”

“What is your name?”

“Daniel.”

“I am Joshua. Have you come to make a sacrifice?”

“Yes. This is my first time.” Daniel indicated a lamb that was tied to his wrist with a cord. “I raised him from a newborn.”

“I can only imagine that your sacrifice will be very difficult for you,” I said, the image of Amit flashing through my mind.

The boy nodded and looked to his father anxiously. The father put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder and turned to me. He introduced himself. “I am Rafael. We have come from Jericho for Passover.”

“You have come before the rush?” I asked.

“Yes, and to visit family here in Jerusalem.”

“I live in Beit Sahour,” I said.

“A shepherd.”

“Yes.” I looked at Daniel then back to his father and said, “You have taught your son well.” Rafael thanked me and I turned to Daniel and asked, “What will you do when you make your sacrifice?”

“One must confess his sins before proceeding,” he said, as if reading from the Talmud.

“That is right,” I affirmed. “But I doubt that you have committed any grievous transgression.”

“He is very obedient,” his father said proudly. At that moment, considering the prayer that I needed to offer, I recalled every sin, however minute, as it passed before my mind’s eye. Suddenly, I felt a great desire to confess every misstep that I had ever taken. I felt the heavy burden of careless actions, things left undone, and I hoped that God would be merciful and overlook them.

I said to Daniel, “Do you see the people as they bring their animals to the priests to be sacrificed?” Daniel nodded. “They lay their hands on the head of the sacrificial animal with their whole force. They are transferring their identity and offences to the substitute. Do you know why?”

The boy answered, “They sacrifice the animal to represent the death of their old way of life.” I felt a pang of conscience at Daniel’s answer.

Rafael seemed pleased with his son’s answer. He asked Daniel, “And having paid such a price, would you ever return to your old way?”

Daniel knelt beside his lamb and held him. “No, I could not.”

We watched the people render their sacrificed animals. They would return to their homes and eat everything, nothing wasted, to represent internalizing their new sinless way of life. Observing the scene, Daniel said, “It is ‘an atonement for your souls,’” quoting Moses, who had explained the necessity of sacrifice. At that moment, I yearned to become “at one” with God. I knew that only a full partnership with the God of heaven could produce the miracle that I sought at His hands for Miriam.

“Will you excuse me?” I said, indicating my prayer shawl, “I have come to pray.”

“You have no lamb?” asked Daniel.

His father shushed him and began to apologize.

“It’s all right,” I said. Then to Daniel, “I did have a lamb, but—” I hesitated, an explanation would take much too much time. “—this time my heart will have to do.” Daniel grew serious, apparently pondering my words. I turned to his father and said, “I really must be going.”

As I turned to leave, Daniel said, “‘To obey is better than sacrifice.’”

I stopped short.

The boy continued, “Those are the words of the prophet.” He quoted another verse: “‘The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart.’”

I bent toward him. “What are you saying?”

He looked at me then, as though he suddenly understood the weight of my burden. He said, “God will surely accept your sacrifice. I am certain that He will bless you today.”

I embraced him and began to weep. His father said, “Daniel is a good and truthful boy.”

As I held Daniel, I said, “Thank you, Daniel. Thank you for your blessing.” Mere moments ago we had met as strangers; we became friends; now we were departing as brothers.

I moved to a more secluded place, placed the prayer shawl upon my head, and prepared again to pray. I pictured Miriam the last time I had seen her. I had held her hand as she fought for her life, a dead child in her womb. I had brushed back the damp hair from her face, wishing that I could convey to her the deep feelings in my heart. If love were the salve of healing, I could have healed her at that moment. Looking into her exhausted eyes, I had feared that I would lose her, and if that happened, I didn’t know what I would do. I couldn’t imagine life without her. When she squeezed my hand and sent me on this journey of faith, she looked at me pleadingly, and said, “I believe in you, Joshua. I believe that you can ask God and he will hear you. God will bless us today.”

