vividly remembered the outrage of the inhospitable people of Benjamin many summers ago that led to the shocking abuse and murder of an innocent concubine of a wandering Levite. The story seemed to be very old, but not so old as to diminish its terror one tiny bit. Mothers in the village would often scare their children into better behavior by telling this story; act correctly or the Levite may come for you! Whenever the tale was told, the Levite grew in size and strength, his nose became increasingly knobby and wart-marked, his eyes more blazing, more penetrating, his hair more frazzled and shaggy, his arms muscular, his legs powerful, his rage unchecked. In reality, the Levite was probably a small, ineffectual man, most priestly types were, but in many of the minds of the current children of Benjamin he had become monstrous. It was certainly a terrible tale, and the elders of Gibeah were inordinately concerned with any unknown newcomer with a Benjaminite background. The new man might have some distant connection with the story, might even be a relation of the concubine, or of her father, or, YHWH forbid, the nasty priest himself. They had no intention of allowing such a person, corrupted by these undying phantoms, to live among their respectable selves.
Many versions of that story continued to make the rounds, but the facts were something like this. Many suns before Kish’s appearance in Benjamin, a Levite, a landless priest, was living in a very remote hut up in the hills above Gibeah. He had devoted himself to prayer and solitude, as many of his kind did in those days, but he soon tired of being alone. He left his hut and travelled to Bethlehem, a few days’ journey east, in order to buy a concubine, a woman who had few hopes of a real marriage, to provide a companion for his days and warmth in his bed at night. She was not much to look at, but she was willing enough; her mother had died at her birth and her father was a poor and ignorant man. She thus had no dowry to bring to any marriage. She too at first seemed glad of the company, as they left Bethlehem to return to the hut above Gibeah.
But things went quickly wrong. Some said that she tired of the life of a Levite’s companion, its poverty, its mumbled words and complex rituals, and became angry at the Levite’s constant demands on her for food and cleaning, as well as his unbridled lust for her body. Others say that she found a more congenial partner, or two or three, in the village of Gibeah. For whatever reason, she left the Levite and returned to the poor house of her father in Bethlehem of Judah.
Four moons passed. The Levite wanted her back; he was lonely again, his hut was filthy without her cleaning, his member was hungry for her flesh. So, he went to Bethlehem in the attempt to woo her back with tender words. He even changed his tunic for the first time in many years. When he showed up at her father’s door, the old and poor man was overjoyed to see him. After all, he barely had food enough to feed himself, let alone his daughter whom he thought he had seen for the last time those four moons ago. He was more than anxious to see the couple reunited so that his troublesome daughter would leave his life for good.
For three days the father and the Levite ate and drank together and told stories of their difficult lives. The father spoke sadly of the death of his wife who was a good woman, and a fair one. The Levite spoke of his calling as priest, of his lonely hut, of the brief time with the father’s daughter, which he remembered with some fondness, though she had surprisingly left him alone for reasons he could not understand. But on the fourth day, when the daughter had not yet made an appearance at the table or in the house, the Levite decided to give up and go back to his hut alone. But the father said, “Why not sit again and have some more food; it is a long journey, and you will need strength? In fact, the weather is so foul today”—it was raining big cold drops—“why don’t you stay one more night? Perhaps she will soften her heart and go with you.” The old man was more than anxious to be rid of his daughter, whom he loved not at all. The Levite was willing to give it another day, so he stayed. And he stayed again.
The daughter knew well who was sharing her father’s table, and she hid in her room, hoping that the execrable Levite would go back to that miserable hut that she had no desire to see ever again. As the days passed, one, two, three, she could not believe that the priest had not given up. But, of course, she heard all too clearly how anxious her odious father was to get her off his dirt-caked hands, how he cajoled and pleaded with the Levite to stay, and stay, and stay! Would he never leave? She did, however, remember the lusty fun she had had in Gibeah with a supple young boy or two, when the priest was taken up with his weird mumbo-jumbo, so as the days became four and five, she thought that perhaps she could reacquaint herself with one boy or another, or perhaps even a fresher one or two if she could survive the priest’s incessant demands on her for constant work and unpleasant sexual needs, both of which she had no interest in at all. Maybe, she thought, life with the Levite, with its potential for some joy and fun on the side, would be better than her current life with a loveless father and few local fleshly attractions.
So, finally, on the sixth day, the girl came to the table to eat with her father and the Levite, and the two men convinced her to go back to the hut with the eager priest. Well, unbeknownst to them she had already made up her mind to go with the man, so she needed little convincing. But there was little use in telling either of the stupid men about that.
She was hardly overjoyed to be going back to her lonely life as priest’s companion, but her father clearly did not want her with him, and at least the Levite showed some sign of caring for her, however selfishly, however crudely. The woman was trapped between an inattentive and uncaring father and a dangerously demanding and too attentive man, who smelled of goat and often acted like one. Well, she sighed, at least he had changed his filthy tunic! Scant hope for a changed life, but more hope than life with father. And there were those nubile Gibean boys!
So they left to return to Gibeah. But since they made such a late start, they only got as far as Jerusalem before the sun was about to slip below the mountains of the west. “Let us stay here in Jerusalem tonight, and we can complete our journey tomorrow,” said the servant, Lemuel by name, whom the concubine’s father had loaned to them for the trip. But the Levite said, “We will certainly not spend the night in a city of foreigners; it is hardly safe to bed down with these foul Jebusites!” Levites were often very particular about those they rubbed shoulders with. It always struck the concubine as very odd how haughtily the man acted, given his tiny hut, his pathetic resources, not to mention his foul odors. So they pushed ahead, moving quickly toward Gibeah. By the time they reached the village, the sun had been down for some time, the stars were out in full, and a bright moon bathed the familiar city square.
It is customary in Israel that when strangers appear they are to be treated as honored guests, to be brought into someone’s home, to be fed and housed for the night and sent safely on their way in the morning. In modern Gibeah a stranger was assured of a warm and congenial welcome, partly because of the memory of this tale. But when the three travellers entered the square of Gibeah back then there was only silence; no one came to care for them or their beasts. Well, they thought, it is very late, though they had rightly expected someone to appear to offer them help.
Finally, after almost deciding to leave the village and trudge on to their remote hut, though they were nearly asleep standing up, an old man walked slowly into the village after a long day’s work in the fields. They were in fact amazed to see a single man returning from his work so late and so alone. His back was bowed with the hard labor of farming, his hands caked with the mud of the field. He was less than eager to spend another minute away from his waiting fire and simple food, but when he saw the strangers, the ancient and hallowed demand for hospitality overcame his exhaustion. He politely asked them where they were from. The Levite told him their story, saying that they needed no food either for the donkeys or themselves, but they did desire a roof for the night. The old man replied, “Shalom to you! I will care for all of your needs, but you must not spend the night in this square!” His tiredness dissipated and his back straightened when he uttered the last part of his sentence with real vehemence, shuddering as he glanced furtively around the village center, bathed in the lovely, soft moonlight. The travellers felt very uneasy as they watched the old man’s eyes dart in the light. He urged them to follow him quickly to his house, and moved off much more swiftly than his age would have suggested.
His
