When God Was a Boy
Chapter 1
A Boy in His Father’s Workshop
The man was a forgettable kind of handsome possessed of an uncanny measure of virtue. He did not stand out in a crowd even though his destiny would outstrip everyone in his generation. His face was unremarkable – wavy-brown hair and golden-brown eyes, a broad forehead, a soft, angular nose. Although his beard was majestic, full and billowing all the way down to his chest. And the laugh-lines in his face were set deep into his cheeks and eyes, like trenches laid out long in the hard-fought war against sorrows. Centuries would pass before his importance to humanity would become known to the world. Yet this was a man born between the turning of the ages, brought into being to become the pilot at the helm of history.
His peers respected him more than his station in life warranted. His friends deferred to him in conversation. The other Torah teachers heeded his reflections in the synagogue. People found an enveloping comfort in his company. More often than not, he was on the listening end of things. Simply put, people were delighted to be drawn to him, usually without knowing why.
He was descended from a great line of kings – and he carried himself like he knew it. The nobility on his brow was humble although heavy with forgotten glories. One might think that his coronation ceremony would happen the next day, if they did not also know the manner of poverty that colored his life.
No matter what, whether with friend or stranger, he had a numinous presence that hovered over him, like the pillar of fire that went before the Hebrews in the Wilderness so many ages ago. His character was expansive; his love was wide; his understanding was ever-deepening. Indeed, he was possessed of many inestimable qualities, any one of which set a soul apart for greatness, and he carried them all together in concert without pride.
Nevertheless, there was a single fact that eclipsed anything else that one could know about him. One truth would shape his entire reality, demand his undying fealty, determine his unalterable trajectory. Ultimately, only one thing really mattered.
Yosef was the surrogate father of the messiah – and no one could know their secrets.
Their home was situated near the bottom of the town’s embankments. Yosef scampered down the uneven steps of stone slabs uphill from their modest hovel like a soldier charging down into a valley, hurtling through the steep descents with deft agility. He gripped the new paring chisel in hand as if it were his unsheathed weapon in battle. Yosef was not angry, neither was he in a terrible hurry. He simply liked to run, especially when it meant running to synagogue or running home. The rocky, precipitous terrain of Nazareth made the exercise difficult to perform. However, to chase after those places as a habit, he found that even when he was prohibited from running in a given moment, as when carrying a child or some other precious burden, his heart still quickened as he headed in the right direction. He had trained his body to anticipate the haunts to which he should return.
Sometimes his wife Miriam tutted at him for the dirt that he kicked up into his tallit. She had woven the outer garment herself in secret over the course of an entire year. It was modest enough compared to some of the other Pharisees, only covering him down to his waist (she had seen some that drug the ground). Nonetheless it was exquisite in its attention to detail. Every thread and stitch were accounted for, with fastidious attention to the tassels and knots of the tzitzit at the fringes of the tallit. Miriam relished the thought that her love continued to cover him once he left the house for the day, not to mention the presence of HaShem Himself. So, it was understandable that she made a fuss over his regular staining.
Every time, Yosef looked a little embarrassed, like a child caught in his misbehavior. But he was quick on his feet. He simply smiled and reassured Miriam that he couldn’t help being in a hurry to see her. She would tsk at the grandiloquence, but she would lean in for his kiss, too.
The children had seen the routine many times. Everyone knew the choreography. Abba would get in trouble; Ima would succumb to his charms. No one ever tired of the dance, least of all the kisser, or the kissed.
The carpenter had just returned from the blacksmith. Yeshua, his son, had become a fine woodworker, skilled and diligent beyond his years. He was also becoming stronger every day. Sometimes his strength got away from him. The most recent broken tool was yet another unexpected expense. Such had been the days of late.
These were trying times for Yosef. The endless cycle of work to do and mouths to feed. They always had enough in the end, that much was true. But they ever so rarely had plenty. Too often, it seemed, it was a painstaking exercise to be content. Still, he carried on, as though he were a lord living in squalor.
His lot in life as a craftsman was that of so many others working in the trades, in that he was constructing much nicer things for his clients than he would ever possess for his own family. Their house was no exception, downsized for the poor, divided into a meager two bedrooms and one common area for living and dining. Inside it was just barely tall enough to stand up for the average adult. Oftentimes the flat rooftop was the coolest place in the house.
