This is how Jesus the Christ came to be born; it rambles a bit and
anachronisms abound, nevertheless it remains something like the true
story. At least I believe it to be so. It is the story as I heard it
told. It begins – not, as others have told it, in the northern
hillside village of Nazareth, but in small, little Bethlehem, a city
of fog and shadow, a city in the shadow of death. A tenebrous city
with rubbled streets below your feet and the sound of military
helicopters over your head. The doctors were dead, the hospital
bombed out. The schools were closed – burned down. It begins with
hunger and deprivation. It begins with Joseph living and working in
Bethlehem.
Every
morning Joe put on his work clothes – heavy denim pants, steel toed
boots, and a plain t-shirt. Over these he put on his protective
equipment – durable work gloves, a hard hat, and a bright orange
and reflective orange and silver safety vest. He worked as part of
crew clearing the streets of bombed out buildings. He filled
wheelbarrows with chunks of broken concrete and twisted bands of
rebar and hauled them to a municipal dump truck which would haul it
all out of the city to a dump site at the outskirts of town. The work
continued despite the occasional burst of nearby gunfire. The bombed
out buildings were slowly cleared even as violent revolutionary
groups clashed with government forces, bringing down another building
in explosions of dust and smoke and fire.
Grinning
death head gunships flew through the air with their spectral shadows
trailing below. Blackwater gunmen, backed by free-market robber
barons and commercial advertising agents in the United States,
prowled the smoldering rubble in search of misguided martyrs whose
pursuit of apocalyptic ecstasy by way of explosive detonation, had
chained the weight of nightmare around the neck of the whole world.
It was new technology for the same old conflicts. People die the way
they always have – screaming in pools of blood and gore,
suffocating under the ruble – dehydrated or starved to death. It’s
a new war; it’s the same war. Death is death.
He
wore a mask and a scarf tied around his face to keep the dust and ash
from his nose and mouth but smoke burned his eyes as he worked to
clear the streets. Blinded and lost in the chaos created by the
grasping militants with their demands for vengeance and honor; the
shadow of death stretched long across the land. There were days when
he worked from daybreak to midnight, excavating the ruins and the
rubble by bright klieg lights powered by portable generators.
Joe
moved heaps of concrete and brick, sorting through the detritus of a
dying city. Amongst the debris he found the cast off trash of a
displaced society – plastic coke bottles, chips of china, a
shattered Nokia cell phone, sandwich wrappers, and the like. Also
among the debris and rubble were the more gruesome remains of cast
off members of society, human remains – sometimes just teeth or
perhaps the bones of a severed hand. Sometimes he found crushed
corpses that were taken to the medical facility to be identified. If
they could be identified. Some of those bodies were so mangled they
hardly looked human any more.
As
gruesome and noisome as it was, Joseph appreciated the work. So many
were unemployed and desperate. He knew he was fortunate. But he was
concerned with his excavating role. The daily destruction was
dangerous and people were dying all around. Bethlehem, like all
cities, had been built on heaps of ruins. Digging down through the
rubble he and his coworkers discovered Arab ruins heaped atop the
ruins of Christian Crusaders, Turks, Mongols, Greeks, Egyptians,
further and further back the deeper they delved. Winding alleys
horizontally through the city, and vertically down through history,
down to the Bronze Age foundations of abandoned and forgotten
structures.
He’d
grown up with the stories his grandfather Bartolo told him of ancient
cities swallowed overnight by the sands of the desert. Those fabulous
tales fascinated and amused him as a boy but they seemed less
fantastic these days. He’d seen enough instant destruction to know
the truth. He’d seen military helicopters dropping sulfuric acid on
populated areas. He’d taken shelter as missiles exploded overhead.
He’d carried his gas mask with him everywhere in case of attack.
And he’d heard the shouts and screams of fathers and mothers,
children crying, cursing Herod’s administration. Cursing King
Herod. Cursing the far away Romans, and the Americans too – selling
their weapons and munitions to anyone with cash enough to buy.
Cursing the suicidal, mad-bomber Zealots. Cursing and abusing God,
even, in their anger and their despair.
But
even in that land of death and struggle, life went on as it always
had. Their children continued to go to school – though the school
house had been abandoned after a tank had driven through the wall and
exploded. They met in the basement of the Orthodox church. People
continued to eat and drink, enjoying meager festival feasts and
humble birthday parties, eating and drinking together when and where
they could. Weddings were celebrated and divorces were mourned. Life
went on. Though surrounded on all sides by the looming shadow of
death, life went on. And Joe was engaged to marry a girl from the
neighborhood. Mary.
