Aleph, the Chaldean; or, the Messiah as Seen from Alexandria

by E. F. Burr

The following is a copy of the letter—omitting the usual epistolary preliminaries—which Seti read and pondered that afternoon:

“My dear Rachel, you know how little I thought of remaining in Jerusalem till now. But our relative Nicodemus has been urgent, and such great things have been happening here that I have felt more like sending for you and your father to come to me than like returning home.

“My dear daughter, you doubtless have wondered that hitherto I have said so little in my letters of Jesus of Nazareth (as he is called here), though you have seemed so anxious to hear about him. The fact is that the ideas of the Messiah to which I have been accustomed and which are held by the chief people here, have made it hard for me to feel my way to a definite and settled opinion; and I have been unwilling to write much on a subject in regard to which my mind was in so confused and uncertain a state. But I have at last—after much prayer, and much study of the prophets, and much inquiry of credible witnesses, as well as some seeing with my own eyes—come to see my way clearly. Yes, my dear daughter, I do indeed feel sure at last that Jesus is our long-expected Messiah. If the proofs of this which he furnishes are not sufficient it seems impossible to prove anything. Even Moses himself did not more clearly establish his Divine mission.

“Nicodemus has helped me not a little. He is a very cautious man—I think somewhat too cautious and slow; as is not unnatural to one who has so much to lose—but at home he makes no secret of his conviction that it is impossible to account for the wonderful deeds of Jesus save on the supposition that God is with him. I hope this influential man will soon get courage to speak out.

“When I came here I found the reality of Jesus’s miracles admitted; and, after I had learned the character of his life and teaching, I did not see how they could be accounted for reasonably by the magical art and evil spirits. But I have lately fallen in with some of his disciples, and especially with some friends of his at Bethany, who have given me a more clear and connected view of his doings and teachings than I had before. At Bethany I met the mother of Jesus—a wonderful woman, whom to see and hear is to believe. In answer to my inquiries, she told of the strangest possible events preceding and following the birth of Jesus—of an angelic annunciation, of a Divine conception, of the birth at Bethlehem, of shepherds sent by a glory of angels to worship the child, of a caravan of princes from the far east who came, star-guided, to do him homage, of a flight to Egypt, of their return on the death of Herod to live at Nazareth in Galilee till Jesus was thirty years old, of how good and holy he was during all those years, so that she never saw a fault in him, though much that was mysterious. She had sometimes felt oppressed by the mystery which always hung about him like a silver veil, but through which occasionally struggled gleams of a Divine majesty and power. As time rolled on, and the child had long since become the mature man, she wondered that so many years were allowed to pass before his making any public movement. But she knew that it would come in due time: God would be as good as His word; such preparations and heralding would not be an idle flourish and make-believe. Then she went on to tell me about his forerunner and baptism and first miracle near three years ago; and of the many miracles she had seen since. While listening to his teaching, she had been quite as much astonished at his wisdom as she had been at his power. It was a very strange feeling the mother had when she found herself looking up to her son as being immeasurably above her in everything. Still she rejoiced in the fact with a sort of awful joy.

“As she told me all these things there was so much simplicity and truthfulness, as well as intelligence, shining in her face and whole manner, that I could not but accept her testimony. Then how I wanted to see him! This I had never done until a few days ago. And it was in this way:

“Have I said that the house in Bethany where I saw Mary the mother of Jesus was the house of one Lazarus and his two sisters? One day when I was there Lazarus complained of feeling unwell. The sisters, Mary and Martha, did some trifling thing for him and thought no more of it. But, instead of improving, he grew worse. A leech was called in. Still the brother grew worse. Day by day the shadows deepened, until at last the leech himself confessed that he could do no more. Then the sisters said, ‘Though the leeches cannot help Lazarus, there is one who can;’ and they immediately sent off a messenger to Jesus, who was then in Galilee. Day after day passed and still no Jesus came. Meanwhile the sick man pined and wasted, and the home and hearts grew darker and darker, and at last the leech said there was no hope. No, no hope in him, or such as he, but still hope in Jesus that he would bring or send help. Can it be that he will suffer his friend to die?—he who has cured all sorts of diseases for all sorts of persons with whom he had no special tie?—I was there and saw the struggle between hope and despair: saw despair finally triumph as last words were spoken, as the breath came gaspingly, as the light faded from the eye and the pulse from the wrist and—he was gone. Close his eyes, O friends; straighten out the stiffening limbs; let the mourning women come! Lazarus is dead—dead.

“The sisters gave themselves up to their grief. They refused to be comforted. They could not understand that dreadful silence. Had the seemingly inexhaustible fountains of power and helpfulness really given out? At all events, all was now over. Nothing remained but to bury their dead, and wait with streaming eyes and broken hearts for their own turns to come. And the sooner they should come the better.

“So the dead was buried, the lament made, and the sisters sat down with despair for companion in a home where midnight had come in place of midday. Some of us sat with them as much as we could—holding their hands in silent sympathy. What could words do in such a case! We answered their groans with a pressure of the hand. We followed their tears with our own. Every now and then, amid their tears and groans, they exclaimed, ‘If he had been here our brother had not died—had not died.’