It Came Upon a Midnight Clear
I
It came upon a midnight clear.
Dread. Heaviness. Dimness.
Naphtali Ben-Zohar gazed at the stars, finally normal after two years of unusual brilliance.
His deep sigh met with the chill of an evening gust. He stepped back from the window with a shiver. Naphtali’s eyes turned to his baby, sleeping peacefully.
Beautiful, sweet baby, born six weeks hence.
Beautiful, sweet baby, born to a dying mother, a loving wife, a strong woman who fought for her son through blood and tears.
Though he couldn’t explain it, Naphtali thought he could feel her cries, her groans, as if her death echoed on the wind.
He’d been filled with hope that day, but of course the stars were still bright then.
Even in his wife’s death, he maintained that something was different. He would be okay.
After all, for nearly twenty-five months, Bethlehem had been different.
The town was changed that night when Yosef and Miriam slipped into town, barely noticed.
While the village slept, Miriam gave birth among the animals in the cave outside of town.
That’s when the brilliance began.
Shepherds reported angelic messengers from the Lord of Hosts appearing to them in the fields.
Naphtali still wasn’t sure what to think of it, but he knew for certain the sky had changed.
The Lord hadn’t spoken through prophets in centuries, but now a baby was born, announced by angels.
No one dared say the word “Messiah” out loud, but the town whispered of the mystery often.
A sort of awe had settled over Naphtali and the Bethlehemites.
Though they always said they intended to return to Nazareth, they’d made their home in Bethlehem. Yosef assisted the town’s carpenter. Miriam made friends with the other mothers in town, sharing ingredients, recipes, homemaking tips.
The couple appeared incredibly normal, except that every interaction with them reminded Naphtli and the others of that night they arrived.
They were normal, the baby was normal, everything was normal…but could that baby really be the one they’d been waiting for?
But just a few nights ago, everything changed.
An entourage of strangers, magi dressed as kings, entered the village and stayed with Miriam and Yosef.
Whispers said they’d been led to Bethlehem by a star overhead.
Once again, the couple was the talk of the town.
Once again, they wondered if this toddler could possibly grow up to be Messiah.
Once again, Naphtali chose excitement and hope under the bright light of the stars.
But last night, something changed.
The stars grew dim.
Miriam, Yosef, and little Yeshua left in the night time.
And now, for the first time, Naphtali let his despair catch up to him.
Without that child close by, without that star shining extra bright, what would come next?
As he watched his own son, Naphtali wondered about their safety.
Where was the Most High now?
Why would Miriam and Yosef need to leave?
With them gone, Naphtali realized his greatest fear.
Everything would slip back into normalcy.
The darkness of the cold, cruel world would once again envelope the sleepy town until all memory of Yeshua’s birth passed into doubtful legend.
The cruel world that took his wife from him could not be tempered by Messiah.
As if he were never here, Messiah was gone.
And though he didn’t know how, Naphtali could feel a danger on the wind. A coldness seeped into his bones, and his home didn’t feel so warm as before.
He bade goodnight to his older sister, a widow who’d readily volunteered to help raise the boy. While she tended to his son’s needs, he lay alone in the dark, and the midnight dread pulled him into a fitful sleep.
It wasn’t until he awakened the next day that the real nightmare began.
II
It came upon a midnight clear.
The chills. The warm breeze mistaken for a breath.
The knot inside of suppressed guilt and penitent regret.
Decimus carried both.
A Roman soldier transferred—no, bought and sold—to the personal army of King Herod the Great.
Herod was a maniacal nobody who’d weaseled his way into gaining a modicum of power, and he’d fought tooth and nail for the rest.
He wasn’t Caesar, but Rome trusted him to keep Judea in check. Though submitted under Caesar’s thumb, Herod ruled his region with impunity, to the full extent his power allowed.
Enter Decimus, one of only thirty in an elite squadron. Hand selected by Herod himself, Decimus and his peers were trusted with his most important missions.
