Page 33 of Unveiled Tamar’s Story (Mysteries & Wonders of the Bible #1)

N ever in her life had Tamar stood in the court of the high priest—never had she imagined she would. It wasn’t a place where women were welcome for day-to-day business. They came only when they were bringing a case before him…or when a case was brought against them.

That, she supposed, was her current situation, but it didn’t feel like it anymore. She strode into the beautiful chamber surrounded by all three of her brothers and Levi too, all of them determined to speak on her behalf.

She could appreciate their love. Their loyalty.

Their willingness to stand beside her, even Moshe and Jeremiah, who had shaken their heads when she and Simon went home last night and told them about Jesus’s resurrection.

That, they said, was a different matter from this.

This was a leader looking for someone to blame, and they weren’t about to let their sister be the scapegoat.

The scapegoat was an important part of the Law, though.

A symbol of how God removed the sins from His people.

She wasn’t one in any true sense. She couldn’t take those sins and remove them from anyone…

but still it seemed important to remember the purpose of the animal.

Not that it was cast out—but that it was sent out for a reason.

Jesus did not defeat death so that we could huddle in this room forever , Mary had said.

She was certainly right. They needed to go out.

First to their families. Then to their neighbors.

If those in Jerusalem wouldn’t hear them, then they would go farther, then farther still.

Tamar didn’t know from where the strength would come to do so, but she trusted that come it would.

Because here she stood, in the court of Israel’s highest official, filled with the same calm she’d known when the light of the risen Christ had washed over her. Then, her every muscle had gone still. Now, the stillness was inward instead.

The fear, still. The ambition, frozen. The yearning for justice, shifted.

Justice was, of course, what God wanted for all people. But Jesus’s sacrifice had proven that God had a view of justice well beyond Tamar’s limited understanding. She would trust that He would see it done, in the next life if not in this one.

Caiaphas sat in his chair, scribes at desks on either side of him.

The room was large, austere, proclaiming with a single glance that the man holding court within it was important.

Though there were Roman officials technically over him—the governor, Herod—Caiaphas was the highest-ranking Jew in Judea, and by all accounts, he had served their people well in his many years of service, hence why he’d held the position so long.

She’d never expected to be brought before him like this. She’d thought that living her life as best as she could, doing her job with a dedication to the Lord, would guarantee that life would go according to plan.

Praise God that she’d been wrong. Her plan never could have foreseen Jesus.

Her plan never would have taken her on such an unexpected journey.

But she wouldn’t wish the last days undone, not for anything.

So she would accept this trial as part of that journey.

Unforeseen by her, but not beyond God’s hand.

He had led her here, and He would guide her now, and into whatever steps came next.

The case before theirs finished, and another official waved them forward.

She went, two of her closest relatives on either side of her.

She was keenly aware of the garment she had donned for the occasion—borrowed again, but made by her own hand with all the love she felt for her cousin’s wife.

It would proclaim her skill to any who knew to look, but that was beside the point.

She’d already proven her skill as a weaver, years and years ago.

It was how she’d gotten her first position as a woman at the seventy-two rods.

It was how she’d been promoted. Perhaps that skill was what Caiaphas thought was on trial today.

She knew better. Today, she didn’t stand before the high priest as the head weaver.

She stood before God as a woman, a person, her hands still, her talents stripped away.

This wasn’t about her skills. It was about how she would react as a follower of Christ. This borrowed garment, as it moved with her, represented something different to her.

It reminded her of the love of her family; of the concern of a stranger who had lent her a very different garment.

Her every pulse seemed to fill her whole chest, her whole body. She didn’t know what to do now, with all of that. She didn’t know how to respond. She could only trust that He would show her.

At Caiaphas’s command, one of the scribes stood, a scroll unrolled in his hands.

His voice, when he read, sounded nearly bored.