I felt my inadequacy keenly, and once more I began to weep, turning my face from any curious onlooker. I knew myself. I was neither strong nor composed of superior faith. I had no special dispensation with God to gain his ear and his grace. I was only a poor shepherd. Beyond my immediate family and the few people who lived in my little village, no one would ever know my story. Why should the great God of the universe stoop to pay any mind to someone as flawed and as weak as I?

I dried my eyes, and, gazing up at the House of the Lord, I drew in a deep breath and spoke: “O God, I have no lamb; I have no dove. I stand before thee empty-handed. All I have to offer thee for Miriam’s life is my heart, and it is broken. I pray that thou will overlook my weakness and save my wife because of her faith. O God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, I beg thee to likewise spare my wife as thou saved Isaac at the point of death. O God of Moses, I beseech thee to likewise deliver Miriam, as thou delivered the children of Israel. O God of Daniel, I implore thee to likewise rescue my wife from death, whose mouth gapes as wide as a lion’s to devour her. O God of my father, Levi, whom thou has always loved and supported, bless too my sweet Miriam with thy healing love.”

I could think of nothing else to say. I grieved that I had neither the faith of my father nor of Miriam. Surely my prayer had been too weak to surmount the skies and penetrate the realms of heaven and persuade God to intervene. I was not a man of eloquent speech; I did not know how to pray with better language. Now my wife’s life was seeping from her like ice melting in the warmth of morning, and the only thing that stood between her and the grave was my poor prayer.

I departed the temple feeling unsure and woefully inadequate. Questions invaded my mind: Did I really know God well enough to petition Him? Did He really have ears to hear my cry? If He had heard me, was Miriam’s condition too hard for Him? And finally, did He love me enough to help?

I exited the city with these questions following me like a shadow. Evening was giving way to night now. To cut time and to avoid the crush of travelers flowing into Jerusalem from Bethlehem, I chose to take my chances by traveling overland through the rough terrain that separated me from Shepherds Field and Beit Sahour. When the sun had fully set and the horizon had migrated from the color of milk to black, a feeling of apprehension settled upon me. I encountered no living thing in this wilderness. I had never felt so utterly alone. The darkness enveloped me with a feeling of dread; it was as silent as an arrow flying toward my heart.

I lit a torch and prayed that I might find my way home and that Miriam would still be alive. That was all that I dared hope for. I had no path to follow, but I knew the way. I hurried over stones and crags, the toes of my feet bloody from the jagged rocks and the jabbing brush. My legs and lungs began to burn. Most of the day I had either been walking or running, and now my legs were betraying me. That I had not eaten today did not help. My energy waned. Only focusing on Miriam provided me strength to continue.

As I hurried, I recalled Simeon asking me if I had noticed a new star in the east. I afforded myself a brief luxury by glancing heavenward, but the glow from my torch obscured the view. If the star was up there, tonight would have been a good night to see it, I thought. The sky was unusually clear. Nevertheless, I doubted the old man. I imagined that his ability to prophesy was as potent as my ability to pray and receive an answer. On other nights, tending the flock, I had enjoyed gazing at the stars. I had seen wondrous sights—stars shooting across the sky, and the sun and moon disappearing in each other’s shadows.

I had been taught miraculous stories of the earth standing still or retreating at prophets’ commands, but I had never known the universe to spawn a new orb. As everyone knew, the foundational lights in the heavens were static. They had to be. We measured time and seasons by them. We counted on their constant predictability. Any disruption in heavenly movements and formations would have profound cosmic significance and turn our world on end. Such a breach of the normal order would surely mean the judgment of God was upon us, the implications of which I could not imagine.

I arrived at the meadow near Beit Sahour winded and weak. I could see the area easily now. The moon had finally risen, large and yellow, aiding me on the final leg of my journey. I found the sheep safely folded for the night. My fellow shepherds had herded them into the mouth of a cave and sealed the entrance with a barrier of stones and thorny bushes to keep the sheep in and the predators out. My father was standing sentinel at the entrance of the sheepfold. When he recognized me, he dropped his staff and rushed toward me. “Joshua!” he shouted. The other shepherds heard his cry, abandoned their occupations, and hurried in my direction. My father embraced me and said, “I have worried about you.”

“I am fine,” I said. Grasping his arms, I ventured, “Have you received any news from home?”

