Джеймс Миченер - The Source

“I’ve seen to it there will be no more trouble, and now I must go to Tverya.”

“Rabbi!” the Spaniard said with quiet, terrible anxiety. “You don’t seem to understand. Last night there was an uprising in Tiberias. Six people were killed. The Germans are marching south from Antioch right now. We are in most serious trouble, and I must command you to remain here.”

The little man nodded, acknowledged the advice without further comment, paid his respects to the Christian priest, and decided that if there had indeed been trouble in Tverya it was his duty to hurry there; but when he tried to leave town soldiers halted him. “Father Eusebius forbids you to go,” they said, taking the mule from him. And in this way Rabbi Asher discovered that the government of Palestine, both civil and religious, was now in the hands of the self-controlled Spaniard. That night a group of young Jews, heartened by news of rebellions in Kefar Nahum and Tverya, and deceived by Eusebius’ apparent impotence in the face of their last burning, set fire to a shed in which fodder was stored, and there was night fighting and a Byzantine soldier was killed; but Father Eusebius, still hoping to avoid war, maintained control over his troops.

It was during these suspenseful days that the stonecutters John and Mark adjusted to their new lives as Christians. The father reacted in a way that might have been foreseen: he nestled within the arms of his new religion as if he were a tired old animal who sensed the ending of his days and wanted only warmth and security. When Father Eusebius came to inspect the site of the basilica John followed him with affection; he worked harder than ever, went regularly to the humble little Syrian church to mass, and visualized many ways in which to beautify the basilica when its walls were up. He discovered that an unexpected change had come over his life, and it had little to do with religion; while working on the synagogue his attempts to beautify it were always made against the grain of the Jewish religion and the wishes of Rabbi Asher, whereas among the leaders of the Christian church he found a desire to express holy ideas in art which seemed an inherent part of their religion. Now, when John suggested to Father Eusebius some additional device that would enhance the grace of the basilica, the Spaniard’s eyes would glow and no matter what the cost he would encourage his convert to proceed. “The money we’ll find somehow,” he promised, and John experienced what he had not known before: men who loved beauty as an enhancement of life.

But if John found snug refuge in the church, Mark did not: in a series of confusing revelations he was learning that his new religion involved a good deal more than the easy conversion which he had been offered, for although the Christians presented a solid front against Jews and pagans, among themselves they were sorely divided, for they could not agree upon the nature of their religion and their divisions cut deep; those who believed one way were prepared to slay those who believed another. The brotherhood of all Christians which Father Eusebius preached was certainly not operating in Makor.

Workmen who came from Egypt explained that Jesus Christ was at the same time a man and a deity, “and therefore the Virgin Mary was the Mother of God.” But workmen who came from Constantinople argued that Jesus was born a man but lived such an exemplary life that He became a god, “and so you can see that the Virgin Mary was the mother of a great man, but certainly never the Mother of God,” Mark, listening to these arguments about the nature of Jesus, thought: My new Christians fighting over whether Mary was the mother of Christ or the Mother of God sound just like my old rabbis fighting over whether throwing out dishwater was cooking or plowing.

Then one evening as Mark sat with soldiers discussing the burning of the tool shed, a workman from Egypt said casually, “I hear that a ship has landed in Ptolemais, bringing us a statue of Mary, the Mother of God.”

A soldier from Constantinople corrected him: “Mary, the mother of Christ.”

The Egyptian, whose ancestors had long worshiped the goddess Isis and whose love was now transferred to Mary, repeated without raising his voice, “I said Mary, the Mother of God.” In a flash the man from Constantinople threw his spear at the dissentient and riot was avoided only because the point passed the Egyptian’s head and broke itself against a stone wall Mark sat appalled as men leaped into battle positions, then retreated when Father Eusebius, hearing the clatter, walked into the area. Quickly he saw the broken spear, the flushed faces, and with aristocratic skill eased the situation, pretending not to know what had caused the animosity.

Nor did Mark understand. He knew only that the rupture separating Egyptian from Byzantine was apparently irreconcilable, and as the days passed he learned how abiding the hatred was. One night the men of Constantinople came to him, whispering, “You must believe that Jesus Christ was an ordinary man … a Jew like you.”

“I’m a Christian,” Mark said.

“But you’re still a Jew. And Jesus Christ, who was a man just like you, died on the cross to save you. Now unless He was a real man, the whole meaning of His crucifixion by you Jews is lost.”

“Did the Jews kill Christ?” Mark whispered.

“Of course. Christ the man. And because He offered Himself as the supreme sacrifice two things happened. We were saved and He ascended to Godhood.” This Mark could understand, for it made Christ a later copy of the Prophet Elijah, who had also ascended bodily to heaven and who often interceded for the good of men. It was this redemptive quality of Christ that appealed to Mark, for only Christ had rescued him, and when he fully grasped the doctrine he discussed it with Father Eusebius, asking, “Am I right in believing that Christ was first a man and later a god?” and the Spaniard smiled until the lines in his cheeks deepened into warm shadows, and with compassion he said, “My son, these are difficult matters which do not concern ordinary men.”

“But what do you believe?”

Father Eusebius was about to dismiss the complex matter when he saw that Mark was indeed concerned, and in a decision that would have lasting-significance in the life of the young convert, he started their discussion of Christian dogma: “The Egyptians and the Byzantines are both wrong.”

“Then what must I believe?”

“Always accept what the holy church has decided,” Father Eusebius said. “The decisions are sometimes difficult to comprehend, but they are always right.” And he sat for a long time unraveling the mystery of the Trinity and explaining how Christ had had two complete natures, appearing on earth as a complete human being while having existed always as a deity coequal with God.

But a few nights later the workmen from Egypt took Mark aside and whispered, “You’re new to our religion, so don’t get started wrong. You’re a simple, honest man and reason tells you that Christ couldn’t have had two natures at the same time. He had only one, a mixture of human and divine. He was never divided nor can He be. And since He was born divine, Mary has got to be considered the Mother of God.”

“I can’t follow you,” Mark said.

“Christ was perpetually of one nature, a man like you and a god like God,” the Egyptians argued, but when they parted, Mark was more perplexed than ever.

Next day he had proof of how serious the debate was, for the Byzantine who had thrown his spear at the Egyptian was not content with having escaped being a murderer. As the gangs were working at the destruction of Jewish homes this loud-mouthed theologian observed to no one in particular, “I wish the Egyptians who argue that Christ was born a deity would explain just one thing. Do they enjoy the image of God sucking on a human breast?”