Lars Sveen - Children of God

It’s not my story I’m telling, neither is it Nadab’s story. I want to tell the story of what’s stirring in our land as all the cords are stretched back as far as they’ll go.

These have been painful years for our people, painful years for this country. It’s as if a sickness had come over us, and we’d started eating each other. We’ve had a drought that’s destroyed our harvests, but the rulers still demand their taxes. I’ve been told of people who have nothing to eat, of children who fall asleep never to wake up. Our land has been afflicted by bands of thieves, more of them now than when I was young. People calling themselves prophets are popping up like weeds after the rain, and people follow them. People are getting together to protest, they’re doing it here, in Jerusalem, they’re doing it out there, in the other cities, and in the wilds. And every time, they’re suppressed and persecuted by guards and soldiers. The procurators have been harsh rulers, not least Cumanus and Felix. Last year, around this time, there was an uprising. The priests and the other rich families support the present rulers, enlisting and paying their own soldiers to collect taxes and duties, and to take care of security.

None of those who’ve been in power have done anything to change all of this, and now it’s too late. Everything’s coming to an end now.

I’m telling you all this to try to understand why all this brutality’s emerged and why the young are so angry. They’re like the two men we killed so many years ago, the ones we were supposed to accompany to Jerusalem, and who were so blinded by their faith. Just like them, a number of the youths of today have a burning desire to spread chaos, an irrepressible will to go through with everything, and a belief that means they don’t fear death. These assassins, whatever name we give them, whatever we call them, are only a symptom: the desperation and heartlessness that this sickened form of governance has brought about. When nobody can see what to do, when everything you do is attacked, when all other means are used up, that’s when desperation thrives.

I went with my master to the Temple one day and saw one of the killings myself. We were walking together, with me at the back of the group, when we heard the screams. I ran up, as my master wants me to see and observe everything. A man from one of the rich families had been stabbed in the side, underneath his armpit. He was already dead, and people were running around, shouting. That’s their tactic: to creep up to traitors in the crowds, kill them, be the first ones to create panic, and then disappear. This is their way of showing that none of the powerful or wealthy are safe.

They kill, and they spread fear. But look at our country. Look at how a few benefit from the suffering of the many, look at how the Roman Empire is forcing its gods on us. Look at how the leaders, and those who collaborate with them, are suppressing us and blaspheming God. These young knife murderers are assassins, but what if the rulers are turning us into assassins? What if the priests and the well-heeled, holding out one hand to the people and the other to the rulers, are the ones creating all this violence? I think Nadab found some eternal truths in the little he heard about Jesus, and then he chose to follow it. All the way to his death. I think these young people who are causing havoc now are doing the same thing. But while Jesus spoke peace and acted in peace, these people talk of violence and act though warfare. While Jesus let himself be captured and killed, these people strike back.

I struggle to condemn them, even though I can see that the path they’re leading our country on will lead to loss.

Look at all those who’ve been killed, look at all those who, unarmed, prayed peacefully for a little glimmer of light in the immense darkness. Where are they now? Look at how they were suppressed, hunted down, and killed! What’s left, I ask you, what’s left?

In my darker moments, I think that Nadab and Jesus failed. They couldn’t stop what’s come over us now. They couldn’t get us to see how everything would turn out. Perhaps we humans are doomed never to stop before it’s too late, perhaps we’ll never see the truth or the evil we’re doing until the shouts and screams have subsided. Perhaps violence and war are forces that give us meaning and purpose.

I have no way of knowing that. In the same way I know nothing about dying, as I’m still alive. But I do know something about living a life with evil. I’ve lived in an occupied country, surrounded by an army of darkness. I’ve been a thief who stole and killed. And I’ve been somebody who walked hand in hand with those who collaborate with the enemy. What does that make me? Am I evil? Will everything I touch become evil, or can I still do something, if not the work of the Lord, then something that can help the Lord’s light of justice to shine?

This is my last spark I’m offering, all I have left in this world now. I don’t know whether it will make any difference. Maybe this world won’t take any notice of me, maybe everything I’ve been will be forgotten before this year is over. Maybe the world will go on and on, for several thousand years hence. Maybe men will still be sitting up in the mountains, dressed in rags, covered with beards, with weapons in their hands, fighting against a superior force, against an army of darkness, with no hope but to meet the Lord in Heaven. Tonight, tomorrow, in a thousand years, in two thousand years. When will God’s kingdom come to us?

Nadab’s waiting. My brother, Jehoram, is waiting, and Reuben. Even the people I’ve killed, the people I’ve seen killed. They’re all waiting.

But before I’m taken by the Lord: see if my words, the words of an old man, might reach you, might reach all of you, and give you some of the strength that gave Nadab his courage, some of the strength with which Jesus filled the world. For I tell you that not everybody will grow as old as me. I’ve seen many things. That’s why I’m writing this, why I’m begging you to listen to an old man: come together and pray for strength. When somebody wants to make you kill for a good cause, when somebody wants to make you kneel to banners and temples, come together, lift up your hands and shout out against injustice. Fill the streets and take back Jerusalem, take back our land. Don’t let the people in power carry on, and don’t let brutality and violence be the only ways of showing resistance. Don’t let people with blind faith or total power control you. Pray for strength and shout out against injustice. The Lord God will be with you.

The man who owns me won’t show any mercy when he reads this. But Jerusalem, the city of peace, will fall. My master and those like him have played their role in a regime of violence and devastation. They’ve created men who can’t see clearly, men who’ll take up arms to fight for our ways, for our land and our God. It’s as if we’ve all become more fierce than the wolves in the wilderness, flying like eagles hunting their prey, our judgment and pride laws unto themselves. We will fight, and we will fall. As even all of us united can’t stand against the tools of Satan: the army of darkness, the Roman troops. They’ll subdue us, they’ll render us powerless and still as the fish of the sea, and haul us in with dragnets. There’ll be nothing left. They’ll even raze the Temple to the ground.

Dear God, I haven’t shown any mercy, and I’ve been given the gift of a long life. I was nothing, and worse. You read my heart, you see my soul.

All that time, and I’m still here. My gray beard, my thinning hair. My voice is just a spark of the great fire, and as I was lit in the darkness, so shall my flame be put out one evening.