Below is the draft first chapter of

The Song of the Blue Bird

Minor edits will be made before final publication.

In the Beginning

In the beginning of Rabbi Yohanan’s class, all the eyes in the room were on me – including the rabbi’s. Thirty-six pairs of wide eyes, most of them brown, many of them tired, some of them familiar looking, and all of them surprised, were fixed on my face. I had been there only long enough to say the words, “No, it wasn’t like that at all,” and I was just as shocked by my appearance in their study hall as they were. 

In my experience, men don’t like to be told that they’re wrong, especially by a woman. But in this case, that wasn’t what had stunned this room-full of them. The students had been deep in thought and discussion about the Israelites’ experience crossing the Reed Sea after having just left Egypt, and one or two of them had offered their ideas. Then suddenly, there was a young woman standing before them in strange clothes and contradicting them, having entered unannounced, and not even through a door.

When Rabbi Yohanan recovered himself, he asked me who I was. I sighed. This was my fourth time reappearing unexpectedly among people, so I at least knew a few things that I hadn’t known the first time. I was thankfully clothed — in fact, wearing the exact robe I’d worn before; I appeared to be a young woman of around twenty years, even though I had lived so many more; I was frustratingly going to be questioned extensively; and then ultimately I would be both revered and detested. However, I also had an important task, and I would find out what that was – hopefully soon. In the meantime, I would be as honest and efficient as possible. With any luck, my identity would mean something to them.

“I am Blue. Known in Israel as Serrah, daughter of Asher,” I said.

At that, the jaws in the room dropped to twice the width of the eyes, and the rabbi sat down, seemingly to prevent himself from falling. As nobody there looked prepared to speak, I went on. “I was born in the land of Israel, the land of my grandfather, whose name was Israel. I went with him and his tribe to Egypt when famine threatened our demise, and Joseph sustained us with the stores of food there. Generations later, I helped lead the Israelites back to the land of our patriarchs and matriarchs. This is how I can tell you with certainty that the Reed Sea did not look like sprouting bushes on either side of us when we crossed, as one person here said. Still more generations later, I returned to my birth land to help King Solomon with the building of The Temple in Jerusalem. Now I would very much like to know where I am and when I am so that I can get my bearings while I learn why I am.”

Rabbi Yohanan stood again, then bowed before me. He stayed that way long enough for his students to follow his example. Then he quietly dismissed them. The young men, all dressed in clean, but rather ragged looking robes that had white fringes neatly tied on the corners, , walked out of the room backs first – still gaping at me. Once they were gone, Rabbi Yohanan opened a cabinet and produced a bottle of wine and two cups and a small bowl of dried almonds. He poured us each a glass, then said, “Praised are you, Master, Our God, King of the World, who created the fruit of the vine. Praised are you, Master, Our God, King of the World, who enabled us to be alive, to exist, and to reach this time.” He looked at me expectantly for a moment, then drank his wine, and I did the same.

The liquid going down my throat felt at once strange and familiar. I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in some time, so the sensation was shocking at first. The taste, though, was smooth and tangy and felt almost playful in my mouth. I enjoyed a second small cup when he offered it. I was ready to add food to my experience and copied the rabbi’s motions as he reached for an almond. “Praised are you, Master, Our God, King of the World, who created the fruit of the tree.” He looked at me expectantly again as he paused. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something and judging me for not doing so. But when he ate his almond, I ate mine.

I ate it slowly, first feeling its bulk between my back teeth on the left side of my mouth, then letting the right side have a turn before biting down. Splat, the almond broke between my teeth and burst its sweet, nutty flavor through my mouth. I chewed the pulp with satisfaction and gratefully accepted a second almond and a third when they were offered. The bowl was then empty.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” I said.

Rabbi Yohanan bowed his head in humility. “Of course. It is an honor to be here with you. The honor of a lifetime. Serrah, daughter of Asher, the eighth son of Jacob.” He shook his head in disbelief. “But,” he quickly went on, “I try to welcome everyone in this way. I try to offer a warm and welcoming space for people to feel comfortable and appreciated and respected. This is a longstanding tradition and value…. Well, I don’t have to tell you that,” he concluded. I smiled.

