“He said he wouldn’t blame you if you did. But I’ll be there to guarantee that you don’t. You’ll have to kill me first. He’s my brother, Joshua, and God’s anointed king.”
“Why don’t you go see him, Joshua?” Miriam pleaded. “Confront your enemy like you’ve longed to all these years, and get it over with. Then we can go home to Elephantine Island and live in peace.”
Joshua closed his eyes as he pondered the idea. “All right. Tell Manasseh I’ll see him tomorrow.”
29
Joshua arose before dawn and crept out of the house without waking Miriam. He hadn’t slept. Rage and bitterness had robbed his peace and choked off his breath. He had agreed to meet with Manasseh before the morning sacrifice, in the meadow where the Gihon Spring used to be. Wary of being caught in a trap, Joshua arrived there first to make certain that Manasseh’s men weren’t lying in wait to ambush him. As he sat down on the low stone wall surrounding the olive grove, he almost wished his enemy would prove deceitful and provide him with an excuse to kill him. Joshua wore his dagger in plain sight, but after all these years, he hated Manasseh enough to kill him with his bare hands.
The sky above the Mount of Olives was already light by the time Manasseh emerged through the Water Gate. He brought no bodyguards with him—only Amariah. The prince looked healthy and robust in comparison as he walked beside him. Manasseh leaned heavily on his arm, and Amariah might have been the white-haired king’s son instead of his brother. Joshua watched them make their way down the winding ramp and suddenly recalled the day Manasseh had raced him to the bottom, his body lean and muscular, his legs pumping effortlessly while Joshua had struggled to keep up. Now Manasseh’s body looked thin and feeble, showing the ravages of his imprisonment. As his enemy drew near, Joshua saw the sickly gray pallor of his skin. His scarred nose appeared misshapen from the bronze hook the Assyrians had used. Joshua felt no pity at all. Manasseh deserved so much more. He deserved to die.
The king stopped fifteen feet away from Joshua. He looked subdued, all of his old arrogance gone. He cleared his throat nervously, and when he spoke, his voice was that of a very old man.
“Joshua . . . I can hardly believe—”
“I want to know where my father is buried!”
The question seemed to take Manasseh by surprise. “I . . . I don’t know,” he stammered. “I’m sorry . . . I never thought . . . But I’ll ask. I’ll find someone who was there, who remembers.”
Joshua stepped closer. His lungs seemed as tightly clenched as his fists. “I hate you, Manasseh! I hate you with every ounce of strength I have! You have no idea how badly I want to kill you right now, so you’d better say what you have to say before I lose control and do it!” The king stared at him open-mouthed, as if too shaken to speak. Joshua grew impatient. “What do you want with me?” he shouted.
“I . . . I want to talk to you about the Day of Atonement. Rabbi Gershom taught us that we should confess and repent of all the sins we’ve committed against God and against other people . . . and I . . . when I remember all that I’ve done . . . I hardly know where to begin.” Manasseh couldn’t meet Joshua’s gaze. His fingers moved restlessly while he talked, plucking at his hair, his beard, the folds of his clothes. His entire body had a slight tremor to it, his head wobbling continuously, like a man with palsy. “If it’s possible, I’d like to make amends for all the pain I’ve caused you and ask forgiveness from you and all the other people I’ve hurt—”
“You don’t deserve to be forgiven!”
“I . . . I know. . . . It’s true. When I was in prison and all the props I depended on, like power and wealth and false gods, were taken from me, I was left with only myself—the real me—and I hated myself. If I were God, I wouldn’t forgive me, either. I’ve ignored His Laws and offended His holiness for most of my life, and I could well imagine how great His anger and wrath must be as He prepared to punish me as I deserved. I was filthy with guilt. Unlovable, unworthy . . .” Manasseh’s voice suddenly broke, and he paused. “But when I cried out to Him in desperation, He looked down on me—stinking, loathsome, and shivering with fear—and He lowered himself to that terrible prison where I lay waiting. He came down to me . . . and He took away my guilt and He washed me clean. Then . . . then He gathered me into His arms. God stood waiting for me all this time, not with wrath but with mercy, ready to forgive.”
