When Jesus Wept

  This morning a band of at least a hundred had stopped to drink from Ephraim’s well. John bar Zebedee and I watched their leader set them in motion again with a booming voice: “Let’s get going! Half a day more and we’re there. Come on! Sing with me!”

  “I lift up my eyes to the mountains—

  where does my help come from?”

  When the rest of the weary travelers did not immediately share the enthusiasm, the leader exhorted them still further: “Come on, sing with me, brothers!”

  The shouted directive bounded among the rocks of the knoll. “Sing with me … with me … with me … with me!”

  Now more throats, some quaking with age, some brash and eager, some piping and youthful, joined in:

  “My help comes from the LORD,

  the Maker of heaven and earth.

  He will not let your foot slip—

  he who watches over you will not slumber;

  indeed, he who watches over Israel

  will neither slumber nor sleep.”2

  Suddenly Jesus stood beside us, watching the procession. “It’s time,” he said.

  John and I looked at each other. Both of us knew what he meant: the time for us to return to Jerusalem had come.

  Jesus gathered his closest companions around him. I stood alongside Peniel, outside the circle of the twelve, but still close enough to hear what he told them.

  “We are going up to Jerusalem,” he said. “And everything written by the prophets about the Son of Man will be fulfilled.”

  Philip and James exchanged a worried glance. Thomas frowned.

  Twice before John had shared with me that Jesus, while ministering in Galilee, had spoken to them in these terms. John freely admitted that neither he nor any of the others understood what their leader meant. Would he be more specific this time?

  “The Son of Man,” Jesus continued, “will be betrayed.”

  Peter scowled and clapped his hand to the hilt of the fisherman’s knife he wore in his belt.

  Judas stared in the direction of the Temple.

  “The chief priests and teachers of the law will condemn him to death and hand him over to the Gentiles to be mocked,” Jesus said.

  Peter mouthed the words: “Over my dead body,” but no one interrupted.

  “They will mock him, spit on him, flog him, and crucify him.”

  This was now suddenly very specific—much too specific for some of the disciples, who turned their heads away.

  Matthew narrowed his eyes and stared at his sandals.

  On my left Nathanael whispered, “Then why are we going?”

  “On the third day he will rise again.”3

  For a moment there was dead silence throughout the group as all struggled to grasp what Jesus meant. Our minds were still reeling from the horrors He had prophesied betrayal, trial, torture, and death.

  From the expressions all around me, none of us were able to cross from the picture raised by the sensation of dread to what “rise again” foretold.

  “What does that mean?” Thomas hissed.

  “Gather your things. Let’s be going,” Jesus concluded. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if the portrait of terror he had just painted had to be accepted without question.

  A scrub jay scolded us from the brush as we formed a line and started down the path.

  John walked beside me. “You, of any of us, may understand what he’s saying,” John murmured. “You who have been across the gulf and come back.”

  “Been called back,” I corrected. “It was Jesus’ voice who summoned me. If he is dead—as dead as they tell me I was—who will call him to rise again? Can I? Can you? Can any of us? No, John, I don’t understand it either. Sometimes I think I catch a glimmer of what he’s saying, like the glimmer of light around a corner in a dark hallway. But when I reach the corner, the lamp is still not there. It’s still shining ahead somewhere, but not yet fully seen.”

  John cleared his throat. “He loves you very much. And me as well, I think. Perhaps we can get him to explain further?”

  I shrugged. “It’s not a failure of his love or of his willingness to speak plainly. How much more plain can he be than to use the word crucify? As for the rest, it’s a failure on our ability to comprehend, that’s all. If I was again in olam haba, someone there would teach me … but not here. We must