still hadn’t eaten.”
“What did he think of you coming here to do this?” Silence. “It goes against everything he always stood for.”
“And still stands for,” sighed Yeshua, shaking and then dropping his head in lament.
“So you came to Caesarea . . .” Yudah beckoned.
Theudas obliged. “A week ago. We watched the morning patrol for six nights, and then this morning . . .” He smacked his right fist into his cupped left hand.
“You can say that again,” muttered Yudah, who then widened his eyes for a second and let out a controlled breath through his puffed out cheeks. “Didn’t you think about what the prefect would do?” he frowned in thought, and smiled a humorless smile, teeth concealed, that expressed gentle disapproval.
“Why do you think we hit them in Caesarea? It could have been anyone from anywhere!”
Yudah chuckled. “Give your brain a chance, Yeshua. Think about what kind of man this prefect is. All he needs is an excuse to spill blood and the feast begins. He’s not that choosy about whose blood, or how much of it.”
Yeshua drew breath to answer his friend, but Yudah, wanting his point to stand, jumped in quickly by adding a veiled complement. “And targeting his own soldiers? I doubt that’s been done to him before.” The approval in Yudah’s expression was immediately eclipsed by a more somber tone. “You have plenty of admiration here in Narbata, but there are also plenty who would like to see you crucified for what you did.” He paused before continuing. “Can I make a suggestion?” Yudah took the silence as an affirmative. “Come to the synagogue this afternoon. Afterwards I’d like you to meet some friends of mine. One of them you’ll already recognize!”
“The synagogue? Come on, you know we don’t want anything to do with all that.”
“A rabbi’s sons afraid to go to a synagogue?”
“What, so we can listen to some hypocritical, self righteous egg-head bleating religious purity while the world crumbles around him?”
“If Yeshua goes into a synagogue the walls are likely to crack . . .” Theudas laughed.
“I think you’ll find our synagogue a little different from what you boys are used to in Egypt, even in Caesarea. Narbata is a rebel town. And Kaleb, the Pharisee from the market place this morning, has just been invited to speak.” One after the other, the brothers shrugged their shoulders in reluctant compliance. “Come straight back here afterwards, Miriam will let you in. I’ll need to linger a while, and will bring a couple of friends back with me.”
Yudah’s synagogue was smaller than the one the brothers had attended. A square hall, each wall about four feet thick and twelve paces long, with a cobbled floor underfoot. Even with so many bodies crammed in, its cool was a welcome relief from the Judean heat. The long central benches were packed with men talking in low and serious tones. The women’s end of the hall generated a more hurried brand of chatter, but all was swamped by applause as the young Pharisee entered. Whatever his status had been, this day had heightened it beyond measure.
The ruler of the synagogue stood and the congregation slowly quieted. On having everyone’s attention, he uttered a brief, opening prayer, concluding with words, which the whole congregation knew by heart, words which today reached a new depth as the crowds voiced them as one, “For Adonai is our judge, Adonai is our ruler, Adonai is our king. He will save us.”
Prayers concluded and the ruler turned to welcome the Pharisee to the platform. Kaleb, robed in dull white, was probably in his early thirties, but what he lacked in years he made up for in his presence. His eyes were bursting with a quiet energy that promised his listeners that, for better or worse, his coming words would evoke some kind of reaction. The attendant handed the scroll to Kaleb who in turn performed rather than merely read its contents, feigning disagreement with the prophet who penned them.
“How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace, who bring good news, who announces salvation, who says to Jerusalem, ‘Your God reigns!’”
Kaleb’s voice was not nearly as cavernous as that of Yudah, but it was carefully furnished with a growl to maximize its authority. He read with dramatic poise and handed the scroll back to the attendant. A calm silence had seized the congregation as every eye was fixed upon the speaker.
“Today, this scripture has been turned inside out in front of your eyes!” He paced a few feet across the raised platform, as though he were exploring the Scripture itself from inside. “How detestable on these our mountains are the feet of those who bring bad news, who proclaim vengeance, who announce oppression, who say to us “Babylon reigns.”
“Babylon?” whispered Theudas
“He’s talking about Rome, you heathen,” his brother replied.
Kaleb threw his head back as he proceeded to justify playing with the words of Holy Scripture. “How dare we speak of ‘good tidings’ on this day of wrath, when the blood of our brother cries from the ground? This ground, our ground. Right down to the grains of dust, for centuries we have cherished this land that Adonai gave to us. But is it really ours?”
He scanned the room to make sure that his listeners were hungry for his next words. Yeshua scanned also, and felt like the odd one out. “When it is trampled under the hoof of heavy horse. When its fruit is taken to fuel armies and lavish feasts, while our people go hungry, is it really ours?” The preacher paused, and his voice began to tremble as he gestured towards the market place. “When a pagan sword force-feeds it with our brother’s blood? Is the land yet ours? We may live here but our hearts are still in exile, and our God does not seem to reign.”
The congregation murmured to register their disgust at the truth Kaleb was highlighting. “When we see heavy taxes forcing farmers off their land, Babylon reigns. When pagan symbols are carried into our temple, Babylon reigns. When soldiers roam freely, forcing us to carry their loads, Babylon reigns. When they take an innocent life, they deface the image of our God, and Babylon reigns. When pagan sentries guard the gates of our town, Babylon reigns. When we trade with coins marked ‘Caesar is Lord’, Babylon reigns.”
So young a preacher would not usually sail so close to the wind by seeming to contradict the words of a holy prophet. But Kaleb was using his current heroic status to full effect. He allowed silence to assert itself again, breaking it only to feed the hum that was filling the air. In a hushed and soft tone, he charged their expectation, “Brothers.” After another pause he continued in a stage whisper. “There . . . Is . . . No . . . King . . . But . . . God.” A wave of approval was rising rapidly, and with perfect timing Kaleb repeated the slogan with greater volume and passion, “There is No King but God.”
The congregation again irrupted into applause, cries of “amen,” and repeated shouting of this well-known slogan. Kaleb held a silence pregnant with phenomenal but restrained energy, frowning as he waited for the clamor to die down. “Babylon reigns?” He scanned the synagogue. “Babylon reigns?” he repeated, beginning to shake his head slowly as he slowly opened a floodgate of defiance. “Today I tell you this: Your God reigns. Our God reigns. There is no King but God.”
The Narbatans again gave way to shouts, this time with the cry for liberty, “Hoshannah,” finding its way into and occasionally above the clamor. Again, the preacher waited calmly until his voice could once more be heard.
“So where is his Kingdom? When will we see the Kingdom of God? When will
