Traditions of Palestine/The Wilderness Gladdened/
THE
WILDERNESS GLADDENED.
On a sandy plain in the desert of Ziph, were huts scattered, wherein dwelt lepers who had been driven from Jericho and from Hebron. To these lepers, life seemed no longer to be desired, for weariness of body and sorrow of heart were their portion.
Two among them, Jotham who once dwelt in Mamre, and Philip of Jericho, lay on the ground within the hut, and spake mournfully one to the other, while the wintry blast chilled their aching limbs, and groans from without mingled with the sighing of the winds.
“Blaspheme not, my brother!” said Philip. “We have received good at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not also receive evil?”
“Am I thy brother?” cried Jotham. “I am brother to no man. I am cut off as if the sepulchre had closed over me. Would it were even so!”
“Alas! we are brethren,” replied Philip: “our lot is cast in the same place, and the days of our years must we fulfil in like sorrow of spirit. But we will endure, even as Job laid his finger on his lips and bowed himself.”
“The latter end of Job was greater than the beginning,” replied Jotham, “and the Lord recompensed unto him for all that he had borne. With us, shall it not be so. Our bones and our flesh decay as if we were already dead, and there is no hand that can heal us. Therefore mourn I that I have lived, and sigh for the day of my death.”
“Let us rather give thanks for the peace of former days.”
“Thou canst do thus, Philip, because thy spirit is not sunk as mine. Thou camest forth but of late; I have lingered here too long. The voices of glad spirits are yet in thine ear; but to me they are as a dream; and the dark thoughts of my heart are alone with me in the night seasons. Thou canst meditate on the teachings of the synagogue, though thy foot shall not again pass the threshold, and delight thyself in the feasts of our nation, though thou shalt go up to Zion no more. But from my memory the wisdom of the scribes hath departed; and as for rejoicing, I know no longer what it is. Only when the sun glares on the sandy plain, I remember the citron-groves of Mamre. The voice of the reapers also among the corn, and the mirth of children while the olives are shaken into the lap, come back unto me when the blast sweeps over us, as now."
He gathered his mantle round him as he trembled with the cold. Philip's frame was also shaken as he watered the ground with tears. Jotham had grieved his spirit; yet he reproached him not.
"If our limbs were strong to toil," said Jotham, after a while, "if our own hands could till the ground and gather food till we die, we might endure with a greater patience. Then no man should approach, and none should scorn or fear us. The eagle and the pelican alone should look upon us while we live, and none but the raven and the jackal should know where our bones are stretched on the earth. But our strength departeth in the day of youth. No leper diggeth the ground, or scattereth seed. What other hands give us, we eat; if they withhold, we die. When they scorn us, we cannot avenge ourselves; if they flee, we may not pursue. When they with whom we once abode draw nigh, we must retire. When they behold our vessels empty, they sigh; when the food they bring is not consumed, they rejoice that we are dead.”
“Nay, my brother!” said Philip, “afflict not thus thyself and me. Well I know that we shall rejoice no more in the seeing of the eye, and the hearing of the ear; yet I have hope; for I verily believe that there is a paradise beyond the sepulchre where we shall be gathered under the tree of life with Abraham our father, and with our brethren of Israel.”
“Let thy faith sustain thee even now then, while the tempest beateth on our dwellings,” said Jotham. “The time was when I battled with the storm, and gazed into the firmament for the lightning. But now fear hath seized me, though I desire to die; and when the mutterings of the earth and sky are heard, my spirit melteth in me.”
While he yet spake, clouds of sand were raised around the huts of the lepers. Thunders burst over head, and hail rattled as if the armies of heaven made war against the wretched few who abode in the desert. Philip and Jotham kept silence, for one was in terror and the other prayed. At length one who was also a leper entered with haste, and said that a wayfarer who had been warned from their abode, yet persisted to approach.
“He is a stranger in the land,” said Philip, as he rose to go forth. “He knoweth not wherefore we dwell apart, and seeketh shelter from the storm. I will warn him yet again, that the joy of his life be not periled by us.”
Jotham would fain have restrained him, for he yearned to behold once again the face of one who mingled among men, and could bring tidings of any who yet rejoiced in the light of the sun; but Philip went forth and cried with a strong voice in the blast. The words “Unclean! Unclean!” were heard by all the unclean, and by the stranger also. He beheld how the leper by his gestures forbade him to approach; yet he turned not to depart, but smiled and beckoned with his hand as he made greater speed.
The lepers crowded around him, when they found it was his will to abide until sunrise. He told them of the Prophet and his mighty works, and expounded unto them his doctrine; but he declared not that power had been given unto himself. They all sought to know more of the Saviour of Israel; and Philip, whose heart was given unto the Scriptures, had faith, and desired to learn of this great Teacher. Jotham believed not; for unto him no tidings were glad, and hope had left his heart long before.
