out of chaos, life is being found

He gritted his teeth, willing his eyes not to betray his hatred of the man in front of him, the man who took his sister, ruined her, and now dared look her brothers in the eyes and ask for her hand. A single glance at his closest brother, and he knew exactly what to do. He stilled his quivering muscles, stuffed down the fury and smiled, spoke his own oily words.

Yes, of course you may have her. Only fulfill these conditions.

Three days later, he took his brother and a sword and slipped into the city. The air was heavy with sweat and the stillness of agonized healing. There was no need to be quiet once they were past the gates; there was no one capable of fighting back. He gripped his sword, squinted his eyes, and kicked down doors, facing incapacitated men and terrified women and children. He shattered homes and hacked and maimed and slaughtered. He destroyed human life with a rage known only to the wronged. He snatched his sister from the rapist's arms and slit his cowardly throat. As he watched the man's blood seep onto the ground by his feet, he felt a terrible satisfaction.

I have avenged my sister and restored my family's honor.

But no.

"You are a disgrace!" his father shouted. "You and your brother have brought shame and terror to the household! What have you done to me?"

And the shame was repeated in his father's dying words, like the thudding of a weary heart.

You are a violent impulsive man, one who is untrustworthy and unpredictable. Curses on you! You will never have a place to call your home.

~*~

He gritted his teeth, willing his eyes not to betray his disgust at the chaos surrounding him, his own brothers and sisters who ran rampant days after being freed from slavery, who spit in the face of their God. A single glance at the prophet, and he knew exactly what to do. He stilled his quivering muscles, stuffed down the fury and clenched his hand by his sides, listened to the horror of the order.

If you believe the LORD, slaughter them all, the very ones you love.

The air was woven with lust and the wailing of immorality. There was no need to be quiet; there was no one ignorant of the violence of the day. He gripped his sword, set his jaw, and entered the fray, facing his own brothers and neighbors and friends. He stood firm and swung with strength and drew blood and slaughtered. He destroyed human life, those lives so precious to him, with a rage known only to the warrior of God. He snatched his nation from the false lover's arms and bled away the shame. As he watched the idol burn into powdery dust, he felt a terrible satisfaction.

I have avenged my God, and restored the LORD's honor.

And it was so.

"You are holy to the LORD," the prophet whispered. "You and your brothers brought peace and healing to the nation. What can He do but bless you?"

And the honor was repeated in the prophet's dying words, like the skirling of a battle cry.

You are a strong warrior, one who is reliable and fierce. Blessings on you! The LORD Himself will give you posterity and stand against your enemies. The LORD sets you now in the place of honor, as mediator between Himself and His people.

So the LORD chooses who He will,
the most unpredictable, the most untrustworthy, the most impulsive of violent men;
and He makes them priests and prophets and healers.

Amen.

[Genesis 34, Genesis 49:5-7; Exodus 32, Deuteronomy 33:8-11]

Levi

            The room was hushed as the messenger rose and strode to the front of the room.  Pausing for a moment to glance toward the door, he reached into his robe and pulled out a parchment scroll— dusty, travel-stained, yet precious.  He balanced it in his fingertips as he glanced around the room, a smile playing around his lips.  Opening the scroll, he cleared his throat and began reading in his deep, rolling voice.
            “The beginning of the gospel of Yeshua ha’Mashiach, the Son of God . . .”[1]

