Jarrod Mason was a man used to getting his own way—I suppose that's what made him so good at his job as curator of the antiquities division of the Smithsonian.
He had set his sights on succeeding where the Nazis failed—getting his hands on the brass serpent Moses erected in the desert.
It seemed a fool's errand but I had learned not to dismiss Jarrod's ambitions or regard them too lightly.
Sure enough, two months later, Jerrod summoned me, late at night, to a private showing at the Smithsonian. It was the brazen serpent—the very artifact Hezekiah supposedly destroyed.
He had dimmed the lights and erected the brass serpent on a pole. A single spotlight lighted it dramatically. It glowed a bright red.
“You can see why the Israelites adored it and burnt incense before it,” Jerrod whispered. “It really is a fiery serpent.”
I stared open-mouthed at the last miracle of the Exodus—at the object Solomon brought back from Gibeon and the Jews worshipped for five hundred years.
Jarrod was talking in the dreamy voice people use when sitting before a fire staring into the flames. “I kind of hoped the Ark might be located in that chamber too, but no such luck.”
“It’s beautiful,” was all I could say.
Words didn’t do the artifact justice though. I stood there, awe-filled, in a hushed room with six other people, mostly academics and wondered if we’d be struck down for handling a holy thing the way Uzza was smitten for daring to touch the Ark.
It seemed appropriate though, and I almost wished we’d be destroyed too. It was so profane to be standing watching an object of reverence being subjected to an electric glare.
It’s wrong to take things from their places. I always believed in that—in respect for things.
“Does it do anything?” asked a bald man who was some representative from the government. We ignored him, although I did wonder what would have happened if Noam lived long enough to be here tonight. Would standing before the object heal him of his cancer? I’ll never know.
Two days later, a frantic Jarrod woke me from my sleep. “It’s gone,” he moaned.
I knew what he meant.
“I should have put it in the vaults—I’m such a fool—I was mesmerized by its beauty.”
I commiserated with him. “I’m not immune to being mesmerized by beauty,” I told him.
Although I felt bad for my friend, I’m really not sorry though. I keep seeing the bored face of that bland government representative and I detest him.
Maybe I’m guilty of some idolatry too—assuming God shares my offence about these things. As Anne Lamott once said, “You can safely assume you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.”
On the other hand, maybe I don’t hate that official or even the people like Johoshua Channer or the corrupt members of the Waqf, who were left in charge of the Mosque.
All I know is, it’s wrong to take things from their places. I have a respect for the sacred and a need to see objects restored to where they belong.
I’d go to any lengths to ensure that.
I love beautiful things in their proper settings.