He hesitated.

“Father?”

He shook his head slowly. “It is not good.”

I felt my body begin to fail. Two shepherds stepped forward to steady me. I said to my father, “You don’t mean—?”

“Sit down, Joshua.”

My father tried to steer me towards a large rock, but I collapsed on the ground and began to sob. I doubled over and drew my hands in close. My mind scrambled for meaning. My father knelt beside me and held me. Finally, when I could speak, I asked, “Are you saying that Miriam is dead?”

“We don’t know . . . we think so.” His speech was soft and laced with emotion. It was then that I noticed Ephraim, the eight-year-old son of Reuben. The small boy approached tentatively. My father put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “It’s all right, Ephraim. Tell Joshua what Leah said.”

A shy boy, Ephraim hesitated to respond. Reuben knelt beside his son to encourage him. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Tell Joshua what you saw and heard.” Ephraim shook his head and buried it in his father’s shoulder. Reuben looked up at me sadly and then spoke for the boy. “Miriam took a bad turn, Joshua. We think she may be gone by now.”

Tears spilled down my face. I looked at my father for verification, and he nodded. I searched the shepherds’ faces and found all of them weeping. I pulled Ephraim into my arms. Tears were streaming down his cheeks like rivers. He wrapped his arms around my neck and his little body shook. I whispered, “Tell me what happened, Ephraim.”

With a faint voice, he said, “I went to your home with my mother. She and the women were helping Miriam. Suddenly, they began to cry. Some of the women were screaming. Leah told me to run . . . run to the shepherds and find you. . . .” Ephraim choked on his words and could not continue.

“Did you see—?” As much as I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to ask the question. I drew a deep breath and tried again. “Did you see Miriam . . . die?” The little boy clung to my neck and cried. “It’s all right,” I urged him. “You can tell me.”

After a long moment, he uttered a weak, “There was so much blood.”

I stood then and began to sob. My father tried to comfort me, but I was unwilling to be consoled. “You should go home, Joshua,” he said.

“Go home? Go home to what?” I removed the turban from my head and threw it upon the ground, as if the turban were my faith. I collapsed to my knees and ripped my tunic from the neck to the waist. Taking a handful of earth I poured it upon my head, wailing as if I had been cast into the bowels of hell. All the shepherds, including my father, began to weep bitterly. I threw back my head and howled.

Then I stood and forsook the company, sprinting toward the hillside overlooking the meadow below. I climbed, weeping, my chest heaving, clawing my way to the top. Arriving at the summit, I threw myself prostrate onto the ground, only then realizing I was beside my father’s Ebenezer.

I wanted to accuse God. How could He abandon me? How could He take from me she who was most precious to me? Where was the loving, compassionate, all-knowing, all-powerful Being whom Israel claimed to be the one true God? Something inside of me wanted to strike back at Him, and yet some unseen thing tethered me to Him as if to draw me closer. I breathed hard and wept, momentarily disconnected as though I were an observer watching the two forces within me struggle for prominence. Exhausted, I rolled onto my back, wiped my eyes, and stared up at the swath of stars, which looked as though someone had spilled gems onto the floor of heaven.

My life with Miriam began to play out before my eyes. I pictured our childhood, our betrothal, and our marriage. Oh, how I had loved this woman! We had grown up together in marriage. I envisioned our joy and hope at the news of her first pregnancy, and I remembered our bitter disappointment when the baby within her had died. I saw the scene play out yet again, when once again she conceived and lost the child. Through it all, Miriam and I had grown closer; as close, I imagined, as any two people could. Our hearts beat as one. I could not draw a breath without sensing that she breathed with me in rhythm. Three times daily, as was the custom, I had knelt before God to pray, and the first words out of my mouth had always been words of gratitude for His blessing me with Miriam. Would God take her from me? Had He already? Could I go on?

Lying beside my father’s Ebenezer, I remembered his experience here on the day of my birth, when he had lost my mother. After he completed this monument, he had planted his feet firmly upon the ground and shouted out his allegiance to God. Now, here I was in a similar situation. Earlier today, my father had asked me if I, too, could declare my allegiance if the worst were to happen. I could not answer him then, an admission that had shamed me. But now the moment had arrived. I asked myself if I was willing to shrink and make a mockery of my faith. Was I willing to cast aside the foundation of my beliefs and declare the substance of my life a lie?