            Levi was miserable.
            And hot.  He was very, very hot.
            As the sun beat upon his back, Levi sat, head bowed over his table, and tried not to think about the state of his life.  Deep in his heart, he mourned over the many sins he had committed.  When the Baptizer was at the Jordan, many of his friends had gone down to the river to repent and be cleansed, and Levi had almost gone with them.  But somehow, much as he told himself that was what he wanted, he could never make himself join them.  He saw the way their lives had changed— how they no longer overcharged taxes to make a profit for themselves, how they lost their wealth and popularity, how their favor with the Romans plummeted.  Once they had lost their greedy edge, they were nearly useless as employees, and were often replaced.  Slowly, these repentant men lapsed into their old way of life— lying and cheating and stealing, just to get ahead— or lived their new lives and faded out of memory.
            Being forgotten— that was exactly what Levi feared.
            Though he wanted more than the life he had—a life defined by amounts and numbers and records— he saw no way out.  To turn his back on Rome meant losing all he’d accumulated, and any chance at any future employment.  He had nowhere else to turn; he had burnt all his bridges with his family, his people, even his synagogue.  His only friends were other tax collectors, and if he left their ranks, he would be viewed by them with high suspicion.
            There was nowhere to go.
            There was nothing else to be.
            Levi slumped in his seat, feeling the hopelessness wash over him.  A shadow fell over his table, and he glanced up, squinting and shading his eyes with his hand.
            It was a man standing there, gazing down at Levi.  He said nothing, at first.  Levi looked back at the man.  He was a holy man, wearing the tassels; a working man, with calloused large hands and strong arms; a kind man, marked by compassionate twinkling eyes—and as He looked at Levi, really looked, He opened His mouth and spoke to Levi as if to someone worth the breath—the first time in years that any good Jewish man had deigned to do so.
            What else could Levi do, but obey the words He said?

            “. . . and as He passed by, He saw Levi, the son of Alphaeus sitting at the tax booth, and He said to him, ‘Follow Me.’”[2]
            Out of the corner of his eye, Levi glimpsed a sudden movement.  He turned his head to find a small girl staring at him from where she sat, wedged between two of her brothers.  As Levi met her gaze, she blinked hard, then glanced at the reader.  Looking back at Levi, she furrowed her small brow, her mouth moving as she puzzled over this information.  Stifling a laugh, he smiled at her and nodded, pointing a finger at his own chest.  The girl’s eyes and mouth opened wide, then she grinned.  Turning her face toward the reader, she focused all her attention on his words.  Her small hands clenched in her lap, and Levi smiled again.  He could almost read the burning thought running through her mind.
            This is a true story.

Levi froze at the man’s angry voice, unsure of what he should do.
            “Tax collector,” the scribe sneered, the phylactery on his forehead bobbing with each jerk of his head.  “Sinner!  That’s all you’ll ever be, and yet this rabbi sits and dines at your table?”  The man shook his head in disapproval, waggling his finger in the other’s face.  Levi flushed brilliant red and spat on the ground at the man’s feet.
            “Get yourself off my property,” he growled.  “Before I beat you within an inch of your life.”  Surprised, the scribe fell back a step, toward the others huddled behind him like a flock of vultures, but Levi followed, crowding into the man’s face.  “You have no business here,” he continued.  “Any of you!  I certainly did not invite you, you arrogant, self-righteous—”
            “But why?” the man hissed, his pride and irritation overcoming his uncertainty.  “Why is He eating and drinking with tax collectors and sinners?”[3]  Levi opened his mouth to speak when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
            “What is going on here?” a voice demanded.  Whirling, Levi felt the blood drain from his face, shame coursing through his body at what he had been about to do, about to say.
            Yeshua.
            There stood the carptenter-man, the rabbi, His stance relaxed, but His eyes stormy.  He gave Levi a tight smile, then turned the fury of His gaze upon the group of religious men crowding the doorway.
            “I heard your question,” Yeshua continued, stepping past Levi to confront the Pharisees’ scribes.  His hands fell to His sides.  “You asked why I choose to associate myself with ‘sinners.’”  A deep, rolling laugh sounded from behind the religious men, and a young Jewish man, dressed in Roman robes, pushed his way through the other men.
            “Associating with sinners?  A rabbi?”  The man laughed again, his wide grin nearly hiding the birthmark on his left cheek.  “You have come to the right place, then, Rabbi,” he said, giving an exaggerated bow.  “Because Levi is the worst of us all.”  Levi flushed again, but this time with guilt.  Yeshua glanced at Levi as the other man plunged on.  “Oh, yes, brother Levi— we can always count on him for a good time.  He knows just the right places to get wine, food, women—”
            “Stop!”  Shocked, Levi realized it was his own voice that had shouted.  He felt the eyes of everyone present staring at him, but he ignored them and flung himself to the ground.  “It’s true, Rabbi,” he cried, pounding his fists in the dusty earth, tears coursing down his face.  “What he says is true.  I— I— I’m not worthy to have You in my house.  I’m not worthy to follow You!  I’m not even worthy to speak the name of the LORD!”  Levi buried his face in his hands and wept.
            For a few moments, the courtyard was silent except for Levi’s sobs.  Then Yeshua flung Himself to His knees at Levi’s side, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.
            “Levi,” He said.  “Levi!”
            “Yes, Rabbi?” Levi choked.
            “Listen to what I say, Levi.”  Yeshua raised His head and met the eyes of the scribes’ spokesman, His voice rising in a challenge.   “Here is My answer to your question!”

