Three years later and I still
remember it. I have played it over and over in my mind a thousand times and I
can see his head hitting the rock, his arms splayed, his eyes widening as they
changed from anger to terror. I remember feeling my heart drop from my chest
and hit the ground and the strange combination of crushing regret and
horrifying lack of it. In that moment I had murdered a man and yet—why couldn't I muster up enough regret?
Because I still remember the surge
of anger as he reached for my younger sister, the sweetness of fury as I bore
down on him and his lust-filled eyes. I placed my hands on his chest and
shoved, my righteous anger tensing my arms and reaching down into my
fingertips. And then I watched him stumble backwards. His foot caught—on a
rock? on a dip in the ground? on his own foot? I don’t know. But he fell, onto
that perfectly placed stone. Or horribly placed stone.
There are several cities of refuge
surrounding my village. That’s where I am now; I was forced to run because
according to law, the man’s father was obligated to avenge him. That meant,
essentially, that he could murder me and it wouldn’t be murder. It would be
rightful vengeance. And I understand that it would be justice. Intellectually I
get it, but there are moments, the moments in which I hate myself the most,
when I feel justified in what I did. Of course it wasn’t premeditated, I had no
intention of killing him! I am a good man! But in my sickness I almost think
that if given the chance, I wouldn’t change it.
The cities of refuge were set up so
that people who had unintentionally murdered someone could live without the
threat of their avengers. I am thankful for this place, but it has also been my
prison for the last three years. The moment I step foot out of these walls, I
am a dead man. I missed my family,
my wife and my two children, my friends, and just freedom. I miss freedom.
There is one—and only one—situation
in which I can be free. The high priest, who is the only one who has authority
to judge me before God would have to die. A life for a life… it just doesn’t
necessarily have to be mine. I had watched several of my friends from this
place walk out of the front gate because their high priest had passed away.
There was always a weird mix of joy and mourning on their faces as they left.
It seems almost scandalous that our freedom is bought at the death of
another—even if it is a natural thing. This whole city is a complicated web of
paradoxes.
But today, my fate has changed. One of the elders, who stood
at the gate, hearing the cases of the accidental murderers and admitting them
into this city prison, approached me. His look was unreadable and the
nauseating hope of another’s death filled my gut. Shame. It is the feeling of
shame.
“Your high priest died this
morning,” he said to me. I stared at him in disbelief. What do I do? How do I
respond to that?
“What?”
“Your high priest is dead. But…”
the elder shifted uncomfortably, eyes dropping to the ground. “Uh—"
“What?” I couldn’t get any other
words out.
“Something is different.”
“What is different?” Just tell me!
“He…” he scrunched his face up,
“killed himself.” I stood in silence.
“I don’t understand.”
“He was found this morning hanging
on a tree, with a piece of parchment in his tunic.” The elder handed the piece
of paper to me. I put it in my pocket without reading it. Somehow it felt heavy
and I could not lay eyes on it with this man standing before me. Shame and hope
and confusion muddled my insides. “You can go home now,” he said.
I nodded and stepped around him. I
walked to the gate and wondered why I couldn’t feel my feet. Everything felt
numb and unreal. I was free! I was free because someone died. I didn’t deserve
that—I couldn’t even feel complete remorse over what I had done, but now my
life felt impossibly expensive. I had taken the lives of two men, one of whom was undeniably a better man than I. Was this
what grace felt like? I was taken aback by how much it hurt. It was dull and
heavy and crushing and sweet.
I crossed the boundary and I am now
standing outside the walls. This city of refuge that was my prison—I am free!
The joy inside me threatens to rip me to pieces!
I take out the piece of parchment
and unroll it. I close my eyes when it is open before me. Breathe in. Breathe
out. I open my eyes.
I
do not condemn you. I give you my life. Take it and be free.
(Based on Joshua 20, 21 and Numbers 35)