Their hovel was one of many scores within the township of Nazareth. The grandiosity of its name by far outshone the meagerness of its municipality. With its rugged landscape and strenuous climbs, it was a nicer place to visit than it was to inhabit. Most of its thousand some residents were descendants of King David, and they fancied themselves as harbingers and progenitors of the coming messiah. It pained Yosef to know the truth and to be prohibited from announcing its nearness.
The Nazarenes were devout, sturdy, industrious people. Everyone farmed, although several of the clans were made up of tradesmen as well. With homes built atop the porous rock of their grounds, virtually all of the houses contained riches and provisions beneath the surface, having cisterns, vaults and silos to contain their water, grains, wine and oils. The difficulty of the above-ground craggy living was offset by the advantages that the below-ground rock formations afforded. The town, like its people, contained substance hidden from plain view.
Yosef collected himself for just a moment before he entered the workshop. He had been deliberating over something for a few months and had only recently decided to address his son about the matter of his eventual kingship. Yeshua was the messiah, after all, and it was high time that they began making their formal preparations.
When he was most honest with himself, Yosef had to admit that he did not know what formal preparations for the messiah looked like, not entirely. But he did have some clear notions of the sorts of training that his son should be given to. Military command, rhetoric, trade, economics, governance of domestic affairs – by Yosef’s estimation, they were grossly behind schedule in what he supposed was the curriculum of a king-to-be.
Had his son even been in a fistfight yet? How in Heaven’s Glory was he supposed to muster an army to lead against the Romans with not so much as a black eye or a bloody nose to his name? Surely, the Caesar would not be preached into submission.
Enough time had gone by. Yosef resolved within himself once again to confront Yeshua with the grave seriousness of the matter so that they might begin to build a plan. After all, his people had been waiting for their deliverer far too long as it was. Inasmuch as it was up to him to determine, Yosef would not have the messiah pass through his own household without preparation. The fate of his nation was at stake.
He entered the workshop to find Yeshua uncharacteristically listless at his tools, sitting in a stupor. He wore only his long, plain linen shirt and rope belt about his waist, his tallit hung upon the wall. His round face was lifeless as his soft chin stooped toward the ground. Yosef patted his short, curly black hair in greeting. Yeshua made no response, his wine-dark eyes remained locked in place.
The space was rather modest, only a lean-to against their house. Nothing but lattice and layers of palm fronds made for the roof covering, repaired and replaced on a yearly basis.
Many of their projects were difficult to execute. The workshop was longer than it was wide, and it wasn’t that long. Whenever they had to spin a timber about, which happened more often than they liked, they had to carry it out of the workshop, serpentine through the narrow courtyard out into the street, in order to turn around and then carry it back inside by the same meandering path. Neighbors called the spectacle “the wooden caterpillar.” The process was as slow as it was cumbersome and heavy.
It smelled like a carpenter’s space. That much never changed. The wood chips and sawdust of many species collected on the ground like scattered potpourri, swept up occasionally but rarely removed altogether. They produced exquisite craftsmanship. Their means were limited, but their abilities were boundless.
Yosef had seen the lad lost in thought before, many times, only to emerge from his reverie with a newly refined joinery detail or an improvement to the efficiency of tasks. Even in his stillness, he would still be at work. This particular moment, however, something was very different.
Not knowing what was going on with his son just yet, the kindly father thought to err on the side of courtesy and give his apprentice the decency of a few moments to recollect himself. So, Yosef busied himself with his usual tasks upon return to the workshop. He removed the pronounced chip of cedar that was tucked behind his right ear, the worn item that publicly designated him as a carpenter on days of work, and layed it on his shelf. He took off his cloak and set it upon his hanging hook by the entryway. The carpenter reverently removed his tefillin from his head and left hand, lovingly wound the tiny compartments within their leather straps, then placed them within a small box that had been framed and hung upon the wall against the house, right next to Yeshua’s.
He retrieved a tiny palm-full of oats and gave it to their only donkey as he petted it behind the ears. Yeshua took to calling him Shimshon, and his father liked the name well enough, as did the rest of the family. It wasn’t long before the children were calling the beast Shimmy, although Yosef could never quite bring himself to that nickname. Still, Yosef found the reference endearing; the beast was as strong and irascible as his namesake of that mighty Judge of old.
Yosef had only purchased the creature about a year prior, but what a productive year it had been. The carpenter took all of his responsibilities most seriously, which had come to include training this animal. Many tricks and feats had come into his repertoire. At present, he only wanted for the donkey to move a little further away from his son. At the sound of a few clicks out of the side of one cheek and a gentle nudge from the man, Shimshon sidled over to the far side of the workshop and there sat in contentment, idly munching away at his oats.