“. . . Yeshua said to them, ‘It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick.  I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners’”[4]
            The reader paused, his gaze roving the audience.  In his seat, Levi bowed his head and wiped tears from his eyes, thankfulness and awe overwhelming him once again.  As he lifted his face, he met the gaze of the reader.  In a moment, a wide grin split the reader’s face, nearly hiding the birthmark on his left cheek.  Levi returned the grin, knowing that his own thoughts were echoed in the other man’s mind.
 
            This is indeed a true story . . . and thank God we are part of it.

---

[1] Mark 1:1

[2] Mark 2:14

[3] Mark 2:16

[4] Mark 2:17

weary one

            Leah— she must have been a strong woman, a stubborn woman, a determined woman.  Maybe more than Rachel, she was Jacob’s match— clever, devious, quick.  She deceived the deceiver.  Perhaps that is why he didn’t love her; he saw, in her, a mirror of himself . . . and he was repulsed.
            And yet she, more than Rachel, was the mother of the nation of Israel.  She bore, from her own body, six sons and at least one daughter.  Rachel gave Jacob two sons— considering the sons of her maid, four— but Leah’s maid as well bore two sons, which means that Leah still gave Jacob far more children than Rachel did.
            It was Leah’s son who stepped up to replace her disgraced eldest son.  It was Leah’s son who became a man, going against the grain of his family and his culture.  It was Leah’s son who convinced Jacob to allow them to return to Egypt to buy grain to save the family.  It was Leah’s son who stood up to the most powerful man in Egypt in order to save a brother who had made his life miserable— doing this for the sake of his father, not himself.  It was Leah’s son who became the king-tribe.  It was Leah’s son whose line was promised to bring Messiah— the ultimate anointed one.
            Leah began badly.  Maybe she finished her life badly, too.  But no matter what she as a person did . . . she was the mother of Judah . . . the mother of David . . . the mother of Messiah . . . and she was used and chosen by God Himself.
            Maybe that is the beauty of Leah’s story, that God does not always choose the righteous ones, the ones who have everything right.  Maybe, through Leah’s story, God shows us that He chooses dysfunctional, unlovely, hated people; that He moves in strange ways; and that, He redeems our brokenness and mistakes . . . grave though they may be . . .

Promised Land

I live in the land promised to my fathers, but I have not seen the promises fulfilled.

            Lifting my eyes, I lunge off the dusty road to dodge the galloping horses.  As I stand in the field, the sunlight flashes off the armor and swords of the soldiers.  One, two, three of them— they rush by and they are gone.  But they are not gone quickly enough for me to miss the wild dark terrified eyes of the man tied behind one of the soldiers.  Swallowing the bile that rises in my throat, I clamber onto the road and trudge on.
            I have been a slave in my own land since I was born.

Instead of joy, I know fear.

            I have heard the stories from my father, who learned them from his father, who learned them from his father, and so on— stories of our land before it was taken captive, and our people imprisioned with it.  The land was a good land, they say, a land so fertile and rich it spilt milk and honey.  No man knew what it was to starve; no child wandered the streets crying for bread.
            Things were not like they are now.

Instead of fruitfulness, I know desperate need.

            I squint out over my land, shielding my eyes from the blazing midday sun, breathless against the hot wind sweeping against my body.  This land is mine, yes, but it is not mine.  I have never known the luxury of having enough to provide over and above what my family needs.  I have never known the joy of willingly giving what I know the LORD required of me.  Taxes weigh heavily on us; we scrape out a living, praying that we will have bread each day for our children to eat.
            I know we brought this punishment upon ourselves.