Important for Herod often meant personal; they were his assassins, trusted to be speedy, brutal, and discrete.
He’d long ago accepted his fate. No amount of conscience could be maintained, unless it was tied to his duty. For Decimus, Herod was his conscience.
He knew the gods weren’t concerned with his actions under Herod’s directives, but even so, a nagging feeling began to eat away at him.
Though he wouldn’t say his actions had been wrong, they truly had revealed themselves as haunting.
Images of the slain rippled in his dreams.
Soldiers, statesmen, women, children.
Babies.
Merely an inconvenience, a means to an end, certainly not wrong…
But if it were right, why was his spirit not letting him sleep at night?
Unable to sleep, Decimus roamed the cold, dark streets of Jerusalem, just outside King Herod’s palace. The night watchmen had grown accustomed to Decimus making his rounds.
Though his pacing had begun as a relaxing experience, more often than not the midnight shadows seemed to stalk him.
Dread lurked behind every corner, and every step led Decimus to an invisible precipice, a precarious height one step away from crushing guilt and despair. He buried those feelings with angry frustration.
He’d failed his last mission, as had the others dispatched with him.
They’d slaughtered an entire village worth of infants and toddlers, yet even so they hadn’t finished the mission.
One child remained alive.
The fact that Herod kept him alive insulted him because every day he was reminded of his failure.
A simple task in a simple village wasn’t supposed to go wrong.
Truth be told, not even Herod the Great could afford to replace his elite squad all at once.
There was a small comfort that he wasn’t completely expendable.
Even so, Decimus knew the truth. This failure will be held over his head for the remainder of his life, and that surviving child would surely mock him for as long as both of them lived.
No. I will find him and kill him myself.
Dozens of times, he promised himself this, but every lead came to nothing. On top of everything else, he could feel the weight of futility, heavier each day.
When he’d had enough of the night air, Decimus wound his way back toward the barracks adjacent to the palace.
Along the path, his eyes scanned the shadows. He knew something stalked him, just beyond his sight.
He realized then, his biggest fear was not death, or even failure—it was the silent mockery of loose ends. Until now, every mission finished, every target killed by him or killed by another. This unending mission wore on Decimus.
How could the baby escape? Who could’ve warned the parents?
These torturing thoughts swirled within while the biting wind swirled around him, causing dozens of illusory dangers to tease him at every turn.
Finally, Decimus reentered the barracks, ready for another attempt at sleep, when he noticed a door ajar. He peeked in, and only his years of training kept him from screaming or gasping.
Decimus gawked for only a moment at the dead body. The next moment, he checked the room and the perimeter for any signs of the assassin.
Looking more closely over the cooling corpse, he was impressed at the assassin’s work. Barely any evidence remained of the struggle.
He must’ve really caught the soldier off guard.
Decimus knew the soldier well, but he afforded himself not a moment for grief or introspection. Instead, he thought only of the crime.
Who could possibly find and kill a soldier in his own barracks?
Though he was suspicious of the other soldiers, he still went to arouse all of them from sleep. As he did, he found five others dead—and all of them served with Decimus in Herod’s division.
All of them were with Decimus in Bethlehem.
No, he thought. This has nothing to do with Bethlehem. It can’t.
He pushed down his churning panic, and with the awakened soldiers he summoned their general.
The bustle of the night bled straight into day, and over the course of the day, four more bodies were found, and some of them were soldiers who’d been alive when Decimus had found the first body.
The investigation grew lengthy and turned inward, soldiers questioning each other, the general questioning them all. Herod himself berated each of them—both for being sloppy enough for so many to get killed, and for leaving witnesses alive during their last mission.
Decimus was exasperated, his mind swimming, flailing, grabbing for answers.
But finally, by the end of the third day, Decimus knew four things for certain:
Someone was targeting Decimus’s team, someone who could kill the best Roman soldiers without leaving a trail of blood or chaos.
All of the targeted soldiers had been with Decimus in Bethlehem.
