The Priest: Aaron Page 17

  Lord, Lord, I am so tired. They look to me and Moses, and we are just men like they are. You are the one leading us into the wilderness. I don’t want to go any more than they do, but I know You are training us for a purpose.

  How long will we fight against You? How long will we bow down to our own pride? It seems such an easy thing to look up, to listen and live! What is it in our nature that makes us fight against You so hard? We go our own way and die, and still we don’t learn. We are foolish, all of us! I, most of all. Every day I fight the battle within me.

  Oh, Lord, You lifted me from a mud pit and opened up the Red Sea. You brought me through the desert. Not once did You abandon me. And still . . . still I doubt. Still I fight a battle within myself I can’t seem to win!

  These people wanted someone else to stand between the Lord and them, someone more worthy to offer atonement. He couldn’t blame them. He wanted the same thing.

  Moses spoke again, his voice calm and clear. “Each leader from each ancestral tribe will bring me his staff with his name written on it. The staff of Levi will bear Aaron’s name. I will place them in the Tabernacle in front of the Ark of the Covenant, and the staff belonging to the man the Lord chooses will sprout. When you know the man whom God has chosen, you will not grumble against the Lord anymore.”

  The tribal leaders came forward and handed Moses their staffs, their names etched into the wood. Aaron stood to one side. In his hand, he held the staff that had become a snake before Pharaoh and swallowed the snakes created by the Egyptian sorcerers. This was the same staff he had held over the Nile when the Lord turned the waters to blood and then brought forth the frogs. The Lord had told him to strike the ground with this staff and then the Lord had sent a plague of gnats.

  “Aaron.” Moses held out his hand.

  Tomorrow everyone would know if his staff was simply a gnarled piece of acacia wood that offered him support as he walked the desert road, or an emblem of authority. He gave it to Moses. If God willed it, let another more worthy be chosen to become high priest. As a matter-of-fact, Aaron hoped He would. These men didn’t understand the burden that came with the position.

  Next morning, Moses summoned the people again. He held each staff high and returned it to its rightful owner. Not one had sprouted so much as a nub. When he held Aaron’s staff high, the people murmured in awe. Aaron stared, amazed. Not only had his staff sprouted leaves; it had budded, blossomed, and produced almonds!

  “The Lord has said that Aaron’s staff will remain in front of the Ark of the Covenant as a warning to rebels! This should put an end to your complaints against the Lord and prevent any further deaths!” Moses took Aaron’s staff back into the Tabernacle and came out empty-handed.

  “We are as good as dead!” The people huddled together and wept. “We are ruined!”

  “Everyone who even comes close to the Tabernacle of the Lord dies.”

  “We are all doomed!”

  Moses entered the Tabernacle.

  Aaron followed. His heart ached with compassion. What could he say that would do any good? Only God knew what the days ahead would reveal. And Aaron doubted the way would be any smoother than it had been so far.

  The people continued to cry in despair. “Pray for us, Aaron. Moses, plead for our lives.”

  Even in the shade of the Tabernacle, standing before the veil, he could hear their weeping. And he wept with them.

  “Be ready.” Aaron kept his sons close, watching over them. “We must wait on the Lord. The moment the cloud rises, we must move quickly.”

  As the sun rose, the cloud rose and spread out over the camp. He watched it and saw that it was moving. “Eleazar! Ithamar! Come!” They headed quickly for the Tabernacle. “Don’t forget the cloth.” His sons took up the heavy chest and followed him inside the inner chamber. Removing the shielding curtain, he covered the Ark of the Covenant with it, then covered it with heavy, protective hides and spread a solid blue cloth over it. He slid the acacia wood poles into the golden rings.

  Feeling clumsy in his haste, Aaron tried to calm himself and remember the details of preparing for travel. At his instructions, Eleazar and Ithamar spread another blue cloth on the Table of the Presence and placed on it the plates, dishes, bowls, and jars for the drink offerings. The Bread of the Presence remained. Everything was covered by a scarlet cloth and then covered again with hides. The lampstand was covered in blue and wrapped, along with the wick trimmers, trays, and jars for the oil. A blue cloth was spread over the gold altar. As soon as the ashes were removed and properly deposited, the bronze altar was covered with a purple cloth, along with all the utensils. When each item was properly stowed for travel, Aaron nodded. “Summon the Kohathites.” The Lord had assigned them to carry the holy things.