But
rumors began to circulate that Mary was already pregnant. People
talk; stories spread but Joe refused to believe the gossip. He
trusted his fiancée. He believed her to be as honest and true as
himself. But as the rumors persisted his confidence wavered and he
confronted her directly. “Is it true, Mary? Are you pregnant?”
And with a simple, silent nod she confirmed the worst of his fears.
Chilled the warmth of his heart. Still, whatever disgrace he felt, he
was a young man of mature character and didn’t want her to be
subjected to any further shame or public humiliation. Life was hard
enough here. He intended to break off the engagement quietly.
Secretly without the whole neighborhood being up in her business. Or
his.
Joe was awakened in the night by the sound of gunfire and explosions
– not far off in the distance, but somewhere nearby. There were
coordinated rebel attacks on the munitions factory and the state
owned pig farm. Because he couldn’t get back to sleep, he got up
from his bed and opened the window above his bed to look into the
street.
But
he closed it almost immediately. He could hear the shouts of rebel
commanders and the screams of wounded soldiers. The acrid smoke
choked him before he could get it closed and he coughed for several
minutes. He stood at the window observing the thick clouds of
billowing smoke illuminated by illuminati search lights sweeping back
and forth across the sky in long, lugubrious arcs.
One
of the search lights swept across the face of Joe’s apartment
complex and the light through the window blinded him. He flinched and
stumbled backwards, throwing his arms in front of his face to block
out the blinding light. When he blinked back from the darkness he saw
a stranger in his room standing among the illuminated floating dust
particles. He was tall and thin, nearly gaunt, but his face still
held an ethereal fascination as if he were glowing with an inward
radiation.
“This
is a dream,” Joe said. “This is a dream. A strange and terrible
dream.”
“Think
of it as a dream if you like,” the stranger said, “but you must
remember all of what I am about to tell you when you awaken in the
morning.”
“I
will remember,” Joe said. “I will remember what you tell me.”
“It
is very important,” the stranger said.
“I
understand,” Joe affirmed. “I will remember. Every word.”
“Good.
Now Joseph, you must not be afraid to take Mary as your wife. It is
true that she is pregnant, but it is no ordinary conception. This is
a virginal conception through the Holy Spirit of God. Definite or
indefinite, it is the same spirit. And the spirit is sent and life is
created.”
“But
that’s…”
“This
is what the ancient prophet promised: Behold the virgin shall
conceive and bear a son…”
“But
that’s not…”
“Do
not interrupt me, Joseph. This is a theological truth – by the gift
and grace of God she shall conceive and bear a son called Emmanuel.”
“God
with us,” Joe sighed.
“God
with us,” the messenger affirmed. “But you will call him Yeshu,
for he will be the one to save his people from the sickness of their
sins”
There was another shout from the streets below as the rebels pressed
their advantage and surged into the streets pushing the faceless
forces of the Herodian riot strike teams back. Another furious round
of gunfire erupted and the Illuminati searchlights were extinguished
and the night was dark once more. He knew there would be more work
tomorrow clearing the streets around the munitions plant and hauling
away the unclean carcasses of dead hogs from the state pig farm. Joe
awoke on the floor, naked and shivering in the cold. The heat was off
again. The power was out. He rose up from the floor and looked out
the window. It was nearly dawn but no birds were singing.
And
when the time was fulfilled, the boy was born in the normal way of
things. Even in the midst of death there was life. The Lord, most
mighty, holy and most merciful, delivered him to them through the
bitter pains of death into newborn life. Life went on.
Some time after this, King Herod was on the balcony of his bed
chambers in the palace within the City of Lights and Murder, snorting
Adderall and shouting about the vermin that were infecting and
polluting the blood of the country when the strangers from the east
arrived. “The blood is the life!” he shouted through his
electronically amplified bull horn. “But they are destroying the
purity of our lives by diluting the purity of our blood. Rapists and
murderers. Drug fiends and half breed witches.”
The people in the street knew that he wasn’t really a Jew himself;
they knew him for the Edomite outsider that he was. Half-Jew at best.
He was a shifty man, a querulous alienator of fathers and sons. He
never began a single confession, only multiplied confrontations,
projecting himself and his woes upon the world around him. “This is
our profession of faith: the libtards are out to destroy our history
and culture. Illegal immigrant are crossing the borders to get public
welfare and the Parthians and the Nabataens are threatening to invade
again.” His ancestors may have converted to Judaism, but the people
had no illusions of his own personal piety. And they accepted him as
their king in name only, only because they were forced to do so by
their far-distant, Roman overlords. Few spoke out against him. To do
so was death.