The night wore away while the disciple yet opened unto them the gospel, and none were weary. A new life seemed to grow within them while they listened, and even Jotham uplifted his head from off his breast when the morning light beamed on the face of the stranger. The lepers gazed also one on another. Then was there great joy; for all were clean!
Philip was still, as before; but Jotham walked to and fro in the dwelling, exulting in the vigour of his limbs, and in the freedom with which he breathed.
One who had been maimed surveyed himself, and beheld that he was whole. Another, whose reason had become weak through misery, wondered in silence at the height and depth of his own thoughts. The disciple stood in the midst, and, as he looked around, he wept.
At length Philip spake and said, “Behold! our youth is renewed like the eagle’s. Let us bless Him who hath healed our diseases, and redeemed our life from destruction.”
“I am not worthy to join in thy thanksgiving,” cried Jotham, “for I believed not until now. I will pour out my shame apart, and seek help unto mine unbelief.”
“Fear not,” answered the disciple. “Thine was the unbelief of a wounded spirit. Faith came with thy joy, and thou art now as one of us. Let thy praise mingle with ours.”
When some came at even from a neighbouring city, as was their wont, to supply meat and drink unto the outcasts, they found the vessels filled as they had left them at noon. They supposed that the lepers had perished in the storm, and rejoiced. They listened for the cry of the jackal, but they heard it not. They looked whether the carrion-bird came from afar; but there was no flapping of wings in the air.
Meantime, they that had been lepers hastened on their way. When the roads parted, one after another turned aside towards his home; and a cry of joy arose as each departed to mingle again among his kindred.
Philip opened his heart unto the disciple as he journeyed, and told him of a sorrow which he had hidden until now. He had one son, a young child, on whom he feared that the curse of leprosy would light; and he besought the disciple to free this child from the taint.
“Upon me be it visited again,” he said, “so that the child may be pure. Mine own grief I bore willingly; but when I thought that my son should one day abide where I abode, and mourn as I mourned, my spirit groaned.”
“I knew not of this,” said Jotham. “Wherefore was it kept from me, for I would have sorrowed with thee?”
“It was between me and my God,” replied Philip; “and I would not grieve thy heart yet more than it was grieved already.”
Jotham looked down abashed, for he remembered that his complaint had been more bitter than Philip’s, though he had no wife from whom he was parted, and none for whom to fear but himself alone. Now, he could again rejoice and weep with those who rejoiced and wept; and he was therefore glad when the disciple promised to go unto Jericho, whither Philip was hastening.
These three were the last of the company; and at length Jotham also departed, turning aside towards Mamre.
The plain of Jericho, the garden of God, appeared to Philip as paradise to Adam when he first beheld, or as the land of promise to the wanderers of the wilderness. He had, for some months, seen no beauty in the forms of nature save the desolate grandeur of rocks and sandy plains. Now, the towers of Jericho arose from amidst fertile fields. Forests of palms and thickets of blossoming shrubs clothed the meadows, and Jordan rolled its full tide between banks which were clothed with willows. Philip had not hoped ever again to behold a silver stream, or to hear the lapse of waters, or the cry of the quail in the cornfields, or the murmur of men from the gates of a city. His eye surveyed the landscape, and at length fixed on a distant point of the horizon. The disciple, who watched him, inquired wherefore he gazed so steadfastly.
“Seest thou the blue hill which rises afar?” replied Philip. “It is Nebo, whither Jehovah led Moses to behold this land. To me it now appears fairer than in times past, when I sorrowed that the prophet might not enter. Now I also have abode in the desert, and to me this is a land flowing with milk and honey.”
“Was it on yonder space that our forefathers encamped when Balak summoned Balaam to curse them?” inquired the disciple.
“It was. And there, behold where the waters of Jordan parted, that the people of Jehovah might pass over: and beyond is the place where Elijah departed in glory. Our city is sanctified for ever, because prophets of the Lord have made it their abode.”
While Philip spoke, he still hastened onwards. While his spirit drank in the beauty and freshness which greeted every sense, it thirsted for somewhat more. His eye sought the roof beneath which his wife and his son and his kindred were gathered: but the sun was sinking behind the hills. His last rays gilded their summits, and the towers alone of the city rose above the grey shadow which spread over the plain.
