The Harbinger (37 page)

“Your name,” he said, “is
Baruch Nouriel
. The name of Jeremiah’s scribe was
Baruch ben Neriah—Neriah
meaning,
the light of God
or
the flame of God
. Do you know what
Nouriel
means?”

“No.”

“Nouriel means
the flame of God
. In effect, it’s the same name.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, my voice now shaking.

“
You
, Nouriel…you are the final mystery. You’re the mystery looking in the mirror and not recognizing that the image is you.”

“You’re saying I’m him?”

“No, you’re not him. You’re you. But you have the same calling.”

“Which is…?”

“The
sofer
,” he said, “You’re the
sofer
. The one called to record, to declare, to make known, to make a record of what you’ve seen and heard, to write down the prophetic word, to reveal the mysteries that they might hear it, that a nation might hear it, and that those who will listen could be saved.”

“My dream…At the end, you entrusted me with the paper…with the message. You gave it to me. Is that what’s happening now?”

“So it is.”

“So I’m your Baruch,” I said, “and you’re my Jeremiah?”

“Something like that,” he answered.

“And I’m to write it all down?”

“Yes, and more:

“Jeremiah’s movements were restricted. He couldn’t deliver his prophecy in public, not in person. So he sent Baruch in his place so that the prophecy would be proclaimed publicly to all. So Baruch wasn’t only Jeremiah’s scribe but also, at times, his representative, his voice.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I too am restricted. So you must go and make known the message, to give them the warning and the hope. Take what you wrote down at my dictation, and let it be known. You are the
sofer
, the one who must make known.”

“He was appointing you,” she said. “The prophet was appointing you.”

“Yes.”

“And so that’s why you came to me?”

“Yes.”

“Because the message must be committed to writing and, through that, made known.”

“Yes.”

“In the form of a book.”

“Yes.”

“A book…yes…that would be your scroll. The message has to become a book…a book revealing the mystery behind everything…behind the news…behind the economy…behind the collapse…behind world history…the future…an ancient mystery on which the future of a nation hangs…. This is big, Nouriel. It’s beyond big; it has to get out. They have to hear it. Do you have any idea how you’re going to go about writing it?”

“No. I’ve never attempted anything quite like this. That’s why I came to you.”

“It’s so big…and deep…and critical. You have to do it in a way that they can hear it…in a way that the message can go out to as many people as possible…in a way they can grasp. You’re the writer, but I know what I would do.”

“What would you do?” he asked

“I would take the message and put in the form of a narrative.”

“What do you mean?”

“A story,” she replied. “Commit the message to writing, but communicate it in the form of a story…a narrative…have somebody telling it…a narration.”

“But it’s a prophetic message.”

“The Bible uses stories…pictures and parables to communicate messages of divine truth, doesn’t it? The point is to get the message out to as many people as possible. The story would be the vehicle, the vessel through which the message, the mysteries, the revelations, the prophetic word would go forth.”

“But if it takes on the form of a narrative, they might not realize that the revelations are real.”

“They’ll realize it.”

“And who would narrate it?” he asked.

“You,” she replied. “You’d write it just the way you told me. You’d create a character who narrates the account to another, just as you narrated it to me. Alter the details, change the names, make everyone into characters.”

“And what about the message itself—the prophetic word, the mysteries. How would all that be communicated?”

“Reveal it in the same way it was revealed to you…by the prophet. Put it all into the form of conversations, as they were to begin with, between the one character and the other. You recorded everything. It’s all there. Use what you already have. Transcribe the recordings. Let the prophet speak for himself, through his own words to you. And the message will get through.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“I wouldn’t take too long,” she replied.

“No.”

“Why don’t you ask the prophet?”

“I haven’t seen him since that day.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Before you parted, did he give you any last words of counsel or guidance?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

“And what was it?”

“At the very end of that last encounter, he led me over toward the water. The wind was now gusting wildly. There was definitely a storm coming.”