He was still on the balcony raving into his bullhorn when the
astrologers arrived.
Herod
the multivalent opportunist put on a mask to receive them. He was
obsequious with Caesar and preening with dignitaries of the
surrounding nations. He was reverent and pious when dealing with the
temple priests and threatening with the members of his family. With
the foreign magi – from some shithole country to the east – he
was smarmy and smooth talking.
“We
are humble astrologers, my lord,” they said as they introduced
themselves to the King. “Practitioners of Chaldean wisdom, scholars
and researchers from the Oriental Institute for Full Brain Potential
and the appointed envoys of our respective nations. We have traveled,
at great risk and great expense, across the sands, following for
these many months, a newly observed star. Consulting the ancient
texts and lore, we have determined that this novel star is the star
of a newly born king of the Jews, and we have come to give him due
homage and awe. We know that this is strange and difficult to
believe, but we are amiable and honest and trust that you can tell us
where he has been born.”
“I
agree that what you’ve told me is strange,” King Herod said to
the members of the OIFBP, gripping the arms of his throne until his
knuckles turned white. “But the question I have is this: Is it
strange enough to be true?” he grinned and waved nonchalantly. The
wise men began to speak all at once filling the chamber with their
overlapping foreign languages. “No. No. No,” he interrupted them.
“Let me consult with my own advisors and religious experts. They
will know what to tell me. And then I will know what to tell you.”
There
was argument among the scribes. You know the expression: Two Jews –
Three Opinions. They read from their scrolls and consulted the elders
– each of which provided a variety of voice and explanations.
Multiple version of every position and more answers than
participants. But after the arguments flared and died and flared and
died again, they returned to the king with an answer.
“The
durations of life are dependent upon the constellations, my Lord, and
anyone who knows how to calculate the astronomical movement of
constellations and does not do so, does not take notice of the work
of God...”
“Get
to the point!” he shouted at them through his bullhorn.
“But
tell them this,” stammered the representative of the scribal union,
“from the words of the prophet: ‘And you, Beit-Lechem in the
land of Y’hudah are by no means the least among the rulers of
Y’hudah for from you will come a Ruler who will shepherd my people,
Israel.’ That is the answer
you required.”
But King Herod had other plans. “Only I can fix the problems that
plague our country. Not some newborn nobody from some little town in
nowhere,” he mused. So he told the emissaries from the OIFBP, “Go
and find this child in Bethlehem,” he told the astrologers, “but
come back after and tell me where, so that I can give him my respects
and gifts as well.”
All
of Jerusalem trembled as the Magi departed. They knew enough of
Herod’s raging.
The
traveling members of the OIFBP parked their dusty VW van on the
street outside the two story brick house where Joseph’s family
lived in Bethlehem. Joseph lived there with his brother Sava, his
cousin Tavish, Tavish’s wife and their three children, as well as
his grandmother Shera. There had been others in the house with them
before, all of them crowded into the small building. His grandfather
Bartolo had died a little more than a year before of pneumonia and
his father and mother, Jacob and Lissa had been killed in an
explosion three months ago. They were gone, but the house felt even
more crowded now, with the memories of their laughter and songs still
lingering heavily in every room.
The
visiting magi knocked on the door of house. Sava opened the door
cautiously and, after a brief and somewhat confused explanation of
their presence, ushered them in. He scanned up and down the darkened
street for police patrols and overhead for Herod’s surveillance
drones.
“This
is the child of whom we have read,” said the astrologers when they
saw the infant lying in a makeshift crib – Joseph’s tool chest,
emptied of hammers and sockets and filled with blankets and a
somewhat ragged stuffed rabbit. “This is the one.”
“I have brought him gold,” The first of the visitors
said, handing Joseph two small coins. “It is not much, I am sorry.
We are humble scholars, not aristocracy. Not kings. But may this be
the first tokens of his increasing kingdom.”
“I
have brought him frankincense from Ubar” said the second, “the
‘Atlantis of the sands,’ the City of towers, lofty porcelain and
gold towers – one of those legendary lost cities of the Arabian
deserts. This bottle of perfume has been preserved since before that
fabled city’s disappearance.” He placed the vial into Mary’s
hands.
