Azariah was not like the other children. He was smaller,
much more frail. For all his 12 years, he stood lesser than most. He was a tiny
boy, a little shepherd. His hair was not dark or curly like his peers, rather,
it glimmered with lighter tones and hung straight and fair. He was a sensitive
kid, some could even call him delicate and weak. This was not far from the
reality. Some would say he did not belong. Deep inside, the young lad knew it
was the truth. Most children in Bethlehem lay sleeping on this early winter’s
night, but Azariah stood watch with his father over sheep. His father and the
men who worked with him had been delayed in arriving home. For almost three
weeks, they had been detained because of the census. The colder desert nights
had come and the journey from Hebron had been dank and unforgiving. His beaten
clothes, not fit for the winds of a Palestine winter, did little to bring much
needed warmth. They had arrived back near Bethlehem and planned to stay in the
fields until morning when the market opened. His father, a shepherd his entire
life, had brought Azariah on this travelling in hopes of building character in
the boy. When he married Azariah’s mother, a Hebrew girl from the Roman
territories, he did not expect her death in childbirth, nor did he anticipate
that his only son would bring such disappointment and frailty. The harsh life
of a shepherd was no place for someone like his son, and with no one to watch
over him, he was forced to carry this reminder of God’s judgement upon him
throughout the Palestine countryside.
When the
light appeared in the sky, no one was sure what to make of it. When the
brightness shone above them, they were so afraid. A few sheep, startled by the
quick and the unknown brilliance, fled to safety. Azariah wanted to stay and
see this marvel which had magically appeared in the night sky, but his father
sent him out in the dark to find the flock which had abandoned them to the same
night. As Azariah walked into the desert, he did not hear the voices of angels
heralding the good news. He did not see the celestial glow from the host which
appeared to his father and the other shepherds. He did not take his father’s
hand and follow into the town waiting from a distance. He just kept walking and
calling and praying he could show his father that he was strong enough and
brave enough. Only a few sheep had strayed from the flock, but Herod’s taxes
and the expense of traveling for the census meant all were precious and they
could not afford to lose even one. As he walked, he thought of the mother he
had never met and the taunting of other children. Life was not fun for Azariah.
Between a disapproving father and the shame of his debility, he held little in
good regard. In temple, he sat and listened to the tales of Moses and David and
Isaiah, but it was the words of the other children which stained him with
feelings of worthlessness and sorrow. He too, just like his father, held
bitterness and contempt for those who had made his life almost not worth
living. Such ridicule and endless dampening stole the innocent heart and
childlike ways of this little blond boy from Bethlehem.
Azariah
grew colder and the desolation of the desert did little to quell his fear and
hesitation. He had always preferred being alone, but this night he yearned for
the hands of his father, the safety of a greater place. Suddenly, he heard it.
The subtle noise of beast was almost invisible, cloaked behind wind and sand
and bitter sting. There, alongside an outcropping of rocks, he found the seven
sheep that had strayed. Azariah sat down beside them and started to shake. The
night had grown darker and colder and met the chill of his heart as he cursed
his father for sending him into the desert to die. When the sheep laid down
beside him in the sand, he could not believe his eyes. He had never seen such a
thing. Azariah remembered what to do. How many times had his father told him to
find warmth with each other or the animals, if ever lost in the desert come
night? How many times did his father instruct him to stay huddled only until
the warmth returned?
“Never
sleep on the desert floor,” Azariah recalled. “You will drown in the sand.”
Azariah
could feel the heat returning to his skin, as he lay between two ewes and the
sun-baked glow of the desert floor. Staring out into the endless sea of ebony,
he searched his mind for a way to get back home. Although he had not ventured
beyond the dunes, he could not find his way. He raised his head and called out
into the deep black. There was no reply, no response. Not even an echo bounced
back from the hills which shadowed his path to safety. There was no moon to
light his way. No fire in the distance to call him as a beacon. He turned,
praying for a new perspective.
It did not
appear, but it was not there mere moments before. It filled his eyes with
daylight. It was the same brilliance which had scared the sheep into running.
He rose up and greeted salvation. The star shone brighter than any other he had
ever seen. Its glow reached across the skyline like beams of blue and bright.