A picture formed briefly in Joshua’s mind of Nathan shivering with guilt and fear as he lay on the Egyptian riverbank after the pagan festival. Joshua saw himself bending down in pity to gather his son into his arms. But before Joshua could bring the picture into focus, the scene was abruptly shattered by the sound of his enemy’s voice.
“I want to repent. I want to change,” Manasseh said, “but I don’t know where to begin. I don’t want to do the things I did before, but how do I stop? The old impulses are still there, the old habits. I’ve listened to lies for so long that I no longer remember the truth. And Zerah manipulated me for so long that I can’t think for myself anymore. I know I need to start all over, but my life is an empty void without idolatry. Please help me, Joshua. Help me turn the nation around. It’s so much easier to lead people into sin than it is to lead them back to God.”
“I don’t want anything to do with you or your evil reign!” Joshua said bitterly. “You deserve the same measure of mercy that you showed your son when you tossed him into the flames! The same mercy you showed my father and Rabbi Isaiah. You don’t deserve a second chance, Manasseh, so don’t ask me for one.”
“You’re right, I don’t deserve mercy. When I was praying I imagined that the heavenly hosts had slammed all the doors and windows of heaven shut against my prayer so that God wouldn’t hear it. Even the angels know that Yahweh is a God of mercy and compassion. They didn’t want me to be forgiven any more than you do. But God opened a hole beneath His throne of grace to hear my prayer so that sinners for all time would know that no one is beyond the reach of His grace. If God could forgive someone like me—”
“I don’t want to hear any more of this!” Joshua shouted. The weight on his chest had grown so heavy it threatened to suffocate him. “How can you expect me or any of the other people you’ve harmed to ever forgive you? How dare you even ask!”
“I know I have no right to ask you, any more than I had a right to ask God’s forgiveness. But then I remembered the last words your father ever said to me.”
Joshua held his breath, waiting to hear them, waiting to hear Abba speak to him one last time.
“On the day Eliakim died,” Manasseh began, “on the day that I unjustly condemned him to death . . . he looked me in the eye and told me that he forgave me.”
“You’re lying!” Joshua cried out. “I don’t believe you!”
Manasseh met Joshua’s gaze for the first time. “Then you didn’t know your father very well.”
Of all the emotional blows Joshua had suffered over the past two days, this was the hardest one for him to endure. If Abba had forgiven Manasseh, then he would have wanted Joshua to forgive him, too. But Joshua knew that was utterly impossible.
“I don’t believe any of it! Go look at what you’ve done to Yahweh’s Temple and to this nation, then tell me how God could possibly forgive you!”
“I . . . I know—”
“He didn’t forgive you, Manasseh, and I won’t, either!”
Joshua couldn’t bear to look at his enemy a moment longer. He couldn’t listen to another word. He turned his back and ran down the path to the Kidron Valley, his vision blinded by rage.
Miriam watched helplessly as her husband struggled for air. Ever since his meeting with King Manasseh early this morning, his breathing had grown more and more labored as the day progressed. Joshua had talked of leaving to return to Egypt, but he was much too ill to begin the journey. He tried sitting, lying down, bending double, pacing the floor, but nothing seemed to help him breathe any easier. It was close to midnight, and neither of them had slept. The sound of Joshua g
asping, coughing, and wheezing made Miriam sick with fear.
“Joshua, please let me send for a physician,” she begged.
“It won’t help. . . . They don’t know . . . what to do . . . for breathing attacks. . . .”
O God, help him! she pleaded silently. She knew Joshua wouldn’t pray. He had gone into his private tunnel, into the darkness, away from God. She was desperate to bring him back before his own bitterness killed him.
“You’re doing this to yourself,” she told him. “You have to get rid of your anger and hatred before they strangle the life from you!”
“How? The only way to get rid of what I feel is to kill him!”
“But that wouldn’t be the end of it, Joshua. You’re not just angry with Manasseh, you’re angry with God.”
Joshua sank down on a bench, then stood again a moment later, the struggle for air making him restless. “How could God forgive Manasseh?” he raged. “It’s impossible! Manasseh didn’t pay for all his sins or for all the innocent blood he shed. God’s Law demands justice! His holiness demands justice!”
