“Then our women must go through the town?” Zadok asked.
“There is no other way,” Uriel said.
“Couldn’t we open a gate, at the well?”
“No.” In no respect would Uriel breach the walls of safety which he had so carefully planned.
The two men studied each other for some moments, and each appreciated what disturbed the other, but since both were sensible men, eager to devise some system of mutual co-operation, they weighed the situation—and after a while Zadok said, “We will accept these fields and pay taxes on them.” And Uriel returned to the walls, satisfied that he had done right in not using military power to oppose the strangers. “In the past,” he said to his Hittite lieutenant, “Makor has absorbed many kinds of people, always to its benefit. Our only problem here is that the Hebrews are more numerous.”
“We’ll keep the weapons cleaned,” the warrior replied, and when the young man had a chance to meet with Uriel’s son he said, “Today your father has made a great mistake. We should have driven the strangers off.” Zibeon thereupon went out to inspect the Hebrews and returned with the same opinion. He discussed the matter with his mother, Rahab, and together they went to see Uriel.
“You’ve done a wrong thing,” Rahab said quietly.
Uriel had learned to listen to his perceptive wife, and they rarely quarreled. “Perhaps I have,” he admitted, “but in Makor we have scarcely enough people to do the work.”
“But you’re bringing in the wrong ones,” Rahab argued.
“You haven’t seen them.”
“Zibeon has. So has the Hittite. They saw desert people. Who do not respect walls and towns and proper houses.”
“They respect fields and cattle,” Uriel countered. “And high places and gods. We need them.”
That afternoon he admitted that just possibly Rahab was right, and that the strangers might give trouble, but he had already rented them the unused fields and he was not unhappy in his decision.
Zadok was also satisfied. As day ended he assembled his people before the small red tent which his sons had erected beneath an oak tree, and there he reported to his dusty hundreds, “El-Shaddai has brought us to this spot, as he promised. These fields and these hills shall be our habitation, but it is not we who have won this dwelling place. It is El-Shaddai who has done this thing for us, and it is to him that we now give thanks.”
He indicated to his sons that they should bring forth the white ram, the perfect beast of the flocks, and the struggling animal was dragged before the tabernacle, where with a sharp stone knife the old man offered sacrifice to the glory of the one god. The horns, half-twisted and strong, would form the trumpets that would henceforth summon the Hebrew to prayer on this spot. The wool of the ram would be woven into a black and white prayer shawl that would finally go into the tabernacle in memory of this day, and from the blood which now dripped from the altar would spring the bond that would unite this group of Hebrews permanently to the god who had chosen them to inhabit this fair land. It was a moment of intense dedication, which Zadok heightened by crying, “El-Shaddai, you of the mountains, you of the storm, we place ourselves in your hands. Advise and direct us in the paths we should follow.” And he fell before the tabernacle, waiting for instructions. But none came.
Trouble started in a quarter that neither Uriel nor Zadok could have foreseen. For many generations the wiser men of Zadok’s clan had worshiped El-Shaddai with the understanding that whereas Canaanites and Egyptians could see their gods directly, El-Shaddai was invisible and inhabited no specific place. Unequivocally the Hebrew patriarchs had preached this concept and the sager men of the clans accepted it, but to the average Hebrew who was not a philosopher the theory of a god who lived nowhere, who did not even exist in corporeal form, was not easy to comprehend. Such people were willing to agree with Zadok that their god did not live on this mountain—the one directly ahead—but they suspected that he did live on some mountain nearby, and when they said this they pictured an elderly man with a white beard who lived in a proper tent and whom they might one day see and touch. If questioned, they would have said that they expected El-Shaddai to look much like their father Zadok, but with a longer beard, a stronger voice and more penetrating eyes.
