Rahab, listening to rumors

Three men today. Busy day.

The men returning from the fields said the rumors are picking up. When we first heard about the march of these men, their mysterious emergence from the vast southern desert, I was neither upset nor surprised. Live long enough and you'll see war, as long as men are men, and I have seen many. There is war and there is war, of course, but Jericho has always been a pleasant place for it.

Another squabble, settled in the blood of young men, a struggle for land, for the pride and glory of a few, control of this trade or that trade, sometimes managed by a superior power, sometimes only settled when one side had finally exhausted the strength of the other. Always good for business though! Men will pay more in days of stress and battle, when they fear they may never touch a woman again, or when in the flush of victory they need a place to spend their spoils. A shrewd women can earn a good profit in war, and I have always been shrewd, knowing my best asset in this city is the natural beauty of my form (they say that I am "smiled on by the gods" for this beauty, which is a fancy way of saying that it is unexplainable). I have been successful, taking what I could from the situation, advancing to the place I have now, perched as I am at a key spot near the city gates, in the city wall. A place with a view.

But there is war. Within the walls of this city, war is business. But I know enough of war to consider myself blessed (another mysterious word, the performer of the action left unmentioned) to be living here, a stronghold, an as yet unmastered city. My business would not last long in the chaos of war! In that trial my beauty would change from an asset to a curse (again, unidentified agent), for it takes little to uncover the cruelty at the heart of men. For the sake of peace, stability, and security, they will pay in peace. But remove such constraints for a minute, and they will take what they can, seeking to gratify some natural desire for mastery, the glint in their eyes I see when under the guise of my business I give myself to them reveals that though the can content themselves with the pretended mastery for the sake of a shared security, it is a thin veneer only. I have seen it, feared it, thanked (who?) for the safety of our walls. Here I take refuge from such passions, a measure of control that has given me safety. Violence lurks in the hearts of all men.

But something in the atmosphere of the city tonight worries me. The rumors have a urgent edge to them, not just the nattering of the old women, or the idle chatter of the young men. There is fear, dread, something deeper and nameless. They say this emerging people have a God that fights for them. I asked the man who told me this what he meant but he could say nothing more. The phrase is ominous. A God who fights for them, not just evoked in battle but actually participative in battle?

They say he scattered every people they have encountered. We have heard the reports from Midianites, even received refugees from them who spoke of the might and terror of this mysterious desert race, these Hebrews, these descendants of the long-dead Abraham (that name is familiar to us, though many claim descent from him). But all refugee speak of terror. Still, still.

What if there is something in this? Think on it, Rahab, think on it. This city is a refuge, a stronghold, a shield around me, but what if I am faced with something quite beyond the power of men? Something that defies the normal calculus of my decisions, the careful scheming and planning?

What refuge is this? I remember one night when a summer storm raged, the thunder rumbling, the dark storm clouds illuminated for brief instants by the bolts of lightening. It poured and beat itself against the walls that surrounded me. Reaching my hand to touch the stone, I felt a brief rumble beneath, no more than the vibrations of a strong but distant thunder, but for a moment it felt like the very ground beneath me was unstable, unbottomed, a shifting surface that in the worst moment would reveal itself insecure, undependable, faithless. For a moment the rocks seemed to mock me for my faith in them and I caught a glimpse of nameless forces, older and stronger than the very storm that raged, under which the whole earth shuddered, powers casually hostile, strong but chaotic, like the whims of war from which I had long insulated myself.

I was terrified.

Now I feel the stone under my hands and it feels solid. I can see the defenses this city has, strong, unblemished, a mighty testament to the strength of men. The stone is hard, the ground strong, the walls tall. From them I have seen men perch for years now, laughing at the armies that are so foolish as to besiege its might.

A refuge. Think of a hen with her chicks. This is the city to me, and to many others. We hide here, in the shadows of her wings, sheltered by her power. She is to us a world in miniature, from which those ever-chaotic forces of death, hatred, war swirling unceasingly, unpredictably, are barred, blocked, banished.

It is an illusion.

They say their God dwells among them like a pillar of fire! They say he feeds them every day with bread from the heavens! What is it that is approaching? What power is this?

Rahab, Rahab, think! If this God is real, what can I do? I have heard what they have in store for us. They say this land is theirs, that it was promised to them. They will not stop until they have taken it. And if they truly have a God who fights for them, then what? God is God. I am wise enough to know the uselessness of those wooden carvings the foolish worship as gods. But who can deny that behind all this creation, all this noise and confusion, there is a God? If he is God, than he is maker, and if he is maker, than what can this edifice of stone and clay and wood be to him? If he can part the very seas (for this also has reached my ears) than can the works of man halt him? I would be foolish not to seek him, if there is seeking to be done, and if I could find him.

What could I expect from him, this God of the Hebrews, this mighty pillar of light and smoke? I have sheltered myself all these years in a parody refuge, perhaps the greatest one I could find among the works of men, but even natural forces can shake it, and one earthquake could destroy it. What hope would it have against forces supernatural? No, there must be a better refuge, a stronger one. A rock that is higher than this city, that can set me above all the chaos and pain and death of this poor world.

The God that lives among the Israelites might destroy me. I am unclean after all, stained by the years of living in this city, amongst this people. But what separates me from those others except the accident of birth? I was born beautiful, they were born Israelites. But I see only two options before me: seek the God of these Israelites and risk destruction, or seek safety in the works of men and guarantee it.

What opportunity will I have? Perhaps none. But a refuge that can be depended on, a rock upon which my feet can stand and rest secure, that is something to hope for, something that my heart longs to have. I will wait and watch.