  The Gershonites were responsible for the Tabernacle and tent, its coverings, and the curtains. The Merarite clans were responsible for the crossbars, posts, bases, and all the equipment.

  The Lord moved out before them overhead. Moses followed, staff in hand. Those who carried the Ark followed Moses; Aaron and his sons came next. Behind them, the multitude gathered in ranks with their tribes and proceeded in order.

  Eleazar watched the cloud. “Where do you think the Lord will take us, Father?”

  “Wherever He wills.”

  They traveled until late in the afternoon and the cloud stopped. The Ark was set down. Aaron oversaw the rebuilding of the Tabernacle and the raising of the curtains around it. He and his sons unwrapped each item carefully and placed it where it belonged. Eleazar filled the seven-branched lampstand with oil, and prepared the fragrant incense. At twilight, Aaron made the offering before the Lord.

  As night came, Aaron stood outside his tent and surveyed the arid land by moonlight. There was little pasturage here and no water. He knew they would be on the move again soon.

  In the morning, the cloud rose again and Aaron and his sons set to work quickly. Day after day, they did this until Aaron and his sons moved with quick precision, and the people fell into order with a single blast of the shofar.

  One day Aaron rose expecting to move, but the cloud remained. Another day passed and another.

  When Aaron and his sons and the people settled easily, relaxing their vigil, the cloud rose again. As he walked, Aaron remembered the jubilance and celebration as they had left Egypt. Now, the people were silent, stoic as they began to realize the fullness of God’s decree that they would wander in the wilderness until the rebellious generation had died.

  They came to rest again.

  After performing the evening sacrifice, Aaron joined Moses. They ate together in silence. Aaron had spent the entire day at the Tabernacle, performing his duties from dawn to dusk, and overseeing that the others did as the Lord bade them. He knew his brother had spent his day reviewing difficult cases and bringing them before the Lord. Moses looked tired. Neither felt like talking. They spent their days talking.

  Miriam served manna cakes. “Perhaps we will stay here for a time. There’s plenty of grass for the animals and water.”

  The cloud rose just as Aaron completed the morning sacrifice. Aaron swallowed his sorrow and called out to his sons. “Come! Quickly!” His sons hastened to him. The people rushed to their tents to make preparations for travel.

  They only traveled half a day this time, and then remained camped in one place for a month.

  “Does God tell you beforehand, Father?” Eleazar walked beside Aaron, his eyes on the Ark. “Does God give you any indication that we will be moving?”

  “No. Not even Moses knows the day and the hour.”

  Ithamar hung his head. “Forty years, the Lord said.”

  “We deserve our punishment, Brother. If we had heeded Joshua and Caleb instead of the others, perhaps . . .”

  Aaron felt such a heavy sorrow inside that he could hardly breathe past it. It came upon him so strongly he knew it must be from the Lord. Oh, God, God, do we understand Your purposes? Will we ever understand? “It is not merely punis
hment, my sons.”

  Ithamar looked at him. “What is it then, Father? This endless wandering?”

  “Training.”

  His sons looked perplexed. Eleazar looked acquiescent, but Ithamar shook his head. “We move from one place to another, like nomads with no home.”

  “We look at the outer purposes and think we understand, but remember, my sons: God is merciful as well as just.”

  Ithamar shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  Aaron sighed deeply, keeping his pace steady, his gaze straight ahead on the Ark and Moses in the distance. “We came through the Red Sea, but we brought Egypt with us. We have to let go of who we were and become what God intends us to be.”

  “Free,” Eleazar said.

  “I don’t call this freedom.”