Rumors of what they’d done in Bethlehem had started spreading to other towns; whispers even spread through Jerusalem.
The source of those rumors might know something about where his real target was hiding.
Through the confusion, Decimus emerged with a refreshing clarity.
Find the source to find the toddler. Find the toddler to complete the mission and draw out the assassin.
By King Herod’s leave, Decimus left Jerusalem on horseback, riding towards Bethlehem.
III
It came upon a midnight clear.
Peaceful sleep. A sigh of relief. A silent night with an obedient toddler asleep at sundown.
Yosef knew he was blessed, even when he and his wife were on the run because their child was targeted by a megalomaniacal king.
Not their child, technically. At least, not his. But he loved Yeshua as his own, and he took it very seriously that somehow the Lord Most High trusted him to raise Messiah.
He took it seriously, but Miriam reminded him to take joy in it too.
With that in mind, by candlelight, as the last words of the lullaby left Miriam’s lips, Yosef spoke.
“Passover is coming soon.”
“As it does every year.”
“We’re still celebrating it, yes?” he asked.
“I don’t know why we wouldn’t. Do you not want to?”
“Of course I want to. I’ve just been thinking—”
Miriam interrupted, “No, no, we need to celebrate it. We can’t be intimidated into not just because we’re alone out here. We’re not alone. We—”
“Miriam. You don’t have to convince me. I’m not asking to skip Passover. I actually think we should make it extra special.”
“And how do we do that, my bridegroom?”
“We have plenty gold, unless you spent it at the market.”
She laughed. “Unless you spent it on this home.”
“We have plenty left over, my bride. Unless you furnished our home with the finest linens Egypt has to offer.”
“I think our home is modest…enough. You’re the one who said we need to blend in.”
Yosef said, “I think we’re blending in with the rich foreigners. If we want to blend in more with the Egyptians, I’ll need to buy you a crypt. Maybe a pyramid.”
“So are you Pharaoh now?”
“According to the Torah, Yosef was actually second to Pharaoh. But you’re my queen, so I think that counts for something.” Yosef kissed his wife gently and smiled.
She blushed. “I think we got distracted trying to rule all of Egypt. What were you saying about Passover?”
“I was thinking: This life isn’t going to last forever. The gold might not stretch as long as we think it should. Our place is with our people; we’re only here for the time-being to keep Yeshua safe.”
Miriam nodded.
He continued, “So…eventually, we will be back in Nazareth. While we’re here—while we can actually see the pyramids!—let’s celebrate passover like never before.”
She said, “So, should the Lord our God send more plagues?”
“No—er, I don’t know. I know it isn’t an accident we’re here, in the land of Goshen, the same region our ancestors lived. I know the Lord has us here for a reason, and it can’t just be to protect us from Herod.”
His voice had risen, but Miriam touched his shoulder. He continued at almost a whisper. “I know he can protect us anywhere.”
She said, even quieter, “What does any of that have to do with Passover?”
They both laughed.
After a pause, Yosef said, “It’s his third Passover, you know. He might actually remember this one. I want to do it for him, big and festive and reverent. If there’s any other Jew in all of Egypt, they’ll eat with us. Yeshua will always remember what our God has done.”
“Okay,” she said, and they talked no more of it that night.
Though he knew he didn’t need her permission, just telling her this little sliver of his plan brought relief. He knew he wouldn’t be a perfect father for Yeshua, but he would do everything he could to be the best abba possible.
Falling asleep that night, he felt like he could almost hear the song of the angels from that fateful night.
IV
It came upon a midnight clear.
The pressure. The terror just barely held back by Decimus’s resolve.
He hadn’t been this frightened since he was a boy, trained for war by his hardened father.
His father who died in the Battle of Alexandria. Little Decimus knew the soldiers were coming for him next.
They never did, but he never let his guard down.
And now, the terror returned, just on the fringe of his awareness, awaiting acknowledgement.
He’d tracked the rumor to Bethlehem, found a man who’d heard the plan and saw the direction of the target family’s flight.