“You mentioned that you would like to know where and when you are. Shall I tell you now?” I nodded my approval. “This is my humble study, in the city of Jerusalem. The temple that you helped King Solomon build was also in this city, of course. But that was long ago. If you walked these streets and alleys at the time of Solomon the Wise, that was a thousand years ago. The Temple stood here for centuries, a proud and beautiful home for The Master. I’m sorry to say that it was destroyed some five hundred years ago when the Babylonians came to our land, conquered it, and took many of us captive in exile. Some Israelites were able to stay here and were rejoined by returning exiles and together they built a second Temple, and it is still standing. I can show you, if you’d like. Praise The Master, we need only step outside to see its glory.”

“I would like that,” I said. “But first, who is that master of yours?”

“Why… well…,” he stumbled in trying to get the words out. “The Master,” he said, as if I should know. “The Master. The One and Only God of Israel. Of… your grandfather, Israel…. Of Abraham…. Of Moses. Of all of us. The Master. The one with the ineffable name.”

Ineffable? How disappointing. In my lifetime with Moses, I had seen signs that the people were drifting away from Yah, but I didn’t think it would last. In my lifetime with King Solomon, I was disappointed that the Israelites had appointed a human king for themselves, but they still seemed to appreciate that the Temple they were building was for connecting with Yah, praising Yah, dwelling with Yah in that place and beyond. I hoped this second Temple was the same. But Rabbi Yohanan praised The Master. I would show him that YhWh – while a name more complicated to say than Yah – is not ineffable, but a name that brings us closer to the Oneness it holds. Also, I would calm myself at the same time.

“I would very much like to see the Second Temple,” I said. “But first I must tell you that I do not know this ‘master’ and I must cleanse myself of the anger and sadness I feel in hearing that my nation has drifted from Yah. If you like, you may join me in my people’s – our people’s – traditional way of connecting with Yah.” Without waiting for his decision, I closed my eyes and put my hands on the table where the bowl of almonds had been. I briefly drummed my fingers there to echo my heartbeat. Then I took a slow inhale of all that was around me. Yhhhh. 

I took in the stale air of the room, the presence of the kind rabbi and the lingering musk of his students. I took in the Temple that he told me was out there, and the dust from the beautiful rolling hills that I knew were just beyond – the ones that my feet had first touched. I took in the sheep who I believed would be grazing not far away, and the birds in the sky, especially the ones with blue on their wings, that I was certain flew above us sometimes, even if not at that exact moment. Then Whhhh, I gave myself to all of that. Yhhhh. Whhhh. I repeated that “ineffable” name over and over, receiving from the All, giving to the All. Receiving, giving, receiving, giving, turning myself into Yah, and Yah into myself in the holy process. 

When I opened my eyes, I could see that Rabbi Yohanan had chosen to join me. When he opened his eyes, he graced me with a serene smile. We remained quiet for a while, then he said, “It has become our tradition that only the High Priest says The Name, and only when inside the Holy of Holies in the center of the Temple, and only on the most sacred day of the year, Yom Kippur.” He paused for a moment, before sharing his next thought. “Perhaps it is time that we reexamine that tradition,” he said. 

The rabbi escorted me out of his study. From the balcony just outside, we had a stunning view of the Second Temple. The sun shone on the stone, making it look gold. Its beauty and size took my breath away. It was larger than the First Temple, and it seemed that there was a crew working to make it even larger at that very moment. My eyes began noticing other differences, and I wondered why, if it was so important that I help King Solomon build the first one correctly, I wasn’t here to help with the second. Was I here now to guide changes? I didn’t find out that day.

For the rest of that day, I enjoyed Rabbi Yohanan’s hospitality, if not his news. While walking me through Jerusalem’s streets and to his home where he would host me, he told me that the city was under siege by a people called Romans. That was, he explained, why he had only a token bite of food to offer me in the classroom. Food was scarce in the city; fear was abundant. Still, he worked for peace and hoped for peace. But he suggested that I stay by his side as we walked and not roam the city on my own. I also thought that best, for otherwise I would have surely gotten lost. 

