The Rabbi

I, Jeremiah, am in prison; the end draws near as
Nebuchadnezzar’s besiegers tighten the noose.
I am in bonds because my message—surrender and
live, or fight and die—emasculates their image of
my god. They want miraculous deliverance, but why
would he once again extend mercy to those so deaf
they hear only what they desire to happen?

In spite of such dire circumstances G-d continues his
relationship with his people Israel. A message comes:
deliverance? destruction? compassion? hardly, instead
“go redeem the field of your cousin Hanamel, a crazy
dream certainly, but from yhwh, I cannot believe.

Yet in the morning a banging on the cell door reveals
Hanamel with deed in hand—yhwh have you nothing
better to do? I dutifully sign, pay the price, and receive
the deed. Only then do I get the point—some day the
people will return to the land, carrying out business as usual.

Something snapped, this god of mine I cannot fathom.

So I rehearse with him who he is, what he has done,
how he claimed Israel, brought them out of Egyptian
slavery, gave them the land as promised; but they in
contradistinction did not listen, rarely lived according
to his Torah, learned several times over that disobedience
has an ever increasing price, heard often that death or exile
would occur if behavior did not change—I, Jeremiah,
being the recipient of much of their abuse.

There is no hope for those who worship Baal and send
their babies into Molech’s fire. This my beloved Jerusalem
will be raped and razed.

For years yhwh had me pronounce judgment only to watch
him forgive again—because of his love for them. I then
endure their ridicule. In a base way this destruction—any day
now the walls will be breached—justifies my integrity; of course
my antagonists will all be dead, a hollow victory at most.

Because yhwh knows I doubt my own words of hope, he returns:
“‘you say destruction,’ but I say, ‘restoration’.”
He takes my word, ‘destruction’—which really is his
word—turning it on me, not allowing a respite of morbid
satisfaction. ‘Restoration’ he promises—had not
this been the word of the false prophets he had me fight all
those years?

This Janus message looks good theologically—compassion
and mercy for a future generation, but a Dresden holocaust
for us who bear the sins of our fathers. Not that I doubt
yhwh’s ability to enact a Babylonian exodus or to realize
his master plan of a Torah obedient people living in a
Ezekelian promised land, but when he says as I brought
this disaster on them so I will follow with the blessing of
restoration, he forgets those like me who suffer the first
without realizing the second. We too are his people and he
is our god even if and when we doubt, apostatize, or assume
his commitment regardless of our behavior.

But then as I sit hopelessly in this cell hearing the sappers’
shovels undermining David’s stout walls, I feel a tear drop
on my cheek, not mine—I am to angry—but one from
above.

I, Jeremiah, am no longer the same; he has allowed
me to feel as he feels. He loves more than I. What wondrous
love is this, O my soul?