sacrifices came to an abrupt halt. For nearly two thousand years, the Jews were without a Temple on that sacred plateau — with no immediate hope for its restoration.
Until now.
Breathless, the messenger stopped abruptly when he came to a weathered wooden door. He knocked three times. He waited … and knocked two more times. He waited … and knocked once.
The door opened.
A man in his thirties welcomed the messenger in. The messenger bowed to the rabbi seated on the couch at the far end of the room, an aged man with a pale, saggy face and a full grey beard. The rabbi’s assistant pointed to a chair, and the messenger sat.
“Rabbi,” the young man began. “Important news.”
“Speak,” the rabbi instructed him.
“About Prime Minister Bensky. Certain negotiations. Incredible …”
“Catch your breath,” the assistant chided. “Speak clearly.”
“It’s just that,” the young messenger said, “as I watched our secret work in preparation … the fashioning of the altar … the water basins … the great bronze basin … all the sacred implements for sacrifice … making ready for the day when the Temple will be restored to its rightful place on the Mount …”
“Yes …,” the rabbi said, nodding slowly. The old man twisted his head slightly to look through the lace curtain of his apartment so he could catch a glimpse of the Western Wall’s uppermost row of stones and the Temple Mount above, now occupied by Muslim mosques. He turned to the young messenger. “Please, tell us what you know.”
“There are discussions within the Sol Bensky coalition government. I don’t have the details yet. But hints. More than just rumors.”
“What kind of discussions?” the rabbi’s assistant asked.
“Between the United Nations envoy and the prime minister’s office …”
“About what?” the assistant demanded.
“Jerusalem. Some kind of international solution to control and supervise the city.”
“That’s old news,” the assistant chided him.
“No, not this part …”
“What part?”
The young messenger broke into an ecstatic grin.
“The part about the Temple Mount.”
Hawk’s Nest, Colorado
In the conference room at the Jordans’ ranch, the members of the Roundtable were chatting around a long table of polished birch. The curtains had been pulled open, giving everyone a spectacular view of the Rockies. Even though they had all been there more times than they could count, they still found it awe inspiring.
The group had taken a five-minute break before launching into thelast order of business. Some of them, including Cal Jordan, were helping themselves to the snacks on the split-log buffet. Cal grabbed a soda and a huge oatmeal cookie and wandered toward Phil Rankowitz, the Roundtable’s head of media.
Rankowitz, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, stared off at the distant mountains. Abigail was next to him. Phil murmured, “I keep trying to remember that psalm … about the heavens declaring the glory of God …”
“That’s one of my favorites,” Abigail said. “How’s your reading-through-the-Bible-in-a-year project coming?”
“Try to keep up with it. I miss a few days here and there. Funny though, thinking back to the old days. I was just like all the other TV exec’s I worked around back then — reading the Bible, are you kidding?”
Cal laughed. “I remember not long ago when Dad would have had the same reaction. Funny how an encounter with God radically changes everything, doesn’t it?”
“The ultimate paradigm shift,” Phil replied. Cal took a bite of his cookie, and Phil reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “Cal, have I told you how glad I am to have you sitting with us on the Roundtable?”
Cal gave a smiling nod. “So, you don’t think with my dad being the founder, my mom sitting as chair, and now with me here that it looks like the Jordan family show?”
“Naw,” Phil replied. “Besides, even if it did — so what?
Until now.
Breathless, the messenger stopped abruptly when he came to a weathered wooden door. He knocked three times. He waited … and knocked two more times. He waited … and knocked once.
The door opened.
A man in his thirties welcomed the messenger in. The messenger bowed to the rabbi seated on the couch at the far end of the room, an aged man with a pale, saggy face and a full grey beard. The rabbi’s assistant pointed to a chair, and the messenger sat.
“Rabbi,” the young man began. “Important news.”
“Speak,” the rabbi instructed him.
“About Prime Minister Bensky. Certain negotiations. Incredible …”
“Catch your breath,” the assistant chided. “Speak clearly.”
“It’s just that,” the young messenger said, “as I watched our secret work in preparation … the fashioning of the altar … the water basins … the great bronze basin … all the sacred implements for sacrifice … making ready for the day when the Temple will be restored to its rightful place on the Mount …”
“Yes …,” the rabbi said, nodding slowly. The old man twisted his head slightly to look through the lace curtain of his apartment so he could catch a glimpse of the Western Wall’s uppermost row of stones and the Temple Mount above, now occupied by Muslim mosques. He turned to the young messenger. “Please, tell us what you know.”
“There are discussions within the Sol Bensky coalition government. I don’t have the details yet. But hints. More than just rumors.”
“What kind of discussions?” the rabbi’s assistant asked.
“Between the United Nations envoy and the prime minister’s office …”
“About what?” the assistant demanded.
“Jerusalem. Some kind of international solution to control and supervise the city.”
“That’s old news,” the assistant chided him.
“No, not this part …”
“What part?”
The young messenger broke into an ecstatic grin.
“The part about the Temple Mount.”
Hawk’s Nest, Colorado
In the conference room at the Jordans’ ranch, the members of the Roundtable were chatting around a long table of polished birch. The curtains had been pulled open, giving everyone a spectacular view of the Rockies. Even though they had all been there more times than they could count, they still found it awe inspiring.
The group had taken a five-minute break before launching into thelast order of business. Some of them, including Cal Jordan, were helping themselves to the snacks on the split-log buffet. Cal grabbed a soda and a huge oatmeal cookie and wandered toward Phil Rankowitz, the Roundtable’s head of media.
Rankowitz, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, stared off at the distant mountains. Abigail was next to him. Phil murmured, “I keep trying to remember that psalm … about the heavens declaring the glory of God …”
“That’s one of my favorites,” Abigail said. “How’s your reading-through-the-Bible-in-a-year project coming?”
“Try to keep up with it. I miss a few days here and there. Funny though, thinking back to the old days. I was just like all the other TV exec’s I worked around back then — reading the Bible, are you kidding?”
Cal laughed. “I remember not long ago when Dad would have had the same reaction. Funny how an encounter with God radically changes everything, doesn’t it?”
“The ultimate paradigm shift,” Phil replied. Cal took a bite of his cookie, and Phil reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “Cal, have I told you how glad I am to have you sitting with us on the Roundtable?”
Cal gave a smiling nod. “So, you don’t think with my dad being the founder, my mom sitting as chair, and now with me here that it looks like the Jordan family show?”
“Naw,” Phil replied. “Besides, even if it did — so what?
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