I thought of the prophets and their difficult lives. They were considered great men of God because they had endured extraordinary abuse and privation while maintaining their integrity. It was the depth of their suffering and the breadth of their devotion that made their teachings valid. I realized that if I were ever to become a man of God, like my father, and if I were to become comfortable in the company of prophets, I, too, had to press through my adversity and be willing to cry my allegiance to my God.

I stood upon my feet with purpose. Summoning courage, I began to survey my father’s Ebenezer—his “stone of help.” Every rock that comprised his monument was a declaration of his faith and trust in God. What’s more, each stone was an affirmation of his love for the Lord. What had he told me earlier? “This is the place where God helped me that day.”

I knew what I must do. Pushing through the profound sorrow that I felt for the loss of my wife, I thrust my hand into the earth, and with great determination pried loose a large stone until it yielded and broke free. I hefted it to my chest, pressed it high over my head, and set it squarely on the top of the Ebenezer. Standing back, I raised both arms toward heaven, and cried out, “I will never leave thee! I will ever trust thee! Nothing could cause me to forsake thee, my God!”

Abruptly, I felt the earth move beneath me, as though it had suddenly become liquid. I steadied myself with a hand on the monument, while something akin to a tremor reverberated through the air. It hit me as hard as if it had been the blast of a trumpet, but I heard no sound. Then, as unexpectedly as the quake had occurred, everything became absolutely still, as completely silent as one might experience deep in the belly of a cave. Nothing moved. No breeze, no far-off sound of sheep bleating, no noise of crickets or other nightlife. Nothing. I was only aware of the rapid beating of my heart. I did not move; I did not breathe.

As though it had been a spectacular strike of lightning, a blinding light burst forth from heaven and flooded Shepherds Field. Instantly everything became brighter than midday. The light pierced the darkness of night like the first dazzling rays of morning, immediately eclipsing the light of the moon and the stars. It was unlike any other light that I had experienced. The light struck me with such force that I found myself lying on my back staring heavenward, unable to move, my strength having fled.

The light felt amazingly tangible; it entered my body with the same sensation as coming in from the cold and downing a warm drink. The light seemed to seep into every fiber of my soul until my entire body was warmed and enlightened by it.

The light dispelled every particle of darkness in my being, and its warmth seemed to cleanse me; its presence seemed to wash away impurities, and its brightness burned out every doubt. If love were a substance, then this light was love, for it filled me with the most profound assurance of celestial affection and enveloped me as with a holy embrace.

As I gazed into the light, I beheld a glorious being standing above me—an angel from the presence of God. His countenance was brilliant. If it were possible, his body appeared brighter than the light that surrounded him. In fact, I could see that he was his own source of light; it radiated from him as though he were the sun. Nevertheless, his brilliance surpassed that of the sun, which in comparison would have appeared as a dim planet. Somehow I became aware that every particle of his body was vividly alive in a way that it could perceive and communicate truth.

He was dressed in a robe of the most exquisite whiteness, a golden sash girded around the middle and tied on the side. His dress could have been that of a priest, except that his head was bare, as were his feet and hands. He had a white beard the color of crystalline snow in the blazing sun, and his equally white hair flowed down over his shoulders in waves. His skin was not flesh-colored, but radiant white and as clear as amber, almost transparent, and his eyes were as a flame of fire. In every way, the angel was a being of glorious light, as splendid a specimen of manhood as I could ever have imagined.

My first reaction was fear; not frightened fear, but holy fear, a profound sensation of reverence, awe, and respect. The angel gently bent toward me and gestured with his hand, as would a friend. “Fear not,” he said, and when he did so, a thrill of hope shot through my body like lightning. His voice was mild and harmless, yet it was commanding. Although it was soft, it trumpeted a message of grand import. His words issued from his mouth like the sound of rushing water, making my voice sound coarse, weak, and primitive in comparison.