Then
the third and eldest of the visitors stepped forward, slowly. He
haltingly lowered himself to his knees and laid his fragile body
prone on the floor and placed a small wooden box before the boy. “And
I have brought myrrh. Myrrh for the dead.”
Joseph,
Mary, and the extended family gathered around gasped but said
nothing.
Joseph’s
family insisted that their guests stay the night and to share a meal.
Shera cooked up some rice and a bit of goat. Tavish’s wife brought
out the last of the baklava she’d made a week ago. A desperate and
rare dessert made with honey she’d taken from a bee hive she found
in the remains of the burned out school building. The travelers
themselves shared what they had, some dried figs and almonds. After
securing the blackout curtains over the windows, they lit a kerosene
lantern and sang the Hallel as a blessing for the food, the
family, and their joyful fellowship.
The
next day, early, well before dawn, the astrologers loaded back into
their van. “We must go now,” they insisted. Shera began to insist
that they stay as their guests for another day, but Joseph
interrupted. “No,” he said. “They have to go. And Mary and I
must go too. We must flee.”
“You
have had the dream too?” one of the astounded magi said to him.
Joseph looked at the faces of his family, lingering long with Mary’s
eyes, and then said to the astrologer. “Yes. Warned in a dream.”
Later,
after the scholars were gone, Tavish brought out a locked metal box
and showed it to Joseph. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked
it. Inside was a .38 snub-nosed revolver. He handed the gun to
Joseph. “Take it, Joe. You’re going to need it,” Tavish said.
Joseph considered the weapon Tavish had extended to him. He took it,
rolled the empty chamber, and snapped the revolver closed. Then
looked from the gun to his wife. She said nothing, only looked away.
Joseph turned back to his cousin and returned the gun. “What if I’m
caught with it?” he asked. “Besides, I wouldn’t know what to do
with it anyway.”
“It’s
easy,” his cousin said shoving the gun back to him again. “Just
point and shoot. Bang. The bad guy falls down dead. Simple.”
“It’s
never simple. Nothing ever is.” Joe said. “No. I don’t want the
gun.” He turned then to his wife.
“Mary, we’ve gotta’ go. Tonight. We can’t take my
motorcycle, not with the baby. But I can sell it for cash. I won’t
get much for it. Not nearly what I paid for it. Tavish offered me
eight hundred. It’s a loss, but it’s enough to get us a couple of
bus tickets for Egypt. We can be there by tomorrow morning. Our
ancestors wouldn’t hesitate to pick up and go. They were nomads.
Bedouins, wandering with their flocks and herds, landless and
homeless. We can be like them. We’ll make a home on the road.
Wherever we are, you, me, and the boy, that’s home.”
“Oh, Joseph, Joseph,” Mary whispered. “There should have been a
life for us here. You should have been the one to build us a house, a
home. Now there is nothing, and we’re about to leave it all.”
“We’ll
be like our fathers in the desert, Mare, living in tents and not
houses. Taking shelter where we can, always on the move. This is how
they lived. This is how we can live again. But you are my champion,
Mary. My leader. I can’t do it, I can’t go without you and the
boy. And we have to go. Tonight. Now.” She nodded and gathered up
the child.
Joseph threw on his leather, motorcycle jacket. A patch on the
shoulder of the jacket displayed a screaming skull and the words,
“Terror of Demons.” He kept their passports and travel permits in
a purse inside his jacket, ready to display them for the demanding
Roman authorities. Mary wrapped the baby in a wool blanket and put on
her own coat.
“I’m
not okay with this,” Tavish said again. “I don’t like you
going. And I don’t like you going unarmed.”
“We’ve
been over this,” Joseph said. “Acquire the spirit of peace and
thousands around you will be saved.”
“But I’m definitely not at peace about this.”
“That’s
fine,” Joseph said. “We’re going.”
“That’s
fine! That’s fine!” Tavish huffed. “Fine. Save your wife and
your boy. You’re saving the world.” Joseph grinned. “Go on.
Get out of here,” Tavish said as he walked them to the door.
Behind
them as they fled was smoke on the city like a funeral shroud, the
moon indistinguishable through the smoke. Heat waves rippled the cool
night air. The smell of burning rubble, and plastic followed them –
along with the stench of burning flesh. Innocent bodies dissolving
like fat in the sun. Clouds of dust rising and the roar of converging
military vehicles. They could hear the screams as they stepped up
into the bus.
“We
are abandoned. We are destroyed,” Joseph thought. But he pushed
away those thoughts and prayed. A helicopter roared overhead.