“Are there limits to God’s forgiveness, Joshua? Are there some sins that He’ll forgive and others that He punishes?”
Joshua’s pale skin had a bluish tinge when he whirled to face her. “Do you want me to list all the sins Manasseh has committed? Murder, infanticide, idolatry, witchcraft, sorcery, divination, sodomy—” He began to cough and couldn’t finish.
“If there is a limit we can exceed,” she said when he was quiet, “if Manasseh can’t be forgiven, then where does that leave all of us? We are all without hope.”
“Why should he get a second chance? He didn’t just murder my father and grandfather, he ruined my life!”
“Your own hatred did you more harm than Manasseh ever did. That’s what’s making you so sick right now. You’re angry because God forgave him. And because God is asking you to forgive him, too.”
“It’s impossible! How can I forgive all the years of pain he caused me? Or the debt of justice he owes my family? I can’t forget what he’s done, Miriam.”
“You’re right; it’s impossible. But God isn’t asking you to forget. And He isn’t asking you to condone it. He’s asking you to forgive Manasseh in spite of what he’s done.” Miriam grabbed his heaving shoulders to make him stop pacing and forced him to look at her. “When you forgive someone, you make a choice to cancel the debt he owes you.”
“Like you forgave me for killing your father?” he asked angrily. “That’s what you’re reminding me of, isn’t it?”
“Forgiveness is costly, Joshua. We pay the price ourselves when we choose to cancel the debt.”
Joshua’s wheezing voice dropped to a whisper as he slowly suffocated. “Manasseh doesn’t deserve forgiveness.”
“Listen to you! I thought you wanted to serve God, like your father and grandfather did!” Miriam was sorry to be shouting, but she was desperate to save his life. “You can’t serve God by doing the opposite of what He does! You have to forgive because God forgives! Otherwise, do you know what’s going to happen? You’re going to die separated from God while Manasseh, who did evil his entire life, will die reconciled!”
Joshua gazed at her in astonishment. “That’s impossible. . . .” He sank into a chair, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his lungs rasping painfully. “Would you get me a drink of water, please?” he asked quietly.
Miriam blinked in surprise. Joshua never asked her to wait on him. “Of course,” she said after a moment. She left him sitting there and limped outside to the cistern, unsure how she would manage to carry a drink and use her crutches at the same time. She solved the problem by searching for an empty wineskin with a leather strap, rinsing it out, and refilling it from the cistern. After looping the strap over her shoulder, she made her way back into the house. The room seemed darker to her. Then she noticed that one of the oil lamps was missing from its lampstand. Joshua was gone.
“O God, no!” she cried. Miriam could barely maneuver on Jerusalem’s uneven streets in daylight; it would be impossible to follow Joshua at night, especially with no way to carry a lamp. Besides, she had no idea where he’d gone. As she wept with helplessness and fear for his life, she suddenly thought of Nathan. She had to find Nathan.
It seemed to take Miriam forever to hobble the short distance in the dark to the stall they’d rented in the marketplace, longer still for someone to answer her frantic pounding on the shuttered door.
Joel looked sleepy and confused when he finally opened it. “Miriam? What on earth . . . ?” He helped her inside. Nathan sat up on his pallet a moment later.
“What’s wrong?”
“Joshua’s having a breathing attack,” she told them. “A bad one. But he’s angry and upset and he left the house and I don’t know where he went or where to look for him.”
“Maybe it’s better if you just let him go,” Joel said. “Maybe he needs some time alone.”
Miriam shook her head. “That’s the worst thing I could possibly do when he gets this way. He goes inside himself, into his own dark tunnel, and he needs me to help him find his way out again.”
Nathan scrambled to his feet. “I think I know where he might be.”
“Where?”
“Stay here, Miriam. I’ll find him.”
Joshua held the oil lamp in his right hand, feeling along the clammy wall with his left as he slowly groped his way through the meandering tunnel. He had only been inside it once before, with his father, but the suffocating darkness, the weight of the rock closing in around him, the terrible heaviness bearing down on top of him, were all so familiar it was as if he had been inside this tunnel many times. The icy water grew deeper as he sloshed through it, the passageway narrower, like his lungs as he struggled to breathe.
