“Well, if you want to buy two birds, then you change to this!” a man said to a woman who stood over him, who seemed not to understand his Greek. She asked a question in an Aramaic that was different from ours. But I could follow what she said.

When Joseph offered to give her the right coins she needed, she put up her hand and would have none of it.

Joseph and Cleopas and all the men changed their coins without any words, but then Cleopas drew back and said, “You pack of thieves, are you proud of yourselves?” The money changers waved him away without much of a look, and Joseph pressed him to stop.

“Not in the House of the Lord,” said Joseph.

“And why not?” Cleopas said. “The Lord knows they’re thieves. They charge too much for the exchange.”

“Leave it,” said Uncle Alphaeus. “There hasn’t been a riot yet today, has there? You want to start a riot?”

“But why do they charge too much, Father?” James asked.

“I don’t know that they do. I accept it,” Joseph said. “We’ve come with enough money for the sacrifice. Nothing’s been taken from me that I haven’t been prepared to give.”

We were already in the place where the turtledoves were kept. The sun was hot. And the stones were hard under my feet, though they were beautiful stones. I could hear more anger, more disputing, along with the cluck and coo of the birds themselves. It was a long time before we reached the tables.

The stench of the cages was worse than any courtyard in Nazareth. The filth dripped from the cages.

Here even Joseph was surprised by the price that he had to pay, but the merchant was cross and pointed out how many people were waiting.

“Would you care to sit here and deal with these people!” the merchant demanded. “Or bring your own perfect birds from Galilee? That’s where you come from, isn’t it? I can tell by your speech.”

Everywhere I heard the same quarreling. A family had returned with birds that the priests wouldn’t accept. The merchant shouted in Greek that the birds had been unblemished when he sold them. Again, Joseph offered to pay for another sacrifice but the father said no, this time with thanks to him. The woman was crying.

“I’ve walked for fourteen days to get here to make this sacrifice.”

“Listen, you have to let us pay for another pair of doves for you!” said Cleopas. “I don’t give the money to you,” he said to the woman. “I give it to this fellow here and then he gives you two more birds. That way, it’s your sacrifice still. You understand? You don’t take anything from me for it. He takes it.”

The woman stopped crying. She looked at her husband. Her husband nodded.

Cleopas paid the money.

The merchant gave the women two fluttering little birds. Quickly, he shoved the others into an empty cage.

“You miserable thief!” said Cleopas under his breath.

The merchant nodded. “Yes, yes, yes.”

James made his purchase quickly.

Thoughts came into my mind that frightened me, not memories of the battle or the man who’d died here, but other thoughts—that this was not a place of prayer, that it was not the beautiful place of Yahweh to which all would come to worship Him. It seemed so simple, the laws of sacrifice when we recited the Scripture, but here it was a huge marketplace full of noise and anger and disappointment.

There were Gentiles all around us in this great ever moving crowd and I blushed secretly for what they saw and heard. Yet I could see that many did not mind it. They had come to see the Temple, and they seemed happier perhaps than the Jews around me, who were the ones who would go on into the Court of Women, where the Gentiles couldn’t enter.

Of course Gentiles had their own temples, their own merchants selling animals for sacrifice. I’d seen them plenty enough in Alexandria. Perhaps they fought and argued just as much.

But our Lord was the Lord who had created all things, our Lord was invisible, our Lord was the Lord of all places and all things. Our Lord dwelt only in this Temple, and we were all his holy people, every one.

When we reached the Court of Women, Old Sarah, my mother, and the other women stopped here as this was as far as women were allowed to go. The crowd was not bad here. The Gentiles couldn’t enter under pain of death. We were really in the Temple now, though the noise of the animals for sacrifice was still with us, as the men brought their cows, sheep, and birds with them.

The terrible fires had not harmed this place. Everywhere around us was silver and gold. The columns were Greek and as beautiful as any in Alexandria. Many of the women went up into the gallery from which they could see the sacrifice in the Inner Court, but Old Sarah could not climb any more stairs, and our women remained with her.

As we left her, we agreed to meet again in the southeastern corner of the Great Court. I worried as to how we would find each other.

My legs were aching as we climbed the steps. But I was filled with a new happiness, and for the first time my painful memories, my confusion, left me.

I was in the House of the Lord. I could hear the singing of the Levites.

As we reached the gate, the Levite on duty stopped us.

“This is a little boy,” he said. “Why not leave him with your women?”

“He’s older than his years and he knows the Law,” said Joseph. “He’s prepared,” said Joseph.

The Levite nodded and let us go in.

Once again, the crowd grew thick. The sound of the animals was loud, and the turtledoves fluttered in James’ grip.

But the music, the music was all around us. I could hear the pipes and the cymbals and the deep blended voices of the singers. Never had I heard such rich music, such full music as that of the Levites singing. It wasn’t the gay, broken, and high song of the Psalms we sang on the road, or the happy fastpaced songs of the weddings. It was a dark and almost sad sound that flowed on and on with great power. The Hebrew words melted in the chorus. There was no beginning or end to any part of it.

It caught me up so completely that only slowly did I see what was happening in front of me, in front of the railing.

The priests in their pure white linen with white turbans on their heads moved back and forth with the animals from the crowd in which we stood to the great altar. I saw the little lambs and the goats going to the sacrifice. I saw the birds being carried.

The priests were so thick around the altar I couldn’t see what they did, but only now and then see the splashes of blood high and low. The hands of the priests were covered in blood. Their beautiful linen robes were splashed with blood. A great fire burned on the altar. And the smell of roasting meat was strong beyond words. I smelled it with every breath that I took.

Though Joseph pointed to the altar of incense and I saw that too, I couldn’t smell the incense.

“Look, the singers, do you see them?” asked Cleopas, bending down close to my ear.

“Yes,” I said. “James, look.” I made them out through the goings and comings of the priests.

They were on the steps going up to the Inner Sanctuary, a great number, bearded men with long locks, all with scrolls in their hands, and I saw the lyres from which came the delicate sounds I hadn’t picked out from the great blended beauty of their music.

Their singing grew louder in my ears when I saw them. It was so beautiful I felt myself floating with it. It drowned out the sounds of the crowd completely.

All my troubles went away as I stood here, as I prayed, my words becoming no words—only worship of the Lord who had created all things as I listened to the music and looked on all that was happening.

Lord. Lord, whoever I am, whatever I am, whatever I am meant to be, I am part of this, this world that is all of a flowing wonder—like this music. And you are with us. You are here. You have pitched your tent here, among us. This music is your song. This is your house.