#198: Lamb Tales from Jerusalem

...Well, quite some years have passed and honestly, no ram gets to live as long as I have. My mates are all gone. Even the younger generation. I am LAMB of the previous story witnessing our Savior's birth. Only I am no longer a lamb. I should be what you'd call a grandfather, except Sheep, don't keep family rites, especially the males. We just live. Neither ending nor beginning. But call me LAMB.

The dust of the Negev has given my shaggy coat a nearly exotic red tint. Our Trek is punctuated by short stops to rest and water the livestock. We travel more at night when it's cooler. The days are treacherous. Ima is long dead (Hashem bless her heart). I smile faintly in recollection. I shall face a similar fate at the end of this journey. I mean, what ram lives to be 30 and 3 years... A low chuckle escapes my throat. There's a little dust devil to the west of us. Our caravan leader doesn't think it will delay us at all. A man with some metal instruments carelessly declares that the mini monsoon wouldn't even come across our way. Our leader seems to believe him. I do too.

It is almost mid-morning now. We've stopped to rest by one of Jacob's Wells. It is Samaritan territory. The people in our caravan are of a different descent but all are heading to Jerusalem for this feast of the Passover. We have come in good time. From our resting place, we can see the city on its perch and the unmistakable tuft of red fur on metal helmets. The Roman soldiers. This means that the Pilate is in town. Rumour has it that he has come to the Hebrew capital because of his wife who is of Jewish descent. There is already so much noise. Most if not all of the sheep are jittery and frightened. I am not. The noise isn't strange to me. No. It feels like Bethlehem that Ima told me of in her story. After the day's rest, we set off again by Twilight. Our leader believes that by morning we will have made it to the front of the Great Gates of David's City.

Our arrival is just like any other caravan in the town. The soldiers let us through without any hassle and we sheep are herded toward the Temple Mount. Some Levies take over charge of us and confine us to pens in groups of 39. During this separation, I notice the people talking excitedly and gesturing wildly toward me. The Priest seems to have a hard time believing whatever it is that the Drover tells him. I notice him casting dark looks toward me. For the first time, I feel scared. Soon the Drover leaves. The Priest gestures toward me and I find myself being removed from my group and taken to a separate pen alone. The entrance is blocked. "Seems you're the chosen one here this time, eh lad?" a scratchy voice behind me makes me move toward the edge of my pen. It is an old mother sheep.

"Chosen one?" I ask perturbed. "I, I don't understand. I was brought here along with my herd and suddenly I find myself being taken away to stay alone. What's going on?" I ask. With a sigh, she explains to me that all Rams places in this particular pen never come back again. Cold chills grip me here. "Where do they go?" I ask softly. "Why, no one really knows laddie. We never see them again that's for sure" she turns her head to carefully chew her cud. No sheep is sacred or death you see, we all anticipate it. It is part of our living. However, we usually die where other sheep can see us, not alone. Never alone. And this was what gave me so much cause to worry. I remember with a shiver how the mother sheep said her lambs had been taken away from her while they were still in milk. She never saw them again.

It's a new day. The day of the Passover. I lay sleeping in a comfortable corner of my pen. It's still dawn. Amidst a lot of noise, I am hustled out of the pen by my horns and led out. I have no idea where I'm going yet. But as I leave, I lock eyes with the mother sheep. She doesn’t say anything but her eyes are full of sadness. I turn away.

The path is rocky and cobblestoned. My hooves hurt. I wonder why there are many people on the streets as we pass. But I also notice something else. There is a Man beside me. He is bloody, beaten, dirty, tired, and weak. Yet on His shoulders, He carries a large beam. He barely crawls under the weight of it. The Red fur tufts lash at Him mercilessly. There is nothing good looking about Him. I am about to turn my gaze away when as if by chance, He looks at me. My heart stops. For a fraction of a second, He stares at me, and I feel safe. The jagged edges of a Roman who screams through the air as it lands and gashes His exposed skin. His blood spatters around. Some of it touches me. Suddenly, I don't feel scared or tired anymore. He turns away as a woman offers Him some water.

Somewhere along the path, we part ways. My Levite leads me toward a stone edifice. It is covered with blood, dried and dark. Still, no fear touches me. I am bound and hoisted unto the stone table. The seat is uncomfortable because I am placed on wood. A well-garbed Priest raises a knife over me. I stretch my neck forth. I feel really safe. I have lived for long after all. Somehow, my eyes are taken up to look ahead. I see three crosses but the Man is on one of them. In the middle. I look carefully and straight at Him. His head hangs. Suddenly, He cries out and immediately after, the whole place goes dark. The knife falls from the Priest's hand. A young man comes running toward us screaming at the top of his voice "The Temple curtain has been torn apart!! The Most Holy Place is exposed!!". Everybody leaves me and runs off. It is dark but somehow, I look toward Golgotha and I am grateful to the Man of Sorrows. I lay there for some time and after what seems like an eternity, the darkness begins to clear up. I look at my hooves and discover that the ropes have fallen off. I leap down from what could have been my sacrificial altar and stretch. Shabbat is tomorrow. I will rest. With my mind at Peace, I walk off into the thickets. No owner, no master, I only know of one Man. My Savior.

These thoughts have characterized my life ever since. A beautiful exchange! I felt it. Because of my Saviour, my life was spared. He paid the price for me.

-Written by Kauna MaiDaraja (Precious Marcus)