Chapter 8 - Shamai

We decided to go to Galilee by road through Samaria. We were in a hurry, wanting to get as far away from Jerusalem as quickly as possible. It wasn't until we arrived in northern Judea by the evening of the next day that we stopped to rest in an old olive grove by a stream near the spot of Chaza-EL, whose inhabitants were famous for tracing their lineage back to King Zimra, who reigned for only seven days, but even more so because they knew how to make frothy smokers of barley and hops and made deliciously spiced lamb dish from the oven.

The place also caught the eye of other travelers. A little further on, black and gray striped tents could be seen. Women were cooking something, children were running around, and cattle were grazing.

We installed ourselves a short distance away. Matthew lit a campfire and sat down to write something on one of his papyrus sheets. The rest of the students went to the village to get food, perhaps the famous local lamb. We still had some coin money left, even though we had spent only the last few days and had not preached a single sermon to bring money into the house.

Therefore, I wanted to escape Jerusalem quickly without attracting attention. Then, I would not focus on collecting funds by giving fiery lectures.

Money never stayed in our possession for long. I let my students share with less wealthy people. At the same time, we denied ourselves a few things and tried to make every day a celebration.

I descended to the stream and washed myself three times with fresh running water. Then, I wanted to know what kind of people had pitched their tents so nearby, so I pointed my sheaths toward it. When I came out, I saw an old man sitting in an easy chair under a thick, half-withered olive tree. The graybeard looked at me with such sorrow that it seemed to envelop him like a gray cloud, like a swarm of gnats.

The tree under which the old man had taken his seat was so old that he probably remembered the Babylonian captivity and King Nebuchadnezzar's warriors.

Compared to the man, I felt like a little boy. I wanted him to put his hands on my head and bless us, but that was a timid thought born of weakness and fatigue from the journey that I immediately dispelled.

"Who are you? Add the old man, and without waiting for my answer, he continued, "I think I know. You are one of those people who think they own the future. Call me your name.'

"Jesus of Nazareth," I said, "and how may I address your venerable gray hairs?

'Shammai,' the graybeard said.

I understood that I had before me the overly familiar lawgiver I had already heard as a child. The man had spent his whole life as an itinerant prophet, thus sharpening the spiritual life of the people. He had been received by kings and great sages. People like him gave a Jew the joy of being a Jew, but he was harsh. At his whim, a great many death sentences had been carried out for religious offenses that were considered trivial in other countries.

From the gray-haired man's bitter and surly face, it was clear that he was a powerful man but physically at the end of his rope, as were the time-honored truths of the Law whose light he had spent his life propagating.

When a curly-headed boy with a mighty physique noticed me, he came rushing over, apparently a grandson of Shammai. He asked the old man if everything was all right and if I wasn't bothering him. Shammai signaled with his hand to leave, and the young man complied.

It turned out that Shammai's large family was staying in the tent camp, and now he was praying in solitude, seated in his heavy, carved seat of precious ebony, which was emulated throughout the land. Even when he exchanged views with the tetrarch of Antipasti, he was reportedly seated in this same seat. And similarly, seated in his seat, he watched as the enemies of the Law were stoned who had previously been buried up to their shoulders in the earth.

"Come to me," Jesus said, adding, "I have heard of you.

I walked closer, thinking about how rumors of a new prophet spread through our country faster than virtuous custom.

"Do you know, my son, what concerns me most now? Shammai asked.

"Then what? I asked, with a politely bowed head.

"The changing of the seasons. But true faith is not a season; it doesn't change; it just dies. If you want to change it, it dies. You are still young, but I see that much depends on you, Son of Israel. Do not allow our faith to turn to dust. Otherwise, our kingdom will never gain freedom and will be destroyed. Do you understand...?

I did find it amusing that this old man, who could barely breathe, was so worried about the entire kingdom, just yet another, as lore showed, in the inexorable process of rise and fall of all empires.

But I kept a reverent expression and said, "Avva Shammai, you live in constant fear of defilement and are willing to cleanse the sun itself of defilement. That helps you live. I also want to teach godliness, but quickly... Can you get up from that chair, stand on one leg, and teach me the entire Law while standing on that one leg?

Shammai's eyes shot fire, but he managed to suppress his anger. My mockery touched him. Then he heaved a resigned sigh and spoke, "I see that you reproach me with cruelty in my mind, but you do not say it. You are a windbag, Jesus, flippant, like a bird down, but even your words are lightweight.'

"What should we do with heavy words, Shammai? I asked. 'Imagine how heavy it will be to carry the letters Aleph, Bet, and Gimel with you, cast in tin and lead, considering how many words you say to people daily?

Shammai smiled. It did not look like an ordinary human smile; it was better to say that he passed from one grievous state to another with a slight change of facial expression.

'Incidentally, that also has its uses, for such words can be recalled,' I continued. 'You put them back in your knapsack, and you walk away; after all, we regret words used too hastily occasionally.'

We hovered again for a moment and looked at each other. A woman brought Shammai a bowl of milk and removed herself again. He drank half of it, bent down, set the bowl on a small flat stone beside one of the legs of the black seat, and took out from the folds of his robe a small amber pipe and also a small pouch containing kif, a dry Libyan herb, the smoke of which evoked pleasant thoughts and gave relaxation.

He put out a pipe. The woman called, bringing him a coal from the fire to light the herb. He lit up another puff and reached out to hand me the pipe.

We took turns inhaling the intoxicating smoke, taking a small sip from his bowl each time, and it was good. After reconciling with everything, I thought that Shammai was my real father. After another puff, I became dizzy and sat on the floor next to the black couch.

'You are a mouse in the cooking pot, Jesus,' Shammai said.

I found that curiously funny and burst into laughter.

'According to the Law,' Shammai said unhurriedly, 'the mouse will make the pot unclean, the pot will make the person who eats from it, and this person will make the other people unclean.' But you're right that godliness is often the mother of fear. And it's better to be a brave living mouse than a dead cat who has never committed any sin. Look, I'm old and pious, and what do I buy?

'You have disciples,' I said, cheering him up. 'They live in many planes, and all name their children Shammai.'

"You know," Shammai replied, "that stones grow on the land harvested by caring hands?

"Yes," I said, "they say it happens when a cold night alternates with a warm one, and the earth pushes out the stones.

'Thus, all students are like those stones, which always grow by themselves, separate from us,' Shammai concluded sadly.

It had become dark by now, but we continued to sit and talk for a long time. Shammai's women brought a lamp, lit it, and went to hang it on a branch of the olive tree. The lamp was immediately surrounded by tiny gnats, and I thought these little winged creatures were like naive pilgrims reaching for the feast of light to burn in it.

When I said goodbye, Shammai gifted me his amber pipe.

Yes, I thought, as I fell asleep by the campfire beside my disciples, Shammai bestowed comfort on the Jews throughout his life like a bitter balm, but his teaching lacked any divine infusion; it was like ashes in a golden husk of haughtiness. And I was a dead ordinary man; I cared about the pleasures of the stomach and love, was a friend of martyrs and sinners, but did bestow on men a rapturous doubt, for after all, this alone caused true new life to be born.