Now, as these simpler-minded Hebrews settled down outside the walls of Makor, they began to see Canaanite processions leave the main gate and climb the mountain to the north, seeking the high place where Baal lived, and they witnessed the joy which men experienced when visiting their god, and the Hebrews began in subtle ways and easy steps to evolve the idea that Baal, who obviously lived in a mountain, and El-Shaddai, who was reported to do so, must have much in common. Furtively at first, and then openly, they began to climb the footpath to the place of Baal, where they found a monolith rising from the highest point of rock. Here was a tangible thing they could comprehend, and after much searching along the face of the mountain, a group of Hebrew men found a straight rock of size equal to the one accorded Baal, and with much effort they dragged it one starless night to the mountaintop, where they installed it not far from the home of Baal.
Before either Uriel or Zadok heard of this unauthorized development—and it would be of equal concern to each—a more immediate problem erupted. Three Hebrew maidens were walking through Makor bearing water jars when they heard a commotion and were drawn off the main street to a small temple which rose above the spot where the four monoliths had once stood. It was sacred to Astarte, before whose gates danced a nude young man in a manner which the Hebrew girls had not seen before, and at the end of his erotic performance a woman from the audience ran up and dropping her clothes embraced him passionately, whereupon he led her into the small temple while the crowd applauded. The girls did not report these things to Zadok, but around the Hebrew camp-fires there was much whispered discussion, so on the next day Zadok’s sons, Epher and Ibsha, strolled into town to see a similar performance—except that this time the dancer was a woman who finally accepted a male partner from the lascivious crowd. Epher asked, “What’s happening?” and a Canaanite explained, “Sacred worship to insure the growth of our seeds.”
“Can anyone …”
“If you’re a farmer.” The Canaanite led the two Hebrews to the temple door, banged on it and said to the pleasing young girl who opened it, “These two are farmers. They wish to pray,” and she led Epher to an experience which would help determine the events of that summer.
That night there was new speculation in the Hebrew camp and on succeeding days several men left their work and slipped into town, but the scandal that finally reached Zadok’s attention was the behavior of a young married woman named Jael, who went out of turn with her water jar, then slipped aside to the little temple, where she waited for the nude young man to perform his dance, at the end of which she hurried forward, leaving her water jar beside the door.
When Zadok heard of her offense he struck his forehead. He caused the ram’s horn to be sounded, and when its mournful echoes reverberated along the valleys the Hebrews knew that evil was abroad and they gathered in contrition, many men and one woman realizing why El-Shaddai was angry. They were prepared to offer retribution, but when Zadok stormed that the woman Jael had forfeited all respect and must be stoned to death as ancient law required, three men of equal guilt spirited her away and found refuge for her inside the walls.
That night Zadok heard of the rock dedicated to El-Shaddai, and in the morning he took his staff and climbed up the hilly paths to the summit, where for the first time he saw the monolith to Baal, before which he bowed in proper respect. But alongside the ancient stone he saw one recently implanted—a rock to the unknown god of the Hebrews—and it was decorated with flowers and the head of a slaughtered lamb. “Abomination!” he cried, and with his staff he knocked away the lamb’s head. Then he leaned against the stone, seeking to unbalance it and roll it down the mountainside, but he could accomplish nothing and the stone mocked him.
Confused and worried, t
he old man strode down the hill and for the first time since the day of agreement he entered Makor, where he stalked through the town to see the temple for himself. There was then no dancing but he could visualize the abominable rites, and with disgust departed to seek out Governor Uriel, whom he hammered with direct questions: “Have you given refuge to the whore Jael?”
“A woman joined us.”
“In your temple are there male and female whores?”
“From time out of mind we have worshiped Astarte.”
“Did you give approval for the erection of a rock to El-Shaddai? In the high place of your own god?”
At this Uriel frowned. No one had told him of the monolith, and if one had been erected it could cause trouble. Of the visits by Hebrew men and women to the sacred prostitutes he had been aware and had approved, for this kind of intimacy represented a wholesome interchange; it was in the interests of Makor to see that the Hebrew farmers produced maximum crops, and through the ages it had been proved that only worship of Astarte could insure this. He had also known of Jael’s arrival and had personally found her a home with a Canaanite widower, for intermarriage between the two groups would also speed assimilation; he expected to see quite a few additional Hebrews taking up residence inside the walls, and he would approve the day when Canaanites began to move outside to marry with the Hebrews. From what he could see of their women they were attractive and he imagined that his townsmen must think so, too. This interchange of women was the traditional way in which newcomers fitted into a town, and he hoped the process would accelerate.