Even after Yosef’s busying himself all those minutes in the workspace, Yeshua was as unresponsive as when his father had arrived.
“Now, what’s this, son of mine? I had figured that you would already have begun dovetailing the king post by now!”
Yeshua remained motionless, transfixed on the timber before him, almost staring straight through the thing. Yosef wondered what had come over his boy. Was this the onset of the sullen coming-of-age years they had been told to expect? Nothing was ever normal with him, anyhow. Nothing like his siblings. Nothing like his friends. Good as he was, being his father was an ongoing challenge, moreso than with the other children.
“I’m sorry, Abba. I didn’t mean to slacken the pace today. I just…”
It was even less like Yeshua to falter in his speech. He either spoke, or he listened, even as a child. What in Heaven’s Name had come over him?
Yosef sat next to him on the bench, being careful not to sit on top of their tzitzit, and placed his arm around him. He was filling out his frame, sinews taut with lean muscle. Nevertheless, coming of age or no, he was still too young, much too young for the heady things he grappled with. This weight, whatever it might be, was too much for those slender shoulders.
“Would you like to tell me whatever is the matter?”
“No, Abba… if only for your sake…”
Yosef looked at the pain in his face, heard the heaviness in his breathing, felt the tension in his fists.
“Well, my son, you are clearly disturbed. While I do not enjoy reminding you of this now, we still have much work to finish before the day is done. Would you speak with your father, please?”
At that, the tears welled up in Yeshua’s eyes once again. He steeled himself as if preparing to take a blow to the face, resolute to hang on for dear life.
“Is it another bully?”
Yeshua shook his head.
“Is it… a girl..?”
Again, he shook his head.
“Are you still upset about the chisel? Because the blacksmith has agreed to…”
It was nearly an outburst when Yeshua blurted out, “I received a vision, Abba… of the end of my days! I will die at the hands of Romans and Jews alike, nailed to a timber like this!”
Then he wept bitterly, unrestrained, desperate, like a maniac drowning, reaching frantic for a rope. The tears flowed freely into his father’s chest. Yosef held him tight, a bastion in the storm, full of compassion and alarm all at once. He had learned many things after the episode at the Temple last year. But, by the Holy Name, he was not prepared for this.
Yosef wondered if his little man had witnessed a crucifixion somehow. He knew that it was inevitable, that he would come to know the horror of such things. Nevertheless, he strove to keep all of his children from growing up too soon in the shadow of a darkened world. The roads they traveled, the schedules they kept. Yosef was scrupulous in his desire to keep his little ones innocent for as long as he possibly could. Few things ever went according to Yosef’s plans, all the more so with this particular child.
He wondered how no one from inside the house came to check on them. Years later, Yosef could never quite remember how long the wailing went on before they just continued to hold onto each other. For all the violence at the onset of that storm, the eye at its center was all the more tranquil.
Yeshua had come of age according to the traditions of their people, but had anyone ever fostered a messiah before? At what age was the future king supposed to come into the fulness of his maturity? In many ways, Yosef would make things up as they went along and hope to Gan Eden that all would be well. At this moment, however, his duties were abundantly clear. He would become an indominable granite wall of tenderness. He rocked his son back and forth like he would during his infancy.
As much as Yosef hated the grief in his son’s lament, he knew well enough to cherish the preciousness of this space in time, for it would soon depart beyond hope of return. The wings of childhood, once fully fledged, never carried the little soul back home. He would hold onto Yeshua as long as the grief-stricken child clung to him. Whatever the future may hold, this boy was not the messiah yet, by destiny perhaps, but not by stature, by no means. At the moment, he was nothing but a frightened 13-year-old coming to grips with his place in the world.
An age passed within that embrace.
Gently, Yosef asked, “Come, my son, and tell me true. Did your vision show that this would come to pass soon?”
“No, Abba. In the vision I was full grown, having come into my own, proclaiming my Father’s Kingdom to all Israel.”
Yosef hesitated a moment. He and Miriam had spent several weeks of restless nights arguing back and forth about the boy’s inexplicable behavior last year. Yosef did not understand. He couldn’t even pretend to begin to understand. But he would relent. He had learned not to take the “my Father” language personally. Whatever else was at work in Yeshua’s mind, otherworldly as that was in itself, Yosef knew that he had the boy’s love. Of that much he was certain. He always felt respected and enjoyed by this strange child. And he loved being called Abba… somehow even more especially whenever Yeshua said it.
