James Frey - The Final Testament of the Holy Bible

Jacob arrived in the middle of the day, when I am often working on my weekly sermon, which I deliver during services on Saturday mornings. This particular sermon was focused on readings from Exodus 13:17 to 15:21, which deals with Moses and the Red Sea and the series of events that led Moses to use divine powers to part the waters of the sea, thus allowing the Israelites passage out of Egypt on their way to Canaan. In today’s world, I find this story, and the story of the life of Moses in general, to be particularly relevant, as so many people, people of all faiths, are seeking an exceptional, perhaps even divine, individual who might be able to lead us into a place of greater safety, greater prosperity, greater peace. I was asking myself, and ultimately also asking the members of the synagogue, whether this search is healthy and productive, whether politicians should be mentioned in the same breath as the Messiah, whether it is possible, despite the ridiculous preening that so many engage in, and so many people believe in, for a politician to really make any significant changes, despite their claims, and their promises to do so. There was a knock. I looked up and said come in, and my assistant rabbi, Rabbi Stern, entered and said a man named Jacob Avrohom was here to see me. Rabbi Stern knew of the Avrohom family, as I had often spoken about them with him, and about Ben Zion in particular, and he knew that a visit from Jacob might be of some significance. I asked him to show Jacob in, and I put away the sermon.

Though he looked like the person I once knew, aged of course, by well over a decade of life, if I had seen Jacob on the street I am not sure I would have recognized him. He had very short hair, was clean shaven, and wore tan slacks and a blue sport coat. He carried a Bible with him, one that had clearly been read with great regularity, and where one might normally wear a tie, he wore a large gold cross on a gold chain. I stood and smiled when he walked into the office, and greeted him with an open hand. He did not smile in return and didn’t take my hand. He asked if he could sit and I said of course, and before I could ask if he wanted a beverage, water, tea, or perhaps a cup of coffee, he spoke.

We found my brother.

I was surprised, but not shocked, for I had always believed that Ben Zion would return. I believed that he had to return, that God would impel him to do so. I was very excited to have received the news, thrilled actually, and extremely curious. Given, however, Jacob’s demeanor, and the fact that throughout the entire time I knew him as a child he was a very angry person, I thought it best to remain reserved.

Where?

He had an accident and is in a hospital in Manhattan.

What type of accident?

He was working on a construction site and a plate of glass fell on him.

Oh my. Is he okay?

Yes, he is okay, or at least I believe he is.

How long has it been since you’ve seen him?

Sixteen years.

Your mother must be very happy.

Obviously. We are all very happy. We missed Ben terribly, and we were all worried that we would never see him again.

Is he still in the hospital?

Yes.

May I visit him?

He asked that I find you and ask if you would. Just so you know, I was against it.

There’s no reason for you to be angry with me, Jacob. I tried…

He stood and interrupted me.

I’m not here to discuss anything with you other than visiting my brother. If you would like to see him, I can take you there. If not, I’m leaving.

I would very much like to see Ben Zion.

Come with me.

I stood and put my sermon aside, knowing that this, the reemergence of Ben Zion, was more important than anything I would ever write or speak, and that if he was what some, including me, believed, he would make all of my sermons irrelevant. Jacob turned and walked out of the room. We walked to the subway station, took the train into Manhattan, and walked to the hospital. I did not, as I did not feel it would be kindly received, initiate any sort of conversation, and Jacob did not speak a word to me, look at me, or acknowledge me in any way. We entered the hospital, took an elevator up to Ben Zion’s floor, and walked down a series of long white hallways, hallways of the type that, because I visit any member of my synagogue who is in the hospital, whether it’s for a broken leg or terminal cancer or anything else, normally depress me, but in this particular instance greatly excited me. Jacob was a step or two in front of me, and he stopped in front of a door and motioned for me to enter, and as I did I said a silent prayer of thanks to God for who I believed I was about to have the honor and privilege of seeing, speaking to, and being in the presence of, if even for just a moment or two.

Ben Zion was lying on the bed, above the covers, wearing a hospital robe and watching television. A handsome young man was sitting in a chair near the bed, reading the New Testament. Ben Zion looked up at me, and I was hit with the full shock of how he had changed, and the extent of the trauma he had survived. His head was shaved and ringed with deep, jagged scars. His skin was white, an unearthly, almost inhuman white, and was covered with scars, some of which were thick, some of which were thin, some of which were long, and some of which were short, but which seemed to be everywhere. His eyes, which had been deep brown as a child, but definitely brown, were now black, a black so deep and thorough that it was almost something else, something without a name or word or label that would apply to it. He smiled and turned off the television and sat up and spoke to me.

Hello, Rabbi Schiff.

Hello, Ben Zion.

He stood.

Just Ben. No Zion anymore.

Hello, Ben.

And we shook hands. Jacob was now standing next to me. Ben looked at him and the young man, and he spoke.

Would you mind leaving us alone?

The young man stood and closed the Bible and left the room. Jacob spoke.

I would prefer to stay.

Please respect what I’m asking you, Jacob.

I don’t trust him.

But I do.

You know what he did to our family?

I know what you believe, Jacob, and I respect your right to believe it, but I would like to speak to him alone.

Jacob stared and Ben met his gaze, but without hostility or anger, and Jacob turned and left, though it was clear he was not happy about it. Ben sat down on the edge of his bed, and motioned for me to sit in a chair across from him, which I did. He spoke.

Long time, Rabbi Schiff.

It certainly has been. I have often wondered what became of you and if, or rather when, I would see you again.

He smiled, didn’t speak, so I did.

Where have you been?

Here.

For a short while, as I understand it, but what about all of the preceding years?

Drifting.

Through greater New York, America, where? And how did you live?

Doesn’t matter.

Were you happy, or safe?

It doesn’t matter. I’m here now.

And I’m very excited to see you, Ben Zion, or excuse me, Ben, I was terribly shaken when you disappeared and your brother did what he did with your family. As you know, I have always thought you were extremely special, and did everything I could to watch over you as a child and…

He waved me off.

The past doesn’t matter. People cling to it because it allows them to ignore the present. I asked for you because I need to talk to you about the present. Something happened to me, or is happening to me, and I don’t understand it, and I don’t want it, and I’m scared of it.

You’ve had a terrible accident and…

I don’t remember much about my childhood, but I remember enough. You weren’t visiting me out of some sense of charity.