But the erection of a monument to an alien god, and in the high place of Baal, was an infraction which he could not tolerate. Summoning his guard he went forth with Zadok to inspect the heresy, and when the two leaders had climbed the spiral path to the sacred place, they viewed with equal disgust the new monolith dedicated to El-Shaddai. Uriel was appalled because he had to trust in the supremacy of Baal, whom he knew to be a jealous god. Zadok was outraged because the supposition that El-Shaddai was no more than another Canaanite god to be represented with a stone was a degradation of the Hebrew god. To Uriel’s surprise, the old patriarch was as eager as he to throw down the intruding rock, so after men of the guard had used their spears to loosen the earth about the new monolith, they toppled the offensive stone and sent it clattering down the side of the mountain.
The soldiers withdrew, leaving Uriel and Zadok alone on the high place to discuss the matter, and as the thoughtful old Hebrew talked with the tough-minded younger man, the fundamental differences between them were for the first time openly exhibited.
ZADOK: You must never again permit my Hebrews to visit your sacred prostitutes.
URIEL: One day we shall be one people, living together in harmony, worshiping the same gods.
ZADOK: I will oppose such integration.
URIEL: Do you believe that our two peoples can exist side by side with no give and take?
ZADOK: I believe that you must follow your gods, and we must follow El-Shaddai.
URIEL: But you just helped me destroy the monument to your god.
ZADOK: Why do you think I did it?
URIEL: Out of respect for Baal, who rules this town.
ZADOK: I am amazed. Did you not understand that I threw down the lifeless rock because it was an insult to the one god who requires no earthly home?
URIEL: Are you suggesting that your god is greater than Baal?
ZADOK: I respect Baal … out of the respect I feel for you. I respect him as I do an old woman with nineteen grandsons. But no more. Baal must one day perish, for he is only a thing. El-Shaddai will live forever because he is not a thing.
URIEL: Then you believe that your god must triumph?
ZADOK: Of course!
URIEL: And you expect to live in those fields over there … for endless generations. With your god at enmity with mine?
ZADOK: The enmity will not continue long. Your people will soon join mine in acknowledging the one god. And we shall live in peace.
URIEL: In the meantime, you refuse to permit your people to worship Baal and Astarte? You refuse to let them mix with us in all common ways?
ZADOK: I refuse to countenance abominations.
URIEL: You dare to call Baal and Astarte …
ZADOK: For your people they are righteous gods. You are entitled to worship them as you have in the past. But for my people their rites are an abomination.
URIEL: That is a harsh word.
ZADOK: Abomination.
The two men remained in the high place in the shadow of Baal, each trying so desperately to understand and to convert the other to logic, and there was fear between them, for absolute differences had been identified; but below them stretched some of the finest fields in Canaan and one of the best-governed towns. Surely, with good will these two virile peoples could make of this enclave a small paradise, and each man recognized that fact. Zadok spoke first. “The fields are very rich,” he said quietly. “In the fields we passed no olive trees bore fruit like yours.”
“Your people are industrious,” Uriel said, eager to draw back from the ugly confrontation that had developed.
“Of all the land we saw,” Zadok continued, “this is the best. We hope to stay here for many generations.”
It was a gesture of true conciliation, and Uriel responded with the classic words of compromise: “I am sure that between us something can be worked out.”