Instead of blessing, I know cursing.

            I have read from the prophets, understood the words they spoke against our stubborn hearts and our prideful actions.  Our fathers sinned against the LORD, and we have followed in their footsteps.  Gladly they went to the temples of the land gods, those demons they thought would restore the fertility and joy of their home.  Willingly now we turn to the power of our own hands, our swords and scythes and bows.  As our fathers, we have neglected repentance.  We prefer to find our own way of salvation.

Instead of peace, I know strife.

            Suddenly, I glimpse my little child running toward me.  She laughs as she reaches me, and I sweep her up into my arms, tousling her curls.  I hold her close against my heart and shut my eyes.  Perhaps, though I myself have only known captivity and oppression, things will be different for my daughter.  Perhaps, though the LORD has punished us, He will yet be merciful and rescue us, as He has promised.

Our land is not a home; it is a prison, a wilderness.
Will You return, O LORD?
Deliver us!

Traitor

I hummed to myself, smiling at the little boys racing around my legs, and wove my way through the chattering laughing crowd. A bright fruit stand caught my eye, and I paused, swinging the basket on my arm. I glanced up, trying to decide how much I wanted to spend, and something up near the top of the street caught my glance. It was just one figure, trudging along, but I froze as I recognized him.
            It was Mark.
            I started running, skirting old women and talkative merchants, dodging young mothers balancing babies and baskets on their hips, avoiding unsteady carts and skittish pack mules.
            “Mark!” I screamed, waving my arms. His head snapped up, and he scanned the crowd. “Mark!” I screamed again, snatching off my headscarf and waving it over my head. He saw me then, and he stopped where he was. Not thinking, not pausing, just shocked and overjoyed to see him, I burst out of the crowd, still running, and flung myself at him. Just like old times, he caught me around the waist, but as soon as he touched me, I knew my mistake. He was taller, stronger, bigger than when I’d last seen him. While he’d been gone, he’d become a man, and I, a woman. We were no longer children, and there was no propriety in my actions.
            He spun me around, like he’d always done, then set me down. I stepped back, flushed and embarrassed, and draped my scarf back over my hair.
            “It’s good to see you,” I managed. His eyes flicked to my face for a second, then back down the ground, and I realized he’d not smiled once. Nor was he looking at me; instead, his eyes roved over the buildings, the sky, the market, the ground—anywhere but me. I flushed more deeply. I’ve shamed him, I realized, and I dropped my eyes as well. “I’m sorry if I offended you, sir,” I said, my voice low. Mark made a sound, deep in his throat—either a sob or a gasp, I couldn’t tell—and I glanced up at him.
            “Don’t call me that, Sarah,” he muttered. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he stared out toward the horizon. I felt my temper rise and my patience failed.
            “Why not?” I burst out, my anger flashing through my heart. “You’ve grown up while you’ve been gone! We’re no longer children! I owe you respect, as any woman owes a man respect!”
            I stopped, shocked at my lack of restraint, and covered my mouth with one hand. Shouting at him was something I would have done far in the past. But Mark just laughed, sounding bitter.
            “That’s what you think? Well, let me tell you what I’ve really become. I left them, Sarah—abandoned them when they began to need me most. I did exactly what I did with Jesus, only this time—” He lifted anguished eyes to meet mine. “This time,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t go back.” Again, he stared at the ground, kicking at the dust. “I was more of a man then, as a child, than I am now.” His voice was sad, and I stared at him, silent and devastated. He looked up and smiled at me, his eyes sharp, his lips tight. “Well?” he asked. Slowly, I shook my head.
            “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice quiet. “I’m so sorry, Mark.” Surprise crossed his face, and his shoulders jerked. Then he frowned.
            “Sorry for what, Sarah? Sorry for a traitor?” he snapped. I shook my head again, feeling helpless.
            “No, not that at all.”
            “Then what?” I’d never seen him that impatient, and I wasn’t sure what to do except tell him the truth.