  Aaron glanced at Ithamar. “Do not question the Lord. You are free, but you must learn obedience. We must all learn. We became a new nation when God brought us out of Egypt. And the nations around watch us. But what have we done with our freedom but drag all the old ways with us? We must learn to wait on the Lord. Where I have failed, you must succeed. You must learn to keep your eyes and ears open. You must learn to move when God tells you to move, and not before. One day, the Lord will bring you and your children to the Jordan. And when God says, ‘Take the land,’ you must be ready to go in and take and hold it.”

  Ithamar raised his head. “We’ll be ready.”

  The arrogant impetuousness of youth. “I hope so, my son. I hope so.”

  The years passed slowly as the Israelites wandered in the wilderness. The Lord always provided enough pasture for the animals. He gave the people manna and water to sustain them. Their shoes and clothing never wore out. Each day, Aaron arose from his pallet and saw the presence of the Lord in the cloud. Each night before he entered his tent to rest, he saw the presence of the Lord in the pillar of fire.

  Year after year, the people traveled. Every morning and evening, Aaron offered sacrifices and fragrant offerings. He pored over the scrolls Moses wrote, reading them until he had memorized every word the Lord had spoken to Moses. As the high priest, Aaron knew he must know the Law better than anyone else.

  The people God had delivered from Egypt began to die. Some died at an early age. Others lived into their seventies and eighties. But the generation that had come out of Egypt dwindled, and the children grew tall.

  Aaron never let a day go by without instructing his children and grandchildren in the law of the Lord. Some of them had not been born when God brought the plagues upon Egypt. They never saw the Red Sea parted, or walked on the dry land to reach the other side. But they gave thanks for the manna they received every day. They praised the Lord for the water that quenched their thirst. And they grew strong as they walked the wilderness and relied on the Lord for everything they needed to live.

  “He’s asking for you, Aaron.”

  Aaron rose slowly, his joints stiff, his back aching. His grief deepened each time he sat with an old friend who was dying—deepened and remained. There were so few left now, a mere handful of those who had worked in the mud pits making bricks for Egypt.

  And Hur had been a good friend, one of those Aaron could trust to strive to do right. He was the last of the first seventy men chosen to judge the people, the other sixty-nine now replaced by younger men, trained and chosen for their love of and adherence to the Law.

  Hur lay on a pallet in his tent, his children and grandchildren gathered around him. Some wept softly. Others sat in silence, heads bowed. His eldest son sat close beside him, leaning down to hear his father’s final instructions.

  Hur saw Aaron standing in the doorway of the tent. “My friend.” His voice was weak, his body emaciated by age and infirmity. He spoke softly to his son and the younger man withdrew, making a place for Aaron. Hur raised his hand weakly. “My friend . . .” He squeezed Aaron’s hand weakly. “I am the last of those condemned to die in the wilderness. The forty years are almost over.”

  His hand felt so cold, the bones so fragile. Aaron put his hands around his as though he were holding a bird.

  “Oh, Aaron. All these years of wandering and I still feel the weight of my sin. It’s as though the years have not diminished it, but removed my strength to endure it.” His eyes were moist. “But sometimes I dream I am standing on the shores of the Jordan, looking across at the Promised Land. My heart breaks at the loss of it. It is so beautiful, not at all like this wilderness in which we live. All I can do is dream of the fields of grain and the fruit trees, the flocks of sheep and cattle, and hope my sons and their sons will soon sit under an olive tree and hear the bees humming.” Tears trickled into his white hair. “I am more alive when I sleep than when I wake.”

  Aaron fought the emotions gripping him. He understood what Hur was saying, understood with every fiber of his being. Regret for sins committed. Repentance. Forty years of walking with the consequences.

  Hur let out his breath softly. “Our sons are not as we were. They have learned to move when God moves, and rest when He rests.”

  Aaron closed his eyes and said nothing.

  “You doubt.”

  Aaron stroked his friend’s hand. “I hope.”

  “Hope is all we have left, my friend.”

  And love.

  It had been a long, long time since Aaron had heard the Voice, and he uttered a sob of gratitude, his heart yearning toward it, leaning in, drinking. “Love,” he whispered hoarsely. “The Lord disciplines us as we discipline our sons, Hur. It may not feel like love when we’re living in the midst of it, but love it is. Hard and true, lasting.”