Fueled by desperation, he killed the man and rode to Egypt.
Chasing rumors wasn’t normally part of his job, but he knew Herod’s obsession with this “Newborn King.”
Decimus wanted to call the boy “Toddler Tyrant,” but surely no title could be earned by a random child in a random village. Though Decimus wasn’t an expert in the traditions of the Jews, he knew Herod’s actions and suspicions must be overblown.
Yet here I am, in Egypt, chasing a child.
His thoughts returned to his father, and the fact that he was now closer to his father than he’d been in decades.
He forced his father out of his mind as the feeling of being followed returned.
Decimus rode faster, putting on the resolve he’d grown so accustomed to. I will kill the child, then I will face the assassin.
Fear still tried to crawl its way in, but Decimus was steadfast.
Shadows shifted as he rode down the desolate street. Each shadow seemed to jump at him, but forward he pressed with few breaks.
Based on the intel, he was able to determine the city the family was most likely staying in.
Morning dawned when he arrived at that city, and Decimus tried to look like a weary traveler. Under his guise, he spoke to anyone he passed.
Lucky for him, some of the passersby had heard tell of a rich Jewish family who’d bought land and settled in a hurry. He circled closer and closer, and the deeper into the neighborhood he got, the more specific information he shrewdly wheedled out of the people.
The day quickly slipped away from him, and the people grew few and far between. The people he did see either couldn’t speak Greek or were reluctant to speak it with him.
For well over twenty-four hours, Decimus hadn’t slept. Desperate to catch his prey, Decimus imagined both confronting the child and the assassin.
But his imaginations continued without his consent into his darkest, bloodiest memories. He suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about the children he’d killed in the name of duty and for the sake of convenience.
This midnight, it came again—the terror, the stalking, the feeling that someone or something had stayed two steps ahead of him.
Even so, he relied on his training and forced himself to block out all feelings.
There is nothing but the mission.
A high-pitched whistle sounded through the air, stronger than a song of a flute or a bird. A baritone hum accompanied it, two wordless notes.
Decimus tried to ignore it at first. Then, he checked all around, wondering if the assassin might be toying with him.
Though he hadn’t even seen the assassin yet, he knew he must be close.
But he found no evidence of anyone or anything making the noise.
As he turned onto the next street, the tones ceased.
In that moment, Decimus had three thoughts, none of them for certain:
If the last three people I talked with are correct, the child’s home is on this street.
If the assassin is here, he will try to keep me from killing this “Newborn King”. In that case, I will kill him first.
If the assassin isn’t here, I will find him when the child is finished.
Lists such as these usually filled Decimus with confidence, but his resolve finally gave way when the noises resumed, this time with five different harmonic tones.
It seemed to be behind him at first, and without thinking he pushed his horse into a run, forgetting any notion of stealth. But the sounds followed him and circled him, each one seeming to come from somewhere else.
His horse slowed as he covered his ears.
The tones then coalesced and formed the words of a song sung in his own language.
“Glory, glory, glory!
Glory in the heavenly heights!
Peace, peace, peace!
The King, the King, the King!”
Decimus fell from his horse and rolled around in the dirt, unable to escape the words singing on the sky.
He cried, “Make it stop! Make it stop!”
A wind, a slice. A clatter.
Everything stopped—the music, and Decimus’s screams.
Remembering his training, he pushed the terror aside. Calmly, he touched the tip of his left ear, and his hand came back bloody. Merely five meters ahead, the thrown javelin stopped bouncing and rolled to a stop.
Decimus spun and unsheathed his gladius, just in time to parry a second javelin. The attacker rushed forward with a sword of his own, and the two sparred, each man grunting in fury.
Decimus’s opponent was dressed in all black, and his blows were stronger than any he’d experienced in training or in battle, but Decimus blocked or diverted each strike.
They backed away from each other, preparing for another bout.
The man said in Greek, “You will die, Roman! Rachel weeps for her children, but none will weep for you.”