He inched his way forward, searching for nearly ten minutes before he found what he was looking for: Abba’s inscription. He held the light close to read the words his father had chiseled into the stone, feeling them with his fingers. Behold the tunnel . . .
Those were the only words he managed to read before a spasm of coughing overwhelmed him. As he fought to catch his breath, the lamp jostled in his hand. The wick sputtered and sank beneath the oil. The flame died. Joshua plunged into total darkness.
“Abba!” he cried out in panic. But his father was dead, and his heavenly Father was too far away to hear his cries. He knew that his own anger and unforgiveness had separated him from God. They were the true source of his darkness, just as Miriam had said. When he’d turned his back on God, he had walked away from the only Source of light.
Joshua’s limbs went numb with terror. He wanted to run from this terrible black void, but he was too dizzy and disoriented to move. He shivered, shaken to realize that Manasseh had lived in this eternal darkness, this midnight of the soul, for most of his life; now Joshua was lost in it, too. How would he ever find his way out?
Suddenly, above the sound of his panicked gasps, Joshua thought he heard a noise. He held his breath, listening.
“Abba?”
At first he thought it was a ghostly echo of his own cry. Then he heard it again. “Abba? . . . Abba, are you in here?”
Joshua recognized Nathan’s voice, heard the sound of his feet splashing through the water.
“Yes! Yes, I’m here, son.” He slumped against the wall in relief, unable to draw enough air to shout again. Trembling all over, he waited for the bobbing light to appear. After the terrible darkness he’d endured, Nathan’s puny lamp seemed to glow as brightly as the sun. Nathan’s face creased with worry as he looked him over.
“Why are you in the dark? What happened to your light?”
“It went out. . . . I . . .” He couldn’t finish.
“Abba, listen to you, wheezing like that. I don’t think it’s good for you to be wading around in this cold water. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Joshua knew that if he tried to walk he would fall flat on his face. “Wait . . . there’s something I wa
nt you to see. Shine the light on this wall. . . . There . . . can you read what it says?”
“‘Behold the tunnel,’” Nathan read. “‘Now this is the story of the tunnel—’”
“My father started digging at both ends,” Joshua said, interrupting, “and the workers met here, in the middle. How do you suppose he did that? How did he ever get two separate, meandering tunnels to meet?”
“I don’t know.”
“They didn’t meet at first,” he said, remembering the story. “Abba told me that one end was higher than the other. Hold the light up so you can see.” Nathan lifted his arm to shine the light above their heads. The ceiling was higher than either of them could reach. “You see that? One tunnel had to be lowered to meet the other one—” Joshua suddenly felt the weight of angry tears pressing against his eyes. He cleared the lump from his throat. “You know what Manasseh told me today? He said that God lowered himself, down to the prison cell where he lay, to offer Manasseh His forgiveness. Can you believe that, Nathan?”
“Yes, I do believe it,” he said quietly. “That’s what God is like. That’s what you taught me, Abba.”
“When did I ever say that?” he asked angrily.
“You showed me. Day after day, year after year . . . you showed me. ‘As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him.’ Remember how much I hurt you when I rebelled—stealing, making idols, turning my back on God’s laws? Remember how much pain you felt when you had to watch me suffer the consequences of my sins? You didn’t want me to be flogged and punished—you were willing to take my punishment for me. When I was lost among the pagans at the Egyptian festival, you searched for me and found me and carried me home again. Colonel Simeon demanded justice, but you didn’t want justice for me, you wanted forgiveness. You didn’t want me to be banished and to die separated from you.”
“Of course not, Nathan . . . I . . .”
“Abba, you never gave up on me. You forgave me again and again and begged the council to forgive me. I know how much you longed for me to return your love all those years, yet you waited. It had to be my decision. But remember how you felt after the first battle, when you held me in your arms again? How you felt after so many wasted years, when I finally called you ‘Abba’? That’s how God felt when King Manasseh finally turned to Him. That’s why God forgave Manasseh. He didn’t want to see His son die for his sins any more than you wanted to see me die. ‘As a father has compassion on his children.’ That’s what the psalm says, Abba. ‘As high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love. . . .’”