            “I’m sorry you failed like that.” My words were blunt, and I expected him to be furious. Instead, I watched in horror as his face crumpled. He turned away quickly, but I had already glimpsed the tears on his face. “Mark,” I murmured, reaching toward him, but he jerked his arm away.
            “I don’t need your pity.” His strangled voice belied his words, and I bit my tongue. He wiped his eyes, then faced me. “Goodbye, Sarah,” he said, his eyes hard and cold. As he began to walk away, I dropped my basket and grabbed his arm. He stopped, refusing to look at me, but I shook him slightly.
            “Where are you going?”
            “Home.”
            “And you’re staying there?”
            “No.”
            “Mark, your mother will be—”
            “Don’t tell me what she will or won’t be!” His voice was sharp and bitter, and I released his arm. “She’ll be glad, Sarah, when she finds out what I did. She’ll be glad I’m leaving.”
            “You’re leaving the city?” I gasped.
            “Did you think I could stay here after what I’ve done?”
            “Mark—”
            “No.” He faced me again, putting his hands on my shoulders and shaking me. “Don’t say anything else.” For a moment, we stared at each other—I , trying not to cry; he, just staring at me with empty eyes. Then he took his hands off my shoulders and jogged away. I stood still, as if rooted to the ground, trying to gather myself.
            “Mark!” I cried. He didn’t stop. I tried again, louder—“Mark!” Soon he was out of sight in the winding streets, and I was left alone. My mind reeled with what he’d told me, and I tried to decide what to do. Tears blinded me, but I wiped my eyes hard, stooped to pick up my basket, and began running. He’d said he was going home. My only chance was to beat him there and make him stay. He was fast, but I knew strange little alleys and back ways that I knew he’d not think of. My urgency pushed me faster than I’d ever run before, and it was only a few minutes before I burst into Mary’s house.
            “Sarah!” Mary leapt up from the loom, her eyes concerned. “What is it, child?”
            “Mark,” I panted. “Where is Mark?” Mary’s eyes widened, and she took my hand.
            “Mark’s not been home for months, child,” she said in a low voice. “Surely you remember that.”
            “Yes, yes, I know. But I saw him in the market, and—and—”
            “You saw him?” Mary gasped. Before I could open my mouth to answer, there was a knock at the door. I grabbed Mary by the shoulders.
            “Don’t let him leave,” I whispered, my voice fierce. “No matter what he says, make him stay.” Mary stared at me, looking like she thought I was crazy, then went to answer the door. I heard her scream Mark’s name, then burst into tears. I dropped my things in a corner of the room and sat down to wait for them to come in. In a few moments, Mary led Mark into the room, laughing and crying and trying to talk. I met Mark’s eyes and nodded to him.
            “Sarah.” He returned my nod as his mother hugged him again.
            “I can’t believe you’re back, safe and sound!” she sobbed, burying her face against his neck. “Oh, my son, how I’ve worried about you!”
            “You needn’t have worried, Mother.” His voice was still as cold as it had been, and I shivered. Mark pulled back from his mother, and she stepped back, confusion in her eyes, as he continued. “At the first sign of trouble, your son showed himself for what he is—a coward concerned with only the safety of his own hide.” Mary’s eyes widened, and she flashed a glance at me. “Oh, so Sarah told you already,” Mark snapped, glaring at me. “I see.”
            “No,” Mary gasped. “She did not. She—she only said to keep you here and not let you leave. I—I didn’t know why . . .”
            “But now you do?” Mark cut in. “Well, Mother, I knew what you’d say—I knew what everyone would say—before I even came back. I only stopped to get my money, a few extra changes of clothing, some odds and ends, and then I’ll—”
            “John ben-Mark.” Mary’s voice was quiet, but both Mark and I froze at her tone. I saw Mark pale at his full name, and he dipped his head.
            “Yes, Mother?” His voice was meek as his mother glared up at him.
            “If you think I’d even think of letting you leave—” she seethed, her eyes furious. “John ben-Mark, don’t you know me? Don’t you know the Lord you serve at all?” Mark paled even more, and dropped back a step.
            “What does that have to do with this?” he muttered, licking his lips. Mary planted her fists on her hips.
            “Everything!” she cried. “John ben-Mark, did you not learn anything during your time with Jesus?”