  “Hard and true, lasting.”

  Aaron knew death was drawing near. It was time to withdraw. He had his duties to perform, the evening sacrifice to offer. He leaned close one last time. “May the Lord’s face yet shine upon you and give you peace.”

  “And you. When you sit beneath your olive tree, Aaron, think of me. . . .”

  Aaron paused outside the tent, and let his mind wander to the past. He would always remember Hur standing on the hilltop with him, holding Moses’ left hand in the air while he held his brother’s right, and below them Joshua defeating the Amalekites.

  He knew the moment Hur breathed his last. Clothes ripped, men sobbed, and the women keened. It was a sound oft heard in camp over the years, but this time it brought with it a sense of completion.

  Their wandering was about to come to an end. A new day was coming.

  Aaron stood in his priestly garb before the curtain that hid the Most Holy Place from sight. He shook as he always did when the Lord spoke to him. Even after forty years, he had not become accustomed to the sound within and without and all around him, the Voice that filled his senses with delight and terror.

  You, your sons, and your relatives from the tribe of Levi will be held responsible for any offenses related to the sanctuary. But you and your sons alone will be held liable for violations connected with the priesthood. Bring your relatives of the tribe of Levi to assist you and your sons as you perform the sacred duties in front of the Tabernacle of the Covenant. But as the Levites go about their duties under your supervision, they must be careful not to touch any of the sacred objects or the altar. If they do, both you and they will die.

  Let it sink in and remain fresh in my mind, Lord. Don’t let me forget anything.

  I myself have chosen your fellow Levites from among the Israelites to be your special assistants.

  Oh, Lord, let them be men whose hearts are fixed on pleasing You! From the time of Jacob, we have killed men in anger. Cursed is our anger. It is so fierce. And we tend to cruelty. Oh, Lord, and now You are scattering us throughout Israel just as Jacob prophesied. We are dispersed as priests among Your people. Make us a holy nation! Give us tender hearts!

  I have put the priests in charge of all the holy gifts that are brought to Me by the people of Israel. I have given these offerings to you and your sons as your regular share.

  Let my life be an offerin
g!

  You priests will receive no inheritance of land or share of property among the people of Israel. I am your inheritance and your share. As for the tribe of Levi, your relatives, I will pay them for their service in the Tabernacle with the tithes from the entire land of Israel.

  Aaron surrendered to the Voice, listening, listening, drinking in the words like living water.

  The Lord commanded that a red heifer without defect or blemish and that had never been under a yoke be given to Eleazar to be taken outside the camp and slaughtered. Aaron’s son would take some of the blood on his finger and sprinkle it seven times toward the front of the Tent of Meeting. The heifer was to be burned, the ashes collected and put into a ceremonially clean place outside the camp for use in the water of cleansing, for purification from sin.

  So much to remember: the festivals, the sacrifices, the laws.

  Aaron sat with Moses and looked out over the tents and flickering lights of thousands of campfires. “We are all that is left of the generation that left Egypt.” Thirty-eight years had passed from the time they left Kadesh-barnea until they crossed the Zered Valley. The entire generation of fighting men had perished from the camp, as the Lord had sworn would happen. “Just you and me and Miriam.”

  Surely now, the Lord would turn them toward the Promised Land.

  The cloud moved and the whole community traveled with the Lord until He stopped over the Desert of Zin. The people made camp at Kadesh.

  While Aaron studied the scrolls, Miriam laid her hand on his shoulder. “I love you, Aaron. I have loved you like a son.”

  His sister had spoken very little since the Lord had afflicted her with leprosy, healed her, and commanded her to spend the seven days of cleansing outside the camp. She had returned a different woman—tenderly patient, quiet. She served the family with her customary devotion, but kept her thoughts to herself. He was perplexed by her sudden need to say she loved him.

  She went outside the tent and sat at the entrance.

  Troubled, Aaron rose and went out to her. “Miriam?”