Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt

Now he was a very old man and I had not really looked at him before because I was too afraid to do it in the synagogue. But he was the teacher here.

Joseph said,

“These are our sons to be taught, Rabbi. What is it that we can do for you?”

He offered the Rabbi a purse with his hand folded over it, but the Rabbi didn’t take it.

When I saw this, I felt sick.

Never had I seen a man refuse a purse. I looked up and saw that the old man was looking directly at me. And at once I looked down. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t remember a single word that my mother had said to me that night in Jerusalem. I could remember only her face, and the way that she’d whispered to me. And the way Cleopas had looked on his sickbed there, when he’d spoken and we all thought he was going to die.

This old man had hair and beard that were pure white. I could see even as I stared at the hem of his robes that they were fine wool with their tassels sewn with the proper blue thread.

Now he spoke in a soft and gentle voice.

“Yes, Joseph,” he said. “James and Silas and Levi, I know, but Jesus bar Joseph?”

Not a word came from the men behind me.

“Rabbi, you saw my son on the Sabbath,” said Joseph. “You know that he’s my son.”

I didn’t have to look up at Joseph to know that he was not himself.

I gathered all my strength. I looked at the old man. The old man looked at Joseph.

I started to cry without making a sound. I couldn’t help it. No matter how steady my eyes were, the tears came. I swallowed hard and quiet.

The old man said nothing. No one said a word.

Then Joseph spoke as if he was saying a prayer:

“Jesus bar Joseph bar Jacob bar Matthan bar Eleazar bar Eliud of the Tribe of David who came to Nazareth with a grant for land from the King to settle Galilee of the Gentiles. And son of Mary daughter of A

I closed my eyes and opened them. The Rabbi looked pleased and gentle and when he saw my eyes on him, he even smiled. Then he looked back to Joseph, above me.

“There’s no one here who doesn’t remember your betrothal,” he said. “And there are other things which everyone remembers. Surely you understand.”

Again there was a silence.

“I remember,” said the Rabbi, his voice just as gentle as before, “the morning that your young betrothed came out of the house and made a cry in the village—.”

“Rabbi, these are little children,” said Joseph. “Is it not for the fathers of the children to tell them these things in time?”

“The fathers?” asked the Rabbi.

“I am the child’s father by the Law,” said Joseph.

“But where were you married to your betrothed and where was your son born?”

“In Judea.”

“What city of Judea?”

“Close to Jerusalem.”

“But not in Jerusalem?”

“Married in Bethany,” said Joseph, “at the home of my wife’s kinsmen there, priests of the Temple, her cousin Elizabeth and Elizabeth’s husband Zechariah.”

“Ah, yes, and there the child was born?”

Joseph didn’t want to say it. But why?

“No,” he said. “Not there.”

“Then where?”

“In Bethlehem of Judea,” he said at last.

The Rabbi stopped and looked to one side and the other, and the heads of those two Rabbis beside him turned towards him. But nothing was said.

“Bethlehem,” said the Old Rabbi. “The city of David.”

Joseph didn’t answer.

“Why did you leave Nazareth and go there,” asked the Rabbi, “when the parents of your bride, Joachim and A

“Because of the census,” Joseph answered. “I had to go. I had still a piece of land left to me there in Bethlehem, to which our people returned after the Exile, and I had to claim that land or lose it. I went to register where my ancestors were born.”

“Hmmm…” said the Rabbi. “And you claimed it.”

“Yes. Claimed it and sold it. And the child was circumcised and his name was inscribed in the records of the Temple, as I’ve said, and such as they are.”

“Such as they are, indeed,” said the Rabbi, “until another King of the Jews chooses to burn them to hide his heritage.”

At that the other men laughed softly and nodded, and some of the older boys in the room laughed and I saw them for the first time.

I didn’t know what it meant. It seemed the bad doings of Old Herod, of which there were no end.

“And after that you went on to Egypt,” said the Rabbi.

“We worked in Alexandria, my brothers, and my wife’s brother and I,” said Joseph.

“And you, Cleopas, you left your mother and father and took your sister to Bethany?”

“Our mother and father had servants,” said Cleopas. “And Old Sarah daughter of Elias was with them, and Old Justus was not infirm.”

“Ah, so I remember,” said the Rabbi, “and you are so right. But how your parents wept for their son and their daughter.”

“And we wept for them,” said Cleopas.

“And you married an Egyptian woman.”

“A Jewish woman,” said Cleopas, “born and raised in the Jewish community in Alexandria. And of a good family who has sent you this.”

Here came a surprise.

He stretched out his hand with two small scrolls in it, both of them in fine cases with bronze trimming on them.

“What is this?” asked the Old Rabbi.

“You’re afraid to touch them, Rabbi?” asked Cleopas as he held out the gift. “Two short treatises from Philo of Alexandria, a scholar, a philosopher if you will, much admired by the Rabbis of Alexandria, and these purchased from published books in the market, and brought to you as a gift?”

The Rabbi stretched out his hand.

I took a deep breath as he took the scrolls.

I hadn’t known my uncle had such scrolls. Philo’s writings. I hadn’t dreamt of such a thing. And to see the Rabbi receive them made me feel so glad that the tears came again but I was as quiet as before.

“And how many gray hairs has Philo of Alexandria?” asked the Rabbi.

Everyone laughed at that in their secret way.

But I was much better because they were not talking about me.

“If he had you for an accuser, he’d have gray hairs aplenty!” Cleopas said.

I heard Joseph rebuking him in a whisper, but the boys were laughing, and a great bright smile spread over the Rabbi’s face.

Cleopas couldn’t stop himself.

“We should take up a collection,” he said, gesturing to the whole room, “and send the Rabbi to Alexandria. They are in dire need of Pharisees to straighten them out.”

More laughter.

The old Rabbi laughed. Then the other two Rabbis laughed. They all laughed.

“I thank you for your gift,” said the Old Rabbi. “Nothing’s changed with you. And now that you are here, skilled craftsmen that you are, all of you, you can see there is work to be done in this synagogue, which the old carpenter, may God rest him, was unable to do while you were gone.”

“I do see it,” said Joseph, “and we are your servants, and will repair everything as you wish. A fresh coat of paint for this place, and lintels, that much I can see is needed, and we’ll plaster the outside and see to the benches as you allow.”

Silence.

I looked up. The three old men were again looking at me.

Why? What more could be asked? What more could be said? I felt my face on fire again. I blushed but I didn’t know for what I was blushing. I blushed for all the eyes turned to me. The tears were wet on my face.

“Look at me, Jesus bar Joseph,” said the Rabbi.