Continuing the story line from my previous two posts (April 8 and 13, 2021) in which the sage, Yose ben Halafta is being led by a child into the ruins of Betar…
And once again I feel that hand gripped in mine, tugging me. His sweet eyes look up at me.
“The sad lady. That’s her name. She likes to read Hosea to me up on the rooftop when I can’t sleep.”
A wonderment. And on we go, deeper descending inside Betar.
We come to a stark and open place, what might have been the marketplace, now deathly silent. Even the doves refrain from keening their God-taught psalms. Just a breathy mumble, like *Hannah at prayer* praying the curse be lifted from her. [Note: 1 Sam. 1:10-13]
“A vain prayer if she lived now. No more will children laugh in this place”
As if a hand is gripping my throat, and I can’t breathe. Shock and fear. What is this that knows my thoughts?
“You’re lost, old man, and no return, yet you cling to hope that there’s a path or a Halakha you know from here. Hope is a lie, white-washing the truth.”
And finally I see a faint trace of a shade, or is it a blasted oak?
The boy urgently tugs on my hand, but I must see who addresses me in such a prescient and cynic voice.
“What ails you shade that you spit these words at me as if I trespass you”
“And who be this Roman chump that intrudes?”
“I see you don’t know all my thoughts. Roman, certainly I am not! In the secret synagogues I am known as Yose the teacher; some call me ‘sage.’”
“Son of Halafta! I had heard that, along with Khutspit, you were torn to pieces and had your tongue ripped out.”
“I’m still here, at it still wags. You seem to know me. Who are you?”
Ignoring me, he continues his rant:
“How long will you flout those worn-out beliefs?”
When I don’t answer, he frowns and spits.
“*For three transgressions or even four,* I will not turn back to the path of the Lor. What my eyes have seen be proof enough that the Lor has turned away from us.” [Note: Amos 1:3]
“What are these so-called proofs of yours?”
Again he frowns and spits in the wind.
“Madness drives the human spirit. Else explain what the Zealots did, burning three years store of grain, and breaking cisterns to force a fight against a siege invincible? Madness. Then came utter ruin and massacres unknown before. Roman soldiers tore down The House, burnt the Holy of Holies to ash, murdered their ten thousands and more, and swaggered our plunder back in Rome. Humiliations followed that. Priests stripped naked, driven thru the streets, beaten, pissed on, blinded, killed. Women raped while their children looked on. Infants thrown from the Temple walls, hundreds, their bodies splattered in piles. And who survived? Cowards who fled, and sages who hid in garbage heaps. And of those sages, many a one were martyred, burnt, beheaded, flayed. And who prevails? Lupis the beast, lean and hungry, godless, wild. Caesar has seized this whole world. There’s your proof. You need more?”
My chest tightens. Words fail. Dismayed, I turn my eyes to the ground. Again, I feel the tug on my hand.
“I told you not to go in there. He yells at everyone that way.”
Stumbling on many a stump and stone, we hustle back into the welcoming ruins, the thick shadows, the silent gloom. Now the dog begins to bark. The boy stops and shushes me. A moan, a cry, a screech, a howl off in the distance, drawing near.
The boy now yanks his hand from mine and runs away. And then a shout.
“Father! I’ve been searching for you.”
The dog is yipping, scamper and skip, and the three emerge from a shattered tomb.
The first tainted shades of dawn begin to paint the eastern sky.
“Peace be upon you, prayerful man.”
“And peace be upon you, father and sage.”
“I see my son has guided you thru these ruins. No doubt you met my friend Elisha, him who once stood among the elite of Israel, til tragedies and their harsh blows broke his heart and crushed his will. Now anger’s currents ravage him like a house washed out by flood and broken up in the surge of waves. There’s still a spark of faith in him that in a gilgul, maybe two, will flare again and shine new light. A broken heart is slow to heal. But you, Reb Yose, I told you before, you shouldn’t enter a ruins to pray.”
Wonders abound. Who is this?
“I heard a voice luring me. Here just a moan of a mourning dove, there, a minyan praying psalms. Such congregations called to me.”
“You should have stayed on the road and prayed. Many a danger lurks in here.”
“True, but dangers also stalk the road, and many disruptions too.”
“Then shorten your prayer and quicken your step back to a place where Shekhina sings.”
“Master and teacher, how do you know my name? Have we met before?”
“In other bodies and other times we have met. But in this place, horizons limit all you see, all you hear, all you feel, and you can’t remember anything beyond their tight constricting curves. And so you don’t remember me.”
“And does that not apply to you, too? Or should I call you ‘Divine Envoy?’”
Tarnished silver streaks the clouds, with edges burnished to a brilliant gleam. The brighter the light, the more transparent the man and his son. Now disappeared.
All that remained, a yipping dog which followed me down the long road to Tzippori, where it too disappeared.