He jumped back into the fight, but that last phrase stuck with Decimus, searing his emotions.
None will weep for you…
He knew nobody save himself had wept for his father when he’d died in battle. But how many wept for those he’s killed in the name of his honor?
The deepest parts of himself threatened to burst forth. Not the part of him that treated killing like a sport. Not the part of him that gloried in the power of taking a life. No, the deepest, most hidden parts of himself were the pieces of regret and longing. The parts that felt trapped in the life his family and king had pushed him into.
And here is the consequence of my actions. Though he didn’t know the man’s name or his story, Decimus knew the truth: he’d brought the assassin upon himself.
As he fought his enemy, the battle in his mind fought just as fiercely.
With every slash of his sword, he involuntarily recalled the image of each person he killed.
Then, his mind substituted his own face onto each corpse’s visage.
I am no better than them. My life is no better than theirs.
All the people I killed…all the families broken by my blade…
As he fought the assassin, neither gained ground, though Decimus was growing weary of the man’s uncommon strength.
But during the impasse, his mind wouldn’t quit.
You deserve to die. Your acts earn death.
He realized another truth: No matter what happens to the mission, there is no relief for me. My actions have reaped violence. Violence will chase me until I’m dead.
He no longer wanted to hide behind the convenience of duty and the responsibility of carrying out orders. Even more than the sweat drenching him, Decimus was covered with the deep knowledge that he was guilty.
Before they charged into another bout, Decimus dropped his gladius. The man froze for a moment, and Decimus threw all his other weapons to the ground.
“Kill me!” he yelled. “I deserve it, and I’m ready.”
The assassin’s face twisted into a smile. He lurched with the sword aimed at Decimus’s heart, but the blade stopped mere centimeters from his chest, as if invisible armor held it at bay.
He pushed, but the blade refused to penetrate. He pulled his sword back and screamed. He slashed over and over, grunting with each swing, but each time the blade slid past Decimus, not harming him.
The music returned on the swirling wind, as did the song.
“Glory, glory, glory!
Peace, peace, peace!
Shining from the King!
Shining from the King!”
“No!” the assassin growled. “You cannot do this. You cannot stop me. You know he deserves it!”
The song grew louder, but Decimus still couldn’t figure out from where it came from.
“Glory and peace!
Shining from the King!”
Decimus could remember no peace in his life. He’d always doubted peace’s very existence. But if a newborn king could threaten an old king…if this new king is from the gods…
For every king he had ever met, heard of, or learned of, Decimus knew of no king like this one.
But if peace is truly shining from this king, what have I got to lose?
Decimus understood very little of what happened that night, both before and after this moment, but now he knew one thing for certain: I need to get to the child.
As the song continued reverberating and the assassin continued screaming, Decimus turned and sprinted in the direction of the family’s house. It was nearer than he realized, and a light seemed to outline it.
In the frenzy, he only absently noted the family’s doorframe, smeared in blood.
V
It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the earth, singing, singing, singing, singing, SINGING—
“Enough!”
Naphtali Ben-Zohar’s voice echoed with the singing, then nothing.
The sudden silence pierced him.
After a beat, he remembered his mission.
“Yeshua!”
He ran to the house after the Roman. When he met the threshold, invisible arms threw him to the ground. He jumped up and tried again. It seemed that an unseen wall kept him from even touching the door, and a second later he was thrown again to his back.
Naphtali screamed. “I am justice for the Lord my God! Let us through!”
With us, Naphtali finally admitted aloud what had been the truth since that fateful night.
From all around him, a dozen different voices commanded, almost in song, “You may not enter.”
A blade seemed to appear out of nowhere; it glowed yellow, and it cut a hole in the air between Naphtali and the house. An angel stepped through.
“Our Commander is safe. You, however, are trespassing.”
“Trespassing? Do you know who I am?” Naphtali screamed. “Do you know what he did to my son…and what he’s probably going to try to do to little Yeshua?”