At the gate which they approached, some men of the city were assembled, as was their wont at eventide. On either side of the gate were trees, and beneath the trees were seats, whereon the old men sat to give counsel, and the judges to award the law, and the young to see how strangers came to and fro, and to hear what tidings they brought. This night they regarded not the strangers, for a disciple of Jesus talked with them. The aged men leaned each on his staff, and bent to hear: the youths sat at his feet, and gazed upon his face, while many questioned, one with another, concerning the things which he said. Philip passed through the midst and they saw him not. He beheld there a friend of many years; yet he would not tarry, for his home was near. Not so passed the disciple. He who taught in the gate beheld him, and came down from his seat, and embraced him gladly, and blessed him in the name of Christ: so that they who stood by observed how great was the love of the disciples one to another.
They followed Philip, and saw afar off how he bowed his head as he reached the gate of his dwelling. The gate was not opened to his knock, and many voices were heard from within, as if the court was filled with the murmur of tongues. When at length the master and his guests were admitted, the kindred and slaves who stood near uttered a cry of horror, and fled from Philip as if to touch him were death. “Unclean!” was their cry; and it was heard into the inner chambers. The lattices which had been opened were instantly closed, and signs of wrath and fear were made by those who retreated behind the fountain. Philip opened his lips to speak, but there was no voice, for his soul was sick with hope deferred. The disciple raised his hand, but ere he could speak, the joyous shout of a child was heard, and the young son of Philip burst from the grasp of the slave who held him, and sprang to his father’s bosom.
“Thou, thou alone, my first-born, my blessed one!” murmured Philip as he hid his face in the bosom of his child—“Thou alone fearest me not.” Thus saying, he retired again within the porch, for none might see how he wept over his child.
Then the disciples told wherefore be had returned, and all pressed forward with joy to give him welcome; but the disciples restrained them, for they knew that Philip mourned because his wife came not forth to meet him. While they yet inquired concerning her, a woman came in haste from the inner chamber, with joy in her countenance; and she declared that a daughter was born unto Philip. Then the disciples knew why the kindred were assembled, and why the wife of Philip came not out to meet him, and they told him these things with joy.
When his new-born child was placed in his bosom, and music resounded through the dwelling, and a song of rejoicing was uplifted in the court, Philip was humbled in spirit, marvelling that such an one as himself should be crowned with loving kindness and tender mercies.
Life was now fair in his eyes to whom, of late, its promise seemed blighted for ever. His sojourn in the desert had been but for half the year that was gone; but he had believed that it would be till death, and therefore had his days been as years. Now his heart was glad with every rising sun; his spirit was soothed each night when the stars came forth.
When the disciples taught in the gate, he also glorified God: when the people went up to the synagogue, he entered with them to keep holy day. He gave the name to his new-born child, and blessed the cup at the feast of kindred; and when he retired to the chamber of prayer, he knew that the wife of his bosom was nigh at hand, that his children slumbered near, and that worship was rising like incense to mingle with his own, from many who dwelt around. Above all, he trusted to behold Zion once more. He waited but the end of the days of purification, and then with his wife he purposed to join a company of pilgrims who were going up to the temple. There he trusted to behold the hope of Israel.
The disciples departed from Jericho by night, privately. Philip went with them on their way, till the dawn broke over the hills of Judah. When they had blessed him, trusting to meet at Jerusalem at the Passover, he returned homewards alone. He looked towards the holy city, and remembered what was being done in the temple; how the breath of the morning was fanning the flame on the altar, and how the sacrifice was preparing whose smoke would soon ascend into the clear heaven. This day he was to set his face thither-ward; and it seemed to him that the morning arose in blessedness. The springing grain was bright with dew. The early forest trees put forth their shoots, and Jordan gleamed in the crimson light of the east.—Philip sorrowed to leave this place, even though his desire was great to see Jerusalem.
The company to which he joined himself was small. Some among them went to seek the Prophet, but a few despised the superstition of their companions. As they entered towns and villages, the inquiry ever was whether they believed in Jesus of Nazareth. In every town and village were some who believed, and with such did Philip and his wife find an abode. With such did they commune till the midnight watch, and exchange a greeting as soon as the cock crew. They knew not fatigue; and to love as brethren those who believed was a refreshment to their souls.
There was a desert place in the way, where there was no shelter of groves, or springing of water. The pilgrims passed at early dawn, purposing to rest during the heat of the day, among a company of the Essenes who had settled on a fruitful spot in the midst of the desert. As they proceeded, they sang to beguile the way, and the caves of the rocks resounded to the song. If the path was toilsome, or the heats oppressive to the weak and timid, they who were stronger comforted them, saying, “Jehovah is thy guardian, thy shade upon the right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. Jehovah preserveth thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth and for evermore.”