“So, Nouriel,” he said, “do you think you’re ready?”

“Ready?”

“To fulfill your call.”

“I don’t know, and I have no idea what to do.”

“You’ll be led, just as you were led to me.”

“But it’s not even my message. It’s
your
message. I’d just be a messenger, a go-between. If they asked me anything about it, I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“No,” he replied, “the message isn’t mine. All I am is a messenger, as will be you.”

“And if I needed help, would you be there?” I asked. “And how could I reach you?”

“I think you know better than that,” he replied. “You don’t need to reach me. The time of imparting is finished.”

“So I won’t see you again?”

“Unless He deems otherwise, no, you won’t see me again.”

The words hit me harder than I would have expected them to.

“You know,” I said, “I think I’m going to miss our meetings…and all the uncertainty.”

“The uncertainty?”

“Of not knowing when or where or how you’d appear next, and how it would happen to happen that I’d be there when you did.”

“Things will still happen to happen,” he said, “as you follow His leading.”

“Still, I don’t feel adequate, not remotely adequate for anything like this.”

“How do you think Moses felt when he was called, or Jeremiah…or Mary…or Peter? Do you think any of them felt remotely adequate? It wasn’t about them. And it’s not about you. It’s about Him. All you have to do is go where He sends you.” Then he reached into his coat and took out a little horn…a little ram’s horn. “Close your eyes, Nouriel,” he said, lifting the horn above my head.

So I did. I soon felt a thick liquid rolling down my forehead.

“It was oil?” she asked.

“Yes, I think olive oil.”

“A horn of oil.”

“The oil of anointing. It was when I felt it running down my cheeks that the prophet began to pray.”

“You,” he said, “who are above all that is spoken and all that is named…

I opened my eyes. The horn was gone. Looking into my eyes with what seemed to be a deep compassion tempered with what I took to be a sadness over our parting, he said, “God be with you, Baruch Nouriel.”

“And God be with you,” I replied.

And with that, he left. This time I stayed where I was.

“And I
still
didn’t get your name,” I shouted as he walked away.

“That’s because I never gave it to you,” he replied. Then he stopped walking and turned around. “You’re still concerned,” he said, in a gentle voice.

“The message,” I said. “It’s not exactly the kind that wins popularity contests, is it?”

“That would be a safe assumption.”

“They’ll do everything they can to attack and discredit it.”

“Of course they will,” he said. “Otherwise they’d have to accept it.”

“But not only the message.”

“No, the messenger as well.”

“They’ll do everything they can to attack and discredit the one who bears the message.”

“Yes,” said the prophet. “The messenger will be opposed, vilified and hated, mocked and slandered. It has to be that way, just as it was for Jeremiah and Baruch.”

“And why was I so blessed to be chosen?” I asked.

“Why were any of us so blessed?”

With that, he approached me once more. It would be the last time.

“Had we lived in ancient times,” he said, “and had we come to such a city as this, we would find it encircled by walls of stone, massive towering walls of stone for defense and security, its protection against the day of attack and calamity. All along the walls, inside its watchtowers, and above its gates stood those who kept guard…the watchmen. It was their charge to protect the city, to keep vigilant, to stay awake as the people slept, to watch, to gaze into the distance for the first sign of danger…an impending invasion. And if a watchman were to see such a sign, he would reach down to his side, pull out a ram’s horn, his trumpet, set it to his mouth, and, with all his breath, sound the alarm. How do you think the watchman’s alarm sounded to those inside the city?”

“Jarring, disturbing, ominous.”

“Exactly…. As it had to be. If not, then those asleep would remain sleeping and those awake would never know what was coming until it was too late. Only a sound as jarring as that could save them.”

He paused before continuing. “So, Nouriel, a question: Should the watchman refrain from reaching for his trumpet because the people will find it disturbing and would rather hear a pleasant sound? Or should he refuse to blow it because they’ll oppose and slander him or because they’ll even hate him?”