“I am Michael, Archangel of God Most High. I am here to tell you the truth: You are permitted to go no further in your quest.”
Naphtali screamed again, but this time it wasn’t him. It was the being within him. When silence returned, Naphtali wept.
Between sobs, he spoke, “You don’t understand. He’s a murderer. A vile beast. Reprobate. Perverted.” Naphtali clenched his fist and met the angel’s gaze. “He killed my son, the son my wife died to deliver. And he killed others too. I can still hear the cries in the night. First of the infants, then of the parents. One voice stays in my spirit, always weeping, never stopping. Rachel weeps for her children. I must avenge them.”
“You are not the judge. You are not the giver of life. Life and death is not for you to decide.”
“Is it for them to decide—the kings and soldiers and the powerful of the world?”
Michael said, “You will see it someday. The kingdom of Heaven is not of this world.”
“No, this is wrong, and we all know it! Azrael knows it. He found me weeping. He knows the injustice. He knows how to enact the fist of God!”
“Then Azrael also knows the truth: No angel of death is permitted to enter a house covered in the blood of a spotless lamb. You may only pass over.”
Azrael screeched through Naphtali, and he spoke again through Naphtali’s mouth. “I am justice. Let me through before I make you.”
Michael laughed and playfully swung his sword through smooth forms. “On Passover of all days, Azrael? You dare defy the Most High today? Is your memory so short?”
Michael pointed the blade at Naphtali, and lightning seemed to zap from the tip to Naphtali’s head. At the shock, he saw a memory from Azrael’s perspective. They’d been here, in Goshen, together on the first passover. Azrael furiously could not enter any of the Israelite homes.
Michael broke the memory. “The time is coming soon for a new, permanent passover. Since the time of Noah, the Lord our God has chosen mercy for the sons and daughters of man. He is the Prince of Peace, and before Him, all knees will bow at His mercy, and all will find comfort.”
Azrael barked, “No! It isn’t possible. Sin must be judged.”
“It will be, Azrael. As will yours. Defying orders…possessing the body of a human…enlisting humanity’s help on a personal vendetta…what do you think the Tribunal will say?”
“No,” said Azrael. “I will be vindicated once I mete justice to all who killed Rachel’s children.”
With no control over his body, Naphtali ran once more at the door to Yosef and Miriam’s home. He pushed against the invisible barrier, desperately clawing.
The song returned louder than before.
“Glory, glory, glory!
Peace, peace, peace!”
Two strong hands gripped Naphtali’s shoulders. He continued to press forward, but the hands squeezed harder and started to pull. As they did, Naphtali stayed in place, but he could feel something tugging from within his spirit.
Then, with a final yank, Naphtali collapsed, suddenly relieved, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. He now saw no sign of the angels, though their song still rang around him, albeit not as loud.
On the ground beside him, he saw the pile of weapons the Roman had left.
If the Roman can change, can I?
The weeks since his son died had been a waking nightmare, and Naphtali realized that the man he’d became in such a short time was not the man he wanted to be.
He remembered all of his actions—partnering with Azrael, using Azrael’s strength to wield sword and javelin, using Azrael’s abilities for stealth and tracking—even killing members of Herod’s elite squad of soldiers. At each memory, he asked the Lord his God to teach him His ways, to show him what’s better.
With Azrael out of his head, he realized what he’d been missing.
The injustice of the kings of this world was not an invitation for him to become an avenger; it was an invitation for him to bow to the True King, who will make all things beautiful in their time.
He entered Yosef’s home easily and found a small family seated at a table in a candlelit dining room. Miriam and Yosef looked sleepy, but they were serving not just the Roman, but a half dozen others, who were sitting, kneeling, and bowing to a smiling boy whose laugh he’d recognize anywhere.
Though he didn’t think the power to forgive was within him yet, Naphtali settled beside the weeping Roman.
Naphtali sat there quietly as Yosef offered to share leftovers from their passover dinner that had technically long passed.
He accepted. Grateful. The Lord’s hand is never too late.