Though the angel spoke in my language, I perceived his communication more in my mind, and that caused me to struggle to attune my ears to his message. I was suddenly impressed with divine proximity; God was near. The feeling carried with it complete awareness, concern, and, remarkably, familiarity. I could not remember feeling so safe or so well known. I sensed that nothing could happen to me that heaven could not repair, that all would be well, no matter what happened.

As I gazed into the light surrounding this holy being, the thought struck me that I was perceiving glory—the visible manifestation of divine presence, the ancient glory of the Lord that had always signaled his nearness. It was the Shekinah, the brilliant pillar of light that had rested upon the Holy of Holies in the Tabernacle as our fathers had sojourned in the wilderness, following Moses to the promised land. This glory of the Lord had departed Israel hundreds of years before in the days of Ezekiel because of wickedness, and ever since the people had mourned its loss. But now, tonight, the ancient glory had returned, signaling the fact that the light of God was once again coming to the earth.

I became suddenly aware that this glorious light was sustaining me in a manner that allowed me to behold the angel and endure his presence. Amazingly, as the light filled and washed over my body, I felt enlightened, and somehow I knew more. Principles that had evaded me now seemed clear, and questions that had haunted me now vanished. My mind was fully open; the light poured into it without resistance or restriction, filling me with intelligence and truth. Moreover, each of my senses was heightened and on fire: I could see more, hear more, smell more, feel more, and understand and love more.

By the act of merely speaking, the angel’s presence seemed to search me, and I was suddenly aware of every misdeed that I had ever committed that had distanced me from my God. Now more than ever, I yearned for reconciliation, and I had no desire to do or think evil. I only wanted to bask in this love and remain in the divine presence forever. No price seemed too great to pay.

At the angel’s first words, I recognized that I was about to hear something singular. I glanced down upon the meadow below and noted that my father and the other shepherds were experiencing this same vision. When I turned back to behold the angel, he continued with his message: “Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”

Could it be? The promised Savior, the Messiah, had been born today in Bethlehem? Since the world began, all the prophets had foretold this event, and now it had happened? But why tell us? We were but lowly shepherds, the poorest of society, a hiss and a byword among the people. Why not proclaim the news to the leaders of the venerable Sanhedrin? Why not tell them that the promise of the ages, the glory of Israel, had finally come to all people! Why not proclaim the news in the courts of emperors? The King of kings is born today!

Then the angel said, “And this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”

My astonishment could not be contained. Lying in a manger? Where livestock feed?

Just as I was trying to comprehend the irony of the King of kings having been born in the low condition of a stable and lying now in a harsh manger, the heavens exploded with myriad angels, who filled the sky from horizon to horizon, as deep and as wide as I could see. Their numbers eclipsed the multitude of visible stars on a clear night. It was as though every inhabitant of the celestial realm could not be restrained from bursting through the veil of heaven to shout the greatest news that had ever been revealed to men on earth.

The angels’ voices rang from one end of heaven to the other—a magnificent chorus, perfectly blended as if they were one voice, praising God for His goodness, mercy, and grace. Some angels blew trumpets; others played harps, pipes, timbrels, psalteries, and cymbals. The angels shouted the prophecies of the Savior’s birth, His coming mission, and His eventual triumph over death and sin. They sang of His love and power and glory. They rejoiced that men could now be reconciled with God, and that every knee would one day bow and every tongue confess that this child was indeed the promised Christ, that He alone had power to wipe away all tears and heal and help, and that He would humble the proud and exalt the poor and purify His people as if with fire.

As I gazed awestruck at the celestial scene, I again marveled that we poor shepherds should be so privileged. I was astonished that above us in the heavens, angelic men and women, the hosts of heaven, could not be held back. They had burst from their realms of glory to proclaim this astounding event, and for some unapparent reason, God had chosen us to receive the news.

With a grand crescendo, the angels united their voices in a magnificent finale: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!” Their song seared itself into my mind. The melody was uncharacteristic of Hebrew harmony; neither did I believe that it could issue from man’s genius. The music was wholly unique and celestial in quality, and it carried a message that I would never forget.