The Temple wasn’t the only thing that looked different to me. The city walls that had been built by Solomon’s father King David had clearly already fallen and been repaired in many places in the thousand years since I had last been in Jerusalem. The streets looked to be made of the same stones, but as they wound around and over the hills, they marked paths between buildings and houses that I had never laid eyes on. There were still wells where I expected them, but the ovens had been moved to someplace that we didn’t pass on the way to Rabbi Yohanan’s home.

He gave me his bed in the sparse room where he slept in the city. He insisted that he would sleep on a blanket on the floor, and he hung a curtain for my privacy. He shared his food with me. He accompanied me on tours of the city and ascensions to the Temple Mount. He watched over me from a distance while I sat on the rooftops and gazed at my homeland and breathed it in and breathed myself into it. He brought me with him when he taught, so as to keep me close. Rabbi Yohanan told everyone that I was his niece, though a couple of his students whispered other news. And still, I didn’t know why I was there. Until the fifth day.

Every morning, I had been thoroughly delighted by the Levites singing psalms from the Temple. Their harmonies floated through Jerusalem from the highest point in the city and the music reminded me of the joy that is possible in the world – even in a city that is captured. Of course, not every moment was a joyful one, and our trip to the market that morning was a clear reminder. We went to buy bread and whatever else we could from what would be available that day. The rabbi warned me to expect little, due to the siege. But he also told me that I could look forward to hearing a section of the Torah chanted in the marketplace. Twice a week a short section was chanted in the market, and a longer piece would be sung on the sabbath. He beamed with pride as he told me. “This week we will be hearing about the Israelites crossing of the Reed Sea and the song they sang on the other side. . That’s why we were discussing it in class. Surely you must remember the song.” 

I gave him a noncommittal smile. They had not been correct about what the crossing of the sea was like. I would have to hear the song before I could know whether it was the one that I remembered or not. Together we eagerly walked to the market. I enjoyed the crowd of my tribe around me. I looked for signs of my grandmothers in the wise faces of the elder women. I looked for glimpses of familiar smiles or walks in the children. I made my way to the front of the gathering so I would hear the words well. Soon a young man whom I recognized from Rabbi Yohanan’s class stepped onto a crate. “Praise The Master, the praised one!” he shouted.

Idle chatter in the marketplace changed to an obedient response from the crowd as one, “Praised is the praised Master, forever and ever”

The student then called out, “Praised are you Master, our God, King of the World, who sanctified us with commandments and commanded us to involve ourselves with the words of the Torah.” Then, in a strong and lovely tenor voice, the student chanted a very, very long song. It held remnants of what I had experienced, and yet it was all wrong. I insisted on leaving that gathering at once, and Rabbi Yohanan reluctantly followed me, wanting to remain until the end, but fearing for my safety if I was alone.

We stepped into a side street, and I asked him, “Where is this song from?”

He stammered a moment, then said, as if it was the most obvious answer, “it’s from the Torah. Moses received the Torah at Sinai and transmitted it to Joshua, Joshua to the elders, the elders to the prophets, and the prophets to the men of the great assembly. We practice memorizing it, but also have it written down on scrolls so the students can review it that way and make sure they know and say the words exactly. Korey, who you just heard chanting, has memorized it perfectly.”

“What I just heard is written down?” I asked. 

“Yes,” he answered. “In the Torah. The teachings. The Five Books of Moses.”

“I must read them,” I said.

Rabbi Yohanan made the arrangements, and for seven days, I took only a few breaks from reading to eat and sleep. I read the Torah from the first word to the last, but long before I was finished, I knew through and through why I was there. These words had been written on scrolls by dedicated scribes. Each one had copied a scroll from a scribe before him, making sure that the teachings were identical. Thus, each one had all but erased me from the story! Me and so many others. It is impossible to include every detail, every experience, every perspective in any story. But these writings were being treated as holy and complete. In fact, they had omitted so much, I was lucky that the rabbi had even recognized my name! 

Continuing with his generosity and hospitality, Rabbi Yohanan worked to get me supplies so that I could write the missing pieces of the story of the Israelites, especially mine and the stories of the other women. Not knowing that I could do the writing myself, he assigned his student Ezra to help me. But I will write each word. Yesterday, the Levites sang, “Master, open my lips and my mouth will sing Your praise.” Today I say, “Yah, guide my hand, and I will write my song.”