            “Mary—” I tried to interrupt, but she whirled on me and I shut my mouth.
            “Will you excuse me and my son, please?” she asked, her voice furious, and I understood she wasn’t angry at me. “We have some talking to do.” Reluctantly, I stood up and made my way to the door, stopping only to pick up my headscarf. Once I was outside, I walked a few steps away and sat down on a neighbor’s step, resting my chin on my hands and my elbows on my knees.
            It seemed like hours before the door opened and Mark stepped out. I scrambled to my feet and began to speak, but was stopped by the sight of the traveling bag that swung at his hip.
            “So you’re really leaving,” I whispered, tears choking me, and he nodded. I stepped forward, stretching out my hands. “But why didn’t Mary—”
            “Oh, it’s not for lack of her trying,” he told me. “She tried, all right—talked up one wall and down the other, but after all that . . . she agreed to let me go.”
            “Mark . . .”
            “Don’t talk to me about it, Sarah.” He lifted one hand in warning, then jerked his head. “Walk with me?” The question was so plaintive, so much like other questions he’d asked when we were children, that I simply nodded. We fell into step together and walked in silence for a few paces. My mind whirled with arguments to give him, questions to pose to him, clever persuasions I could present. But no—I could see from the stubborn tilt of his chin that his mind was set. As we drew closer to the city gates, the streets became more and more crowded, until finally, our walk had become a slow trudging gait. Just as we reached the gate, I stepped in front of Mark and laid one hand on his arm, forcing him to stop.
            “Won’t you stay?” I kept my tone gentle, so gentle he had to lean down to hear what I said, and I saw him waver for a moment. Then he set his jaw and shook his head.
            “Don’t try to convince me,” he said, his voice sharp. “I know what I did; I know what I am. I can’t stay here, I can’t watch the eyes shifting away from me, hear the tongues wagging behind hands, know what people say and think. I can’t do it, Sarah. I can’t bear it.”
            “Do you forget what I was?” My voice was quiet, but Mark recoiled as if I’d slapped him.
            “Sarah, this isn’t about you.”
            “You’re right, it’s not. But things I’ve done—” I couldn’t go on, and Mark touched my hand.
            “Don’t talk about it. It’s over. You know you’re forgiven.”
            “How can you say that to me?” I whispered, tears filling my eyes. “How can you say that to me, when you won’t believe it for yourself?”
            For a long moment, Mark stared at me. Then he bent forward and kissed my forehead, as if I was his blood sister.
            “I have to go, Sarah,” he whispered, resting his head against mine. “I just . . . I just need to leave for now.”
            “Go in peace, then.” I was weeping now, and not even trying to hide it. “Go in peace and return safely to us.” For a moment, Mark was silent. Then he stepped back and looked me in the eyes.
            “Goodbye, Sarah.” His words were simple and held no promise, but neither did he refuse my plea. As he turned and walked away, I stood and watched him and cried. My tears were not for myself and his mother; my tears were for my friend who believed there was no forgiveness for what he’d done.
            I trudged back to Mary’s house and slipped inside. As soon as Mary saw me, she opened her arms and I fell into her embrace. We needed no words, but simply stood and cried together. As my tears slowed, I wiped my eyes.
            “Why, Mary?” I whispered. “Why does he have to leave?”
            “Oh, Sarah,” she murmured, stroking my hair back from my face. “I told him he didn’t have to. I tried to remind him of the love and forgiveness Jesus offers. But for now, he can’t see it. And so I agreed that he could leave. It won’t be forever, child—” She hugged me tightly again. “But for now, this is what he needs to do. So I let him go.”
            “You’ll miss him so,” I sobbed into her shoulder, my tears bursting forth again. “I’ll miss him,” I choked out. She nodded, her own tears dripping down her face.
            “Yes,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “Yes, I will. But I know sometime, when he realizes what forgiveness really is, when he remembers what love has done for him, he’ll be back.” She pulled back, smiling into my face, and nodded, wiping my tears away. “Yes,” she whispered in my ear. “He’ll be back.” And she hugged me once more.