It was brilliant and full, and for Azariah, it was hope. The dunes glistened
with starshine and gave way through the night. The tail of the star seemed to
float in the heavens until it focused on one spot. Azariah knew, he just knew.
He quickly rounded the sheep and headed into the light. He started out, then he
wandered toward the shine, for the star in the sky led his way. When he got
back to the pens, he could not find his father. He could not find anyone or
anything but a fenced-in mob of white cotton herded into capture. He added his
seven blankets into the cage and wandered into the tail of the star. The late
night gave little rescue to the answers Azariah searched for. No townsfolk could
he question. He looked up and checked the radiance of the beam. It was still
with him even though he was home. The star of wonder flickered then to
pinpoint, it managed his direction. When Azariah was older and had a child of
his own, he would sit his son down and tell him the tale of the littlest
Shepherd. We would tell him of the cold desert night and how the sheep gave
warmth to see him through. He would tell them of the kings and the stable and
the things he saw that night. Most of all, he would tell them of his star and
the wonder of how it led him home.
Almost 30 years had passed since
Azariah met with that something wonderful. The star in the east had long ago
faded into night, never to return. The three great men he met had eventually
journeyed back to their homelands. The only shepherds to be found were far
outside the gates of Jerusalem. He himself had left the flocks behind and came
to the city in search of a better life. Sarah, his wife of 11 years, and his 8
year old son Benjamin waited for him outside the temple every day without fail.
He had been lucky enough to get any job, but one at the temple meant long-term
security. When he left Bethlehem, 15 years had passed since the child in that
manger. The death of his father had sealed his decision. He would never have
imagined this better life, even if he had dreamt it. He knew in his heart that
he had been assisted by God, not only on that special night but every day since
the star. Azariah was a happy man. Passover was quickly approaching. As the
town readied for the festivals, Azariah unloaded all sorts of animals for
sacrifice at temple. It was a dirty job but someone had to do it. Between the
normal rituals, and the surrounding revelry, it was as much as Azariah could do
to keep to his assigned duties. His clothes, covered with the mess, were a
testament to his hard work. During Passover, blood flowed in the streets of
Jerusalem. The Roman occupation would do little to help in the aftermath.
Cleaning up was not a prestigious position, but financial security and a good
home more than compensated for his shame. For 14 years now, Azariah faithfully
served his God and His garbage.
He met
Sarah here, the daughter of the man who got him his position. They had played
together when they were children, soon to be separated by distance and choices
made. Her father Gyb was one of the shepherds the angels had visited that
night. Gyb left the town of Bethlehem with his
family almost immediately after the events in the fields and at the stable,
taking advantage of the magi Melchior’s generosity and the caravan heading
towards Jerusalem.
Caiaphas seemed obliged to his wise friend and placed Gyb in the maintenance
department cleaning up after animals. Years later, Azariah called on Gyb in the
same manner, once he had relocated to the city. When he was promoted from
excrement to blood, he asked Gyb for permission to marry Sarah. Neither Sarah nor Azariah had ever
entertained the idea of marriage and both were late in life when they married
and started a family. Azariah loved his family. Azariah’s family loved him.
Where once stood a small blond shepherd boy now stood a strong man, well
matured and responsible. His journey had been relatively easy compared to most.
The land and stock of sheep left to him when his father died empowered him
through its sale. With enough money to start again (and then some), he followed
the roads south to the Holy City to begin a new life. Every morning he now
shuffled to temple, thankful for the family that he loved so much.
The path
he took past Sha'ar Harachamim, the
Gate of Mercy, was unusually busy for a day such as this. No celebration had
been planned until later in the week. People were standing all about, crying
out to a bearded man riding on a donkey.
“The prophecy,
the prophecy is fulfilled,” screamed a woman near to him. “Blessed is he who
comes in the name of the Lord. From the house of the Lord we bless you,” they
chanted, singing in chorus, all the while laying olive, willow and other branches
before him as he passed.