Again, Yosef asked, “Well… does it happen with this piece of wood?”
Yeshua chuckled at that, albeit only a little. “No, Abba… this will become a fine rafter with nothing but good dreams and well-wishing affixed to it. That, and my insignia, hidden at the top.”
One thing this pious man had learned as the steward of a charge so demanding was never to attempt to argue away the boy’s convictions. Once Yeshua had come to certainty about something, there was no changing his mind after the fact. He was submissive in his posture all the way through, but his thoughts were his own. Yosef had learned to meet him where he was, wherever that happened to be. Whatever the situation, the father had to inhabit the parameters of Yeshua’s expressions if they were going to achieve anything in dialogue. It had long been clear that his son oriented himself to the world only from the ground of his own being when all was said and done.
“That is too bad, then. Assuredly I tell you, my son: if it meant saving you from the thought of such doom, I would have nailed myself to this beam right now and been done with it. Of course, that would have become somewhat difficult to explain to your mother!”
The smile that broke on Yeshua’s face glistened beneath the stain of his many tears. Even his short, curly hair seemed less morose. His big, almond eyes went from baleful to beautiful as he looked full in the face of his father.
“Oh! Abba, how I love you. I’m still so glad that my Father smiled upon me that I should have been born into your house. You have my heart in full. Truly. But you could no more take my place in this work that is set before me than you could replace Ima in the kitchen!”
Then, tears still wet on his face, he laughed. That great, raucous laugh that erupted from his belly and shook the sky. Angels’ breath – he always laughed so free. Sometimes Yosef thought that he heard other voices laughing along in the background of some other room right around the corner.
In spite of himself, Yosef laughed as well, and almost as loud. Even for the thick air of sadness, it was too true not to be funny. Yosef had been a master carpenter for many years, but he had never been anything but a miserable cook. No matter how hard he tried, he could never seem to produce anything worthwhile for his time in the kitchen. He so badly wanted to give his wife rest when he could. It took the children’s commensurate lack of appetites to put an end to those efforts. Miriam found it endearing anyway. But she wouldn’t eat much on those occasions, either.
After all these years and wonders, Yosef still didn’t understand the lad. But he had learned two things at least. In spite of appearances at times, Yeshua always intended obedience. And sometimes all that he needed was room to grow. Yosef continued to do his very best to give him that much.
“Would you like to go down to the spring, Yeshua?”
“Thank you, Abba, but we have dovetails to finish.”
Straightway Yeshua wiped his face, picked up his chisel and mallet, and resumed paring. Yosef joined him in the work with his new chisel. Every once in a while, the father would steal a glance at his son. Every other once in a while, Yeshua would gift him a brief smile, as sincere as it was reassuring.
After some time, Yosef rested his hand on Yeshua’s shoulder and, half pleading, half insisting,
“Let’s make no mention of this to your mother, agreed?”
“Amen,” said Yeshua.
No matter what manner of misunderstanding might disrupt their relationship at times, they were never anything but irrevocably united in their love for Miriam. She was often sharing with Yosef some newfound realization about her miracle child as she kept a perfect memory of anything that was ever spoken over him. This development, however, did not belong in her keeping. For the first time in Yosef’s married life, he decided to shield Miriam herself from some of the secrecy as he and Yeshua became exclusive confidantes in this matter. For the second time in Yosef’s married life, fidelity had just become more complicated.
They finished their day’s labors in a companionable silence. As soon as they could they hastened out of the workshop and rejoined the family at the hearth before sundown. Shabbat was drawing near.
Yosef would carry the pain of his son’s grief alone. No one could hear of it. No one. From then on, he would have to guard their silent conspiracy of two within the already delicate insurrection of a few.
It seemed that HaShem, His Name be praised, had disrupted Yosef’s plans once again. This was not the kind of conversation he was supposed to have with his son on this day. Instead of discussing the urgent matters of preparation and training, he found himself consoling his little man about this ridiculous vision of his own eventual demise.
This carpenter born of a great line of kings was a truly humble man, with a peaceful tranquility that emanated from his being. However, coming to grips with a revelation such as this rattled him all the way to his bones. It was too much for a father to bear. It was certainly too much for any man to bear alone.
As Yeshua left the workshop and entered the home, Yosef lingered by himself for a moment.
He cast a woeful glance to the sky. And he prayed.
“Our Father, Our King, by the Glory of the Throne, how would Heaven have me to steward a messiah doomed to die? Of all days to give him a vision! Surely, this cannot be the way of things…”
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