On the surface he was right. Canaanites and Hebrews had started their national histories sharing the same god, El, who represented an unseen power, but even in the first moments of sharing they had treated El in contrasting ways, for the Canaanites had consistently diminished his universal qualities. Being townspeople, they captured El and made him a prisoner inside their walls; they fragmented him into Baal and Astarte and a host of lesser gods. They seemed determined to drag him down to their level, where they could know him personally and give him specific jobs to do until he dissipated his force. The Hebrews, on the other hand, beginning with the same god having the same attributes, had freed him of limiting characteristics, launching a process that would ultimately transform him into an infinite god of infinite power. Each modification the Hebrews introduced in the desert years intensified the abstract powers of El. They called him Elohim, all the gods; or Elyon, the most high; or El-Shaddai, the god almighty. And soon they would end by dropping the El altogether and calling him by no name at all, representing him only by the mysterious, unpronounceable letters YHWH, whereupon his transformation would be complete. But later generations would back away from the austere Hebrew apotheosis and would once more give him a name: God.
Thus it was the tragedy of Canaan that it encountered the Hebrews when the two peoples were at a mighty crossroads: the Canaanites were degrading the concept of god while the Hebrews were elevating it. The conflict between these two philosophies would continue for more than a thousand years and there would be many times when it would seem that Baal of the Canaanites had triumphed.
Zadok accepted Governor Uriel’s gesture of compromise. “We will respect Baal,” he agreed, “but you must warn your temple prostitutes not to welcome our people again.”
“I will tell them,” Uriel promised, “but you must remember that this is a custom which has produced the prosperity you see down there. When your men understand farming a little better they’ll appreciate the priestesses and insist upon worshiping with them.”
There was the serpent! There was the wound that would not heal—this constant encroachment of the town upon the ways of the desert. Since Uriel the Canaanite was a man devoted to the town, when he looked down at Makor he saw clearly that most of man’s progress up to now had come when he lived in towns and worshiped gods that had developed from towns. Only inside a wall would men dare to build a temple, only within that safety could a library accumulate texts written on clay. In a thousand years men who roamed deserts had accomplished nothing: they built no roads, invented no new method of erectin
g homes; they had discovered neither pottery wheels nor silos for conserving grain. Only in a town like Makor could men prosper and make those material advances which when added together would be termed civilization. The history of this mound below us, Governor Uriel thought, is the history of men learning to live together in a town, faithful to the gods of town life, and that is the only history in the world that matters.
Zadok the Hebrew looked down upon the town and weighed it in different scales. As a free man of the desert he could not escape viewing Makor as the breeding place of contamination. In the desert a lusty man might rape a nubile woman and this was understandable. Zadok himself had taken his second wife in this manner, but when the rape was completed a strict code required the pair to marry and lend dignity to the process. In the desert a system of sacred prostitution would be impossible. The cleanliness of the rocks would fight against it, for prostitution of this sort could only be a product of the town. In open country a woman like Jael might prove unfaithful to her husband, but to this there was a sudden, blinding solution—death; it took the town to recognize such a woman as a heroine and to offer her sanctuary. The town was filled with men who had never worked in open areas tending sheep and discovering for themselves the actuality of their god; these men sat cramped before a wheel making pottery. They wrote on clay which they did not dig and sold wine which they had not pressed. Their values were warped and their gods were of a trivial dimension. As Zadok looked at the frightening town he remembered the instructive history of two former members of his clan and he could hear his father Zebul telling their story: “Your ancestor Cain was a man of the town and when he brought his gift to El-Shaddai, the god despised it, but your ancestor Abel lived in the open as we do, and when he brought his gift El-Shaddai was pleased, for our god has always preferred honest people who live outdoors above crafty ones who live in towns. This rejection angered Cain and he slew Abel, and from that time there has been enmity between town and desert.” But to Zadok the critical matter was still the uncertainty that had kept him in the desert for six full years after El-Shaddai himself had told the Hebrews to move into the town: he still wondered if men could live in a contaminating place like Makor and yet know their god as his Hebrews had known him in the desert. But as he drew back, afraid of the days ahead, he remembered the reassuring words of El-Shaddai: “Inside the walls it will not be easy for me to speak with you, but I shall be there.” He looked at the townsman who stood beside him and thought: If we can co-operate with any Canaanite it must be with Governor Uriel, for he is a man of integrity.