loren wilkinson | a time to be born

I

     You there.  Would you mind moving so I can see the priest?  Thank you. 

     Never seen you here before.  Up for Caesar's census I suppose.  

     Don't mind me, but at my age, it's easier to ask other folks to move than to do the moving yourself.  You'll find out one day, though I don't suppose you give that too much thought just yet. And by the time you do, I won't be around to listen to your version. 

     The worst part of it is, there's nothing more to do.  It used to be -- like the preacher said -- there was a time for everything.  Everything under heaven.  A ti`me to plant, a time to heal, a time to love.  But that's all gone now.  What could I plant, with these legs?  I can hardly get to the temple anymore, let alone to the fields.  And heal?  My hands shake too much for that, even if they were healing hands.  Which they aren't.  I suppose I could love, if there were someone to love.  But another bad thing about being old is that everyone you want to love is dead.  My wife died years ago.  We never had a baby.  Not even one.

(Long pause. When he speaks again, he has shifted to a deeper level of self-revelation.)

 

     My wife's name was Sarah.  I used to think -- just to myself, I never told anyone -- that maybe we'd be like Abraham and Sarah: that in our old age maybe God would give us a child. I used to dream -- what Jew doesn't -- that our child would be the one promised.  You know.  The annointed one.  The deliverer.

     I was still a boy when the Romans came.  Then I thought maybe that was a time to kill.  But we saw soon enough that there was no future in killing Romans.  So we learned to hate.  The preacher said that too, you know: a time to hate.  We hated, and

we waited.  Waited for a saviour.  We've never needed one more.  

     I don't think anyone ever hoped for a son more than we did -- or believed more that God would give us one.  A time to be born: we hoped that, for our son.  Why couldn't the Lord of the universe give us a son?  He gives some people more sons than they can feed -- and daughters, too.  I've seen him give sons to Samaritan sluts who'd do anything to get rid of them.  But like Abraham and Sarah we hoped till it was foolish, and kept on hoping.  Then she died, and that was that.

     That's the truest thing the preacher said: a time to die. And the thing about being old is that's all that's left.  So I read the preacher a lot.  I know that book like a rabbi. Listen:"It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting, for death is the destiny of every man; the living should take this to heart."

     Don't know why I'm telling you all this.  I suppose it's because you're a stranger, and I've no reason to hide anything. 

     You see, another bad thing about being old is that people make you out to be wiser than you are.  Wiser and better.  Since Sarah died I've got myself a reputation for righteousness.  Ask anyone around.  "Old Simeon," they'll say, "He's a God-fearing man. Goes every day to the Temple."  And God help me, I let them say it.  "A good name is better than fine perfume."  But he also said the day of death is better than the day of birth, and I keep that to myself, usually.  

     Don't know what's into me today.  All these crowds, I suppose.  Makes me angry.  Caesar counting his slaves.  Oh, go on, go on.  You'll want to see the sights.  I'll just sit here and watch them bring the babies to the priest.

 

II

 

     So!  You came back to the temple, did you?  I saw you here yesterday.  That's good.  Most of you out-of-town visitors come only once.  No, don't go.  Don't blame you for trying though. I'd run too, from a garrulous old hypocrite like myself.  But I want to tell you one more thing.

     They think I'm a godly man: godly and devout.  Because I'm always in the Temple.  Well, they're right: I do go to the temple everyday.  But it isn't to pray.  Don't pray much anymore, since Sarah died.  I go to the Temple to prove God wrong.  No, wait. Listen.  I've got my reasons.

     God spoke to me once.  Just once.  It was after Sarah died, the day I buried her.  I was up on the roof, and the stars were there, the stars like Abraham's children.  It had been hot all day, but a wind was blowing from outside the city.  It smelled like pastures.  Sarah had loved that night wind from the hills. Many a night we had spent on the roof, waiting for the wind, talking of the child who never came.  Very... peaceful, those

nights together.  But with Sarah gone from me...  

     There was a lot of noise over at the Roman fort – soldiers drunk, it sounded like.

     And I just got mad at God.  "How long are you going to make us wait?" I said.  "What are you up to, anyway?  Are you going to cheat Israel like you cheated Sarah and me?"  I didn't really care whether our son was the Messiah.  I just wanted a son.  Or a daughter.  Something so our life wouldn't be empty, empty, like the preacher says it is.  Sarah wanted to be a mother, and now she's dead.  And I wanted to be a father, and I'm as good as dead.

     I went on like that for a long time, lying on my back, whispering to the stars, which were all I ever saw of God. UntilI just turned my face to the mat and wept.  Cried like a baby, and me already an old man, way back then.

     Finally I was through crying.  Everything was quiet.  The only sound was a little whisper of the wind -- a dawn wind, now. It still smelled like grass and old sheep.  I lay a long time listening to that wind.  And then, God spoke.  It wasn't much of an answer, really.  But I heard it very clearly in the wind, in my head.  "Just wait," he said, "You'll see what I'm doing. Before you die.  You'll see the son you're waiting for.  You'll see my salvation.  Just wait."

     I don't know what he meant.  Still don't.  But I got up, washed, and came up here to the Temple.  He promised a son, and if it's not mine then it will be somebody else's.  All the sons born around here get brought to the Temple.  So I watch for them right here.  Every day.  If the promised one gets brought – well then I'll know that at least for God there's still a time to be born.  But if God doesn't show me any different -- then I'll know God was wrong, and the preacher was right.  There's only left a time to die.  

       It's soon for me, I think.  God was wrong.  Emptiness, emptiness.  Everything is emptiness.  A chasing after wind.  A stillborn child is better than we who live.  Go on.  I'm through.

III

 

     You're here again!  Good.  I've got to talk to you.  To you in particular.  

     I've seen the baby.  It was very clear to me.  I was wrong. That's not easy for an old man to say, but I was wrong.  I've seen our Salvation: yours, mine, everybody's.  Even the Romans'. 

     Here.  Sit down.  I've got to tell you, and it's not easy to make it clear.  Sit.

     I was sitting here as usual, looking holy.  Inside (you know, I told you) I was mad at God.  Still waiting for a baby, watching all the folks that brought their sons to the priest.  I watched these two come up the steps even before I knew.  Just another couple with a baby.  Poor folks.  Looked like the doves they brought to the priest were just about all they could afford. I was about to look for somebody else when I heard it again: God's voice, like that time on the roof, after Sarah died.  "That's the one," he said.  There wasn't any doubt.

     I got to them before they got to the priest.  "Can I bless that child?" I said.  Kind of surprised they were, but I think it wasn't the first time.  She handed me the baby.  Just a baby. Nothing special about it, except what God told me.  And when I held it, God told me more.  I found myself praying.  Really praying, not just looking holy.  I wasn't angry any more.

     Then I looked at the mother.  You know, I thought of Sarah. Just a girl, like when I married her.  The same big eyes. Joyful, sad... and wise.  Like Sarah.  For a moment I almost thought she was Sarah, and...  "He's going to change things in Israel," I told her.  "But he's going to suffer before it's over. So will you.  It'll be like a sword in your soul."  I knew a lot of things then I still don't understand.  

     I handed back the baby.  He's the promised one, all right. He's the Saviour.  But it's not the Romans he's going to save us from.  

     I feel like dancing.  The preacher said that, too: a time to dance.  

     You probably won't see me here again.  I'm a very old man. You're young enough to see the whole thing.  Just wait, and watch.  

     These eyes have seen my salvation.  These old arms have held it.  Now I can go in peace.