Free Rebekah's Treasure by Sylvia Bambola Page B

important to others as well. Zechariah was certainly moved after I told him about it and he examined it. And when he saw the
tav
carved in its bottom, he told me how some rabbis believe that the Israelites applied the lambs’ blood on the doorposts and lintels of their homes in Goshen in the form of a
tav
, as a cross. And this, according to Zechariah, foretold of the three crosses at Golgotha; foretold of the sacrifice of our Lord between two thieves.
    “Everyone will be here soon,” Zechariah says, standing near the gate of the sheep pen. “It’s not Solomon’s Porch,” he adds, with a twinkle in his eye, referring to the place that the followers of The Way favored when meeting in Jerusalem’s Temple. “But it’s holy ground, nevertheless.”
    We cluster in his courtyard, the late-morning sun beating on our heads. Clucking hens peck the dirt around my feet, and nearby a donkey brays as one by one the believers trickle in. They wear their poverty as well as their troubles, and appear strained, tired and worried. No one talks about it, but everyone knows there’ll be a shortage of wheat because of the recent firing of the fields. And that means nothing to barter with in the Gentile shops.
    Zechariah greets everyone by name. I’ve never known a man so jovial. Oh, how he hugs and kisses the brethren, each in turn! His love, like the seeds in a pomegranate, seems endless.
    We unfurl our rush mats and place them on the ground, then take our seat. One by one we begin to pray. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the strain on faces eases; a faint glimmer of hope returns to troubled eyes. After all, didn’t the Master promise He would never leave us or forsake us? We have not been abandoned. We have not been forsaken. We are remembering that we’re not alone. One by one, prayers of petition become prayers of thanksgiving. Some prayers turn into songs. And though our words are different, we are one voice; one sweet and lilting voice that floats to heaven and fills the air with a fragrance like incense.
We are remembering
. Slowly, slowly, slowly, a faint smile appears on first one face, then another. How long we sing and pray, I cannot say, because time has stopped for me, and so has all my straining and striving, and yes, my worrying, too.
    We’re still uttering praises when two men carrying a litter and, with it, a foul odor, join our assembly. I know that smell. I’ve come to know it these past four years of rebel infighting in Jerusalem. It’s the smell of a gangrenous body. The praying and singing stop as whispers ripple through the crowd, “Simon. It’s Simon the bottlemaker!” People begin standing to get a better look.
    What a sad sight he is! I’m on my feet, too, and can see him over the heads of those in front of me if I stand on tiptoes. His arms are black and covered with oozing sores. His eyes are closed and his face, the color of wax. He looks more dead than alive. His presence has caused my spirit to plummet. Just one glance and I have tumbled from the mountain top into the valley. We are all tumbling. I can see it on everyone’s face. I think we would have all gone home right then and there, carrying our heavy hearts like the men carrying the litter, if Zechariah had not stepped forward and opened the codex in his hand—the writings of John the Apostle.
    His voice is like thunder. “‘
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God .
. . .’”
    I close my eyes and listen. The words are like falling dew. Oh, how parched I am! We’re all parched—made waste, like our land, by the Romans. There’s not one among us who has not felt Rome’s heavy hand. But it’s the
beginning
we must remember. We must return there, to God, to the beginning.
    I tilt back my head and without fully understanding why, open my mouth as though trying to catch the precious drops.
    “‘. . .
In him was life; and the life was the light of men
. . .’”
    Oh, the words, how they comfort! I stand