“The woman Tamar, head weaver of the temple weaving room, is accused of creating a defective veil and sending it for use in the temple, to guard the Holy of Holies. Evidence against her is the failure of said veil during the earthquake on Friday last, at which point the entire veil was torn asunder, ripped in two from top to bottom, as was witnessed by dozens of priests who have signed their testimony accordingly. This is an affront against the holiness of Adonai, and the woman must be punished. Her fault has allowed sinful man to sully the Most Holy Place.”

Moshe stepped forward, his face a mask just as hard as the priest’s.

“As Tamar’s eldest brother and head of the household to which she belongs, I beg my lord to consider the circumstances of this truly shocking event.

We do not question the event itself, but the testimony of the priests records only the ripping—no one could possibly have witnessed my sister being the agent of this destruction.

She was, of course, nowhere near it at the time.

So I invite my lord to consider. The veil in question was relatively new to service, we all know—it was hung only a month ago, correct? ”

Caiaphas answered only with a movement of his brows.

Moshe clearly expected nothing less. “In which case, the procedure for the veil being accepted, approved, and put in place ought to be fresh on your mind and easily accessible in the court records, if necessary. I would invite my lord to recall that my sister was by no means the final voice approving this veil. She was the leader of the seventy-two women who wove it, yes, and she went over every thread—a task that took weeks, beyond the many years the weaving itself took, which was continually inspected—to ensure perfection. But she was far from the only person to do so. Is it not true that my lord sent a team of priests to inspect it just as thoroughly?”

Another twitch of Caiaphas’s face—his lips, this time.

Moshe clearly took it as acknowledgment. “And did any of them report a flaw?”

Caiaphas looked to the scribe, though he knew the answer. The scribe consulted another scroll and replied, tone still bored, “They did not.”

“In which case, surely my lord is not suggesting that such a flaw was then present, while the veil was yet in the weaving room? Surely my sister could not have introduced such a fault, yet your hand-chosen priests missed it?”

Caiaphas’s jaw clenched.

So did Tamar’s hands. Was her brother trying to put him on the defensive? How could that possibly help?

But Moshe paced before the priest’s chair now, all confidence in his argument.

“So then, the veil was perfect while it was under my sister’s authority—this has been agreed upon by your own men, and then by you yourself, is this not correct?

Is one of the duties of your office not to give the final approval of any veil before it is hung? ”

Tamar’s eyes slid shut. Casting the blame on Caiaphas surely wouldn’t go well.

Moshe pushed on. “Three hundred men carried the veil to its place after it was approved for hanging. Who is to say that, if a fault was introduced, it was not by one of them? My cousin Levi was present while it was hung and gave testimony to me on the procedure, explaining how difficult it is. Who is to say the flaw was not caused by fumbling hands then?”

“You dare to accuse my priests?”

Moshe paused, and when Tamar opened her eyes again, she found him standing with his shoulders back, his chin up.

“Which is more likely, my lord? That the flaw was present in the weaving room yet missed by so many trained, careful eyes—including those of my sister, who is the most revered weaver in all of Israel—or that the damage was done by untrained hands after it left the room?”

He made a broad motion with his hands. “The tear took place in an earthquake, witnessed by you and by your own priests. I posit that this is proof that it was an act of God and God alone, not one caused by any human, be it my sister or another. Therefore, no man or woman ought to be held accountable for the tragedy.”

“Are you quite finished?” Caiaphas tapped his fingertips against the wide metal arm of his chair, the frustration that had flared in his eyes as her brother spoke reduced to a smolder.

He looked at her not with hatred, exactly, but with a flat, dark gaze that said he didn’t care what was said.

His mind had been made up the moment he saw the torn veil on Friday.

Moshe sucked in a breath, let it out again. “Yes, my lord. I daresay the evidence is clear, and I trust in your just judgment.” The right words—the wrong tone. They were a challenge, and she nearly winced as they rang throughout the courtroom.

Caiaphas settled his gaze on her. It should have unnerved her.

Should have traced a shiver down her spine.

It did neither. It only filled her with a strange compassion.

As her brother’s words faded to echo and then into nothingness, she felt strangely as though only she and Caiaphas were left. She saw him as she never had before.