He could
not believe his eyes. This was not the end of it. The very same man who had
rode into town through Sha'ar Harachamim
just a few days before was now driving out everyone who was trading in the
temple square and inside the main entrance. He had abandoned his donkey. At
some distance, Azariah watched silently from a wagon filled with young lambs
for the korban Pesakh. Each beast was
held waiting for sale as the rite of Passover sacrifice approached. Azariah was
unsure what to do. In the same area that this man was defiling stood the tables
and stalls used for their sale. These stalls had to be filled or he could face
the anger of the account manager. Suddenly, the man turned and began to yell,
“This is my Father’s house,” then started turning over the tables of money
changers and the dealers in sacrifice. Azariah was stunned. Before the Roman
soldiers arrived, the man and his entourage disappeared into the crowds. When
those crowds calmed and the excitement was over, Azariah returned to his
duties, hurrying to help restore the square to its place of commerce and trade
in blood.
Sarah had
heard the news and was waiting for Azariah with their son, just outside the
temple later that afternoon when he finished his work. She had worried all day
that her husband had somehow been involved in the ruckus at temple. She was
relieved to learn he had not been compromised. After they arrived home, they
all sat to dinner. Benjamin began to inquire as to this man who had drawn so
much attention. Azariah hushed the boy, directing him to his meal, when Sarah
interrupted with news of her own.
“In the
market today, there were great rumblings of this man,” Sarah added. “They say
he may be the Mašíah, come as the
liberator against Rome.”
“Such talk
is treason, Sarah,” he said. “You cannot be heard saying such things or the
wrath of Rome
will fall upon our house. This man is a criminal. If you had seen the damage he
waged at the temple today, you would not speak such foolish things.”
Later in the evening, after Benjamin had been
sent to bed, the couple went about their nightly chores. Sarah soaked then
washed the filth and blood-drenched clothes her husband brought home with him
each day from his duties at the temple. It seemed hard labour for her in
attempting to remove the constant staining. It was a futile task. Azariah took
his place near the window, peering out into the night sky. He often sat in this
chair, searching for his star in the heavens, silently praying for it to reappear.
It had once brought him comfort and safety, leading him home through the dark
of the desert. This night, the words of Melchior rang loudly in his mind. As
Azariah approached the stable that night, he was welcomed into the glow that
illuminated the manger. The tail of the star had settled there. It was a marvel
to see his father and Gyb standing only feet away from three royal men and
their procession. All the people from the entire village crowded around to see
the baby, all this for a newborn child. His father beckoned him to come forward
and Azariah pushed through the people and past the beasts of burden as they lay
round in the hay. The brightness of day filled the center of the manger; the
glare was much too sharp for eyes having just faced the night. When his father
urged him on to the cradle, Azariah stood trembling; he did not know what to
make of it all. He was not afraid, but he paused as confusion overcame him.
“He is
Immanuel child; God is with us,” said a tall Persian man dressed in fine garments
and holding a silver jar filled with frankincense.
“But what
does that mean?” questioned Azariah.
“He is the
saviour, the Mašíah, come to make all
men free. Stay your place and bow child, praise God and the newborn King,”
answered the foreign lord.
Before
dawn on the morning of the Passover feast, Azariah awoke to loud banging on the
door of his home. In spite of his fear that the Romans had come, he opened it.
When Gyb rushed in, excited and rather manic, he sighed in relief. He stumbled through the door.
“Azariah,”
he yelled, “It’s Melchior, he is here and I have met with him.”
“The king
Melchior, the one from that night in Bethlehem?”
asked his blond friend, rubbing what was left of any sleep from his eyes.
At that
moment, two Persian guards entered the dwelling. The commotion had brought
Sarah and Benjamin out of the quiet and Sarah held him at the back of the
kitchen for safety.
“He wants
to see you, Azariah. I told him you were here and he has sent us to retrieve
you and bring you to his counsel,” claimed the obviously shaken man. Azariah
began to dress and called out for Sarah, telling her he that had to go and not
to worry.
“Father,
may I go with you?” asked the small fair haired child in the corner.
“Benjamin,”
he replied, “you must stay here with your mother and watch over her. I will try
to fetch you both when I have met with Melchior. I most go now and no longer
keep my old friend waiting.”