At the fourth hour they arrived in sight of the dwellings of the Essenes. They were cottages placed beneath the spreading date-trees, and surrounded by fertile fields. The beauty of this Oasis was as striking as the barrenness of the desert around its borders. In the midst, a fountain of sweet water rose beneath a rock, and lower down the waters were collected in a cistern. At this cistern stood one of the brotherhood, when the company of pilgrims approached. His white garment was girded about him, and his staff lay by his side. He looked not around till the travellers saluted him, and then his salutation was grave. He offered hospitality in like manner, pointing out a space overshadowed by trees where they might repose themselves till the cool of the day. The company looked upon him with awe, and silently disposed themselves to rest beneath the shade. To Philip all things were yet fair and new, and he loved to look abroad on whatever met the eye, and to hearken to all the voices of nature. Therefore, when the lowing of oxen was heard from the field, and men were seen guiding the plough, and scattering seed into the furrows, he left his wife reposing by the fountain, and went forth into the glare of the sun to inquire of the brotherhood concerning their customs, and the end for which they separated themselves from the world. Their words were few, and they spoke gravely, though mildly, while pursuing their labours. Philip found that though fruits abounded, and honey was gathered from the hollow trees, and plenty was spread over the fields, it was not for themselves that the Essenes laboured to produce what was fair to the eye and pleasant to the taste. Their food was bread and herbs, and they drank only of the fountain. Their toil was from the day-spring till sun-set, and their sleep was shortened lest sloth should overcome them. To minister to others they rose up and toiled, and all that they sought for themselves was liberty to meditate and pray until they should become holy.
As Philip passed on from one to another, all spoke in like manner, till he observed that one afar off rested on his spade to gaze on the stranger. Towards him Philip hastened, hoping that he would communicate more freely than his brethren.
It was Jotham of Mamre.
“My brother!” cried Philip, “wherefore hast thou departed from Mamre? I believed that its groves had been as paradise unto thee.”
“They were so in former years,” replied Jotham, who yet hung on the embrace of Philip, as if his heart yearned towards him; “but now, all is changed. They whom I loved are dead, or are gone I know not whither. Men looked strange on me when I met them in the gate; and when I passed into the vineyards, the vine-dressers ceased not their song, nor regarded me. The aged men looked askance on me as I sat among them under the fig-tree, and with the young men who wrestled and hunted I had nothing to do. I sought out one who had been an old man in the days of my youth; he still lived; but his memory had departed from him, and he looked on me strangely, and shook his head when I spake of former days. One other whom I had loved, hath had his heart hardened by riches: and seeing that I had nothing, and was without friends, he burnt perfume before me as soon as I had entered, that I might immediately depart. I did depart that very hour, and I will return to Mamre no more.”
“Wherefore camest thou not unto Jerusalem?”
“Thither I went to offer my gift of purification, and when I greeted the city from the Mount of Olives, my spirit was once more glad. But within, all was desolate—yea, amidst crowds. I was alone where all other men were as brethren, and the worship itself seemed changed, because none worshiped with me. Therefore I came hither, and here I shall be in peace, for I am even as others. If I am alone, at least I see no man lying in the bosom of another.—With thee all is well, for a light is in thine eye, and gladness in thy step. May Jehovah prosper thee, and maintain peace within thy dwelling!”
“But the new law, my brother!” said Philip. “Dost thou not follow it?”
“I believe in the prophet Jesus, and I purpose to obey his teachings.”
“In this place?”
“Wherefore not? Doth he forbid to toil, to deny ourselves, to do good, to minister to the sick, to meditate, to commune with Jehovah all the day long?”
“Nay, but his disciples go forth into the world to teach his doctrine.”
“To some it is given to teach, but not unto me. It is sufficient that my hands toil, and my heart giveth thanks.”
“Though thou art lonely, thou givest thanks?”
“Yea; for my loneliness is not as the solitude of the desert. My limbs are strong, and my spirit at peace. The water sparkles beneath the rock, and the murmur of bees is heard in the still noon. There is fragrance in the air, and the voice of prayer is as music to mine ear. My soul is filled with good.”
Philip told how blessing abounded also unto himself, and would have led him where the pilgrims ate their noontide meal in the shade; but Jotham replied,
“Not so, my brother! for I mingle not with men, save to tend the sick. Go thou, and when thou thinkest on me, let it be with peace. Unto thee Zion shall be glorious, for thou rejoicest with thy people. Unto thee the sacrifice shall be joyful, for the wife of thy bosom sacrificeth with thee. Unto thy soul the music of the Levites shall be sweet, for the echoes of the temple shall send back familiar voices upon thine ear. I, too, will rejoice; I also will worship: but my rejoicing is that a well-spring of life hath burst forth in the desert. The fragrance of the morning shall be the incense of my sacrifice; and as the murmur of waters in the caves of the sea, shall praise be everlasting in the depths of my spirit.”