The caravan
sat outside the city, near the gate that leads to Gethsemane,
just beyond the temple. 30 years had done little to Melchior, but for a few
wrinkles in his brow and dashes of grey at his ears. It jutted out from beneath
his head cover. Melchior could hardly believe that the man who stood before him
was the little shepherd boy who had found his way to the manger that night. Gyb
had seen Melchior leaving the temple by darkness, bidding goodbye to Caiaphas,
so he approached his entourage seeking audience. Melchior knew him right away.
Every detail of that night had been relived so often that it was now a part of
the very being of this wise man. He had come so far, just as before, but this
time there was no star to guide this journey.
“I have
come seeking the child,” Melchior informed them.
“The child
from the Bethlehem?”
asked Azariah.
“Yes, his
time is near and I have come to witness the fulfillment of that foretold the
night the star shone bright and the angels sang.”
“We do not
know the man the child has become,” Azariah said.
“He is
here,” Melchior revealed. “He is in prison, to be tried today for treason.”
The
Persian nobleman had spies in the palace of Herod, spies who had summoned him
when news of the man and the prophecy began to spread through the Galilean
countryside. The son of Joseph and Mary, who preached of the coming Kingdom of
God, was known near and far for his miracles and healings. Melchior’s henchmen
confirmed he was indeed the child he had waited for. At 27, Melchior had
travelled far to pay homage to the child, but now, as he approached his 60th
year, travel was slower than it had been before. Melchior had hoped to share in
the grown child’s
ministry, but he had arrived too late. Consulting with Caiaphas had done
nothing to change their minds.
“I had
forgotten how harsh the road I once travelled to see the babe was,” he told the
two men. “Harsher still to find there is nothing I can do for him now.”
Azariah
could not believe his ears. The child who had filled his dreams for all these
years was here in Jerusalem, captive at the Praetorium.
Melchior arranged for the two men to join him that day, replacing them for work
detail with his own men, at the permission of Caiaphas. They made their way
through the gate, past the temple and into the heart of the Holy City. With the
sunlight came the crowds, all heading towards the house of Pilate, the praefectus of Judaea. The governor
resided close to the temple and the hordes of people grew dense as they approached the area. The steps of
the judgment hall were thick with them. They lingered nervously about, like
wolves before a frenzy. The men all took a place near the eastern stairs, at
the open courtyard where they could attend to the trial unabated. Just then, a
man was led away to be scourged, and the people who surrounded the gabbatha, on the platform out front of
the palace, began to cheer. Azariah finally got to see his face. He stood
breathless. It was impossible. The very same man, who had ridden the donkey
through Sha'ar Harachamim and
disturbed the temple merchants, was now being strung up before him in the
courtyard, subjected to the scourge of 39 lashes. Azariah could not believe
what he was seeing. With each lash of the knotted whip, the man said nothing,
he did not cry out for mercy. When they brought him to the courtyard from the
inner sanctum, Azariah was sure, he knew him instantly.
“This
cannot be the child fully grown,” he said. “This man is a criminal, the one who
attacked the money changers.”
“He is the
child, Azariah,” Melchior said softly. “Today, that which the angels foretold
will come to be. Through his suffering, we all will be free.”
When the
guards had brought the man back to Pilate, he went out on the front steps of
the Praetorium, where his judgment seat had been placed, and called together
the Sanhedrim and the chief priests. Melchior dropped his head when Caiaphas
entered. The man had been wrapped in red cloth and was holding a staff in his
right hand. On his head they had placed a ring of thorns, like a crown, which
clearly pierced the skin all about the man’s brow. There was so much blood that
Azariah pictured him as if like one of the sheep he sent to slaughter as
sacrifice. Slowly the man turned his head and their eyes met just briefly. His
eyes, those magical eyes, he thought. They were the very same ones which had
filled Azariah with peace and gladness, staring up from the cradle in the glow
of that manger. He was instantly filled
with the same wonder that the star had given him that night so many years ago.
In the midst of all that pain, covered in all that blood and suffering, the man
seemed to smile at him. Azariah knew, and, despite all he had seen, he
recognized that this was the child now fully grown and standing before the
crowds of his own people. Pilate stood and raised his right arm to silence the
crowd.
“What would
you have me do?” he asked.
“Crucify
him! Crucify him! Crucify him!” rang through the air in a great uproar.
Pilate
turned and walked to his judgment seat, dipped his hands into a gold basin and
proceeded to wash them. He dried each off with a towel presented by his
attendant. He walked over to the bearded man, and then a solider grabbed the
man’s hair, raising his bloody head. Pilate then spoke to him.
“You have
been convicted by acclamation,” he said. “Let them take him and crucify him,
but I find no fault in him.”
The
soldiers, who had flogged him, stripped him of his royal robe and led him into
the crowds. The people cheered and screamed, all in one accord. They took the
man down towards Herod’s palace and out of the city to the place of skulls,
near the old cemetery on the outskirts of town. Azariah stood trembling; any
peace the man had delivered to him was lost in a swarm of commotion. Melchior,
Gyb and the entourage turned away. They did not wish to join the procession
through the upper city and out into such desolation. Azariah followed just as
he had done with the star over Bethlehem.
He did not summon Sarah or his boy, as he had promised, well knowing the
fate that laid waiting for this man outside the city walls. After the act, as
he walked home, the rain fell hard and lightning clashed against the clouds. He
could not tell his tears from the raindrops, which began to fall when the man
finally died, hung on the wood like some calf over a fiery spit. He entered his
home, kissed his wife and son and revealed to them the horror this day had
brought. Sarah sat listening. She had heard the story of that wonderful night
so many times she knew it by heart. She understood that her husband’s dream had
died with the man. She knew he had never forgotten the path that he once
followed from the dark. She hoped this would not break him. When he had
finished, they all sat in silence, until Sarah broke the nothingness.
“Azariah,”
she quietly questioned. “What was his name?”
Almost 40 years had passed since the child from Bethlehem died as a man. Over those
years, his name spread throughout the land and Azariah followed the fledgling movement that claimed
Jesus as King and the saviour, the Mašíah.
Some of the followers had even tried to convert him to this new “Way” of
thinking. Azariah stood firm in what he would call his faith. It was uncommon
for men to live as long as Azariah had. His son Benjamin had been killed in one
of the Maccabee rebellions. His wife
Sarah passed in her fifty-second year. Since then he lived with his
grandchildren. His days of serving the Temple were long gone as was his need to
assist them. He was old and tired
yet somehow managed to hold on to
life with a defiance most people in antiquity never had. The light of the star
that led him long ago was still there in his mind and in his soul. He spent
hours sitting, visiting that time and that place over and over again. He sat
breathless as he watched the crucifixion play on in his mind. He would tremble
at the thought of it. He often wondered if the man he remembered from that
cross would appreciate the crusade playing out with those to whom he granted
salvation. Azariah himself would never idolize anything that embraced a human being
as the son of God, just like these “Christians” proclaimed across the
territory. He was not an overtly religious man. He held more loyalty to that
shining star than to any form or practice that men made. Rumours that Jesus had risen from his grave met
doubt and questions and disdain. He was a Jew in name only. It was his
tradition rather than his faith. He had seen so much pain, so much struggle
that it was hard for him to believe in anything but the hard cold reality of
life. Azariah was not a feeble man. Despite his age, his vigour remained. He
was strong in spirit if not in body. Growing old had only convinced him that
his experience as a child in Bethlehem was somehow divine or what men in modern
times call supernatural or paranormal. It defined his reverence in terms of a
tactile event. It was more than the law of Moses had ever given him. Still, his
loyalty remained. The mere idea of worshipping Jesus as the son of God was
blasphemous to him. Not because it was written but because it was practiced. He would have no other
god.
Azariah watched the world go by, observing
without partaking. Such time, such freedom he had not known since his days as a
boy in Bethlehem.
The view had changed but little else had. The air of wonder, that sense of
childlike innocence carried on despite the world around him. The world he now
knew was bitter and hard. Anything good, anything right had disappeared as if
it was some falsehood, gone back to the place from which it had come. More than
sixty years of occupation built great religious tension between the Jewish
populace and the Roman government. When renovation of the Second Temple was
completed, many labourers fell on hard times. Coupled with the socio-political
reality of that time, it lead to the impoverishment of the Jewish peasantry and
rebellion. Azariah knew of the first Jewish revolt. His friends, members of his
family, even some women he knew all stood hand in hand against the tyranny of
Rome. If only he were younger, if only he could fight. For four years the
rebellion lingered. The war was not only fought between the Romans and the
Jews, it was a class struggle. All his years working at the Temple only
encouraged doubt of the high priesthood. Now the masses held to the same. The
Roman occupation was under constant assault right up to the end. Azariah sat
watching as the Temple burned
to the ground. This city of God no longer held anything for him. He convinced
his family to return to Bethlehem
where his lineage had
begun. His father, Gyb and Sarah were all laid to rest in the cemetery just
outside of town. They had all made this trip before. This journey would not
return to Jerusalem. The purchase of his father’s old bavith meant safety and a familiar place to hide. Azariah had always kept his money
secret. How ironic the very sheep that once saved him would now do so in turn.
It wasn’t much but it would do. The journey from Holy Jerusalem to the city of
David was one day’s travel. The caravan headed north into the wilderness. Azariah knew the path home. He had walked it
in his mind 10,000 times. The 10 km trek through this part of the kingdom of
Judah was perilous and war torn. Despite the danger, they finally arrived at
the outer rim of the city. Azariah almost cried as they passed the old pens on
the outskirts of town. He could see himself surrounded by the flock, he could
see himself chasing the star. Everywhere around him was his father, the manger
and the star leading the way. Azariah was finally home.
The cold Palestine winter did not affect his choice to go
outside. Almost two months had passed since the destruction of the Temple and
three weeks had come and gone since the return to Bethlehem. He felt right at
home, filled with comfort and with joy. He had not been this happy since before
the death of his wife Sarah. His sadness had carried on for decades. His only
hope, his only delight was the star of wonder he had experienced that night so
long ago. It now called to him, daring him to seek and find. He had waited for
a perfect time to skip out into his memories. He plotted his escape then like a
thief in the night, he
disappeared into the bitter chill of a winter’s mist. He was as silent as his
cracking joints would allow him to be. He wrapped himself until he was cozy and
headed out on his adventure. He didn’t alert anyone and his mission was just as
secret. He carried nothing with him, as if he knew. He just knew. He walked
slowly but with great determination. There was no tail of a star to guide him
this time. He hoped it would be there when he arrived but the manger, on the
far end of the North camp, held nothing but some cows and a few feeding
cradles. It wasn’t even the original structure.
The trip had done its best on Azariah. He was much too weak to have journeyed so
all alone. As he approached the shelter, Azariah fell to the ground out of
exhaustion. The way had been too
trying for this weary form. He met silence on the way down. The light pierced
his eyelids, waking him with a jolt. There it was, so bright and so charming,
the star had returned to guide him once again. He stood, stronger than he had
been before. He looked about and the world seemed to have found its
original place again. The manger had returned, the animals had returned,
everything was exactly the same as it had been on that magical night. Suddenly,
people were everywhere. The crowd held faces he had not seen in many years. His
father was there, Gyb was there. He looked through the crowd for Sarah, but
only those present on that special night appeared before him. It was like a
dream, an illusion but somehow he knew it was for real. He moved gracefully
into the heart of star’s tail. There was no baby wrapped in swaddling clothes
to greet him. Instead,
the baby had become a man, the same man he had known forever but never really met.
The well-known stranger looked at Azariah and held out his hand.
Just
outside the city gates, the graveyard holds tales of the many and a voice for
the few. It is mostly silent, like dead men can be. He rests there now. Sarah
rests near him. They are reunited in the Otherland. If you ask about, the local
townsfolk will tell you of that night so long ago when the star of wonder shone
bright and the kings and wise men met a host of angels. They would tell you
about the sheepherders and the manger and the baby king. If you listen hard
enough, the men of Bethlehem will tell you
another story. A tale about the light in the desert, the warmth of some sheep
and the journey of the littlest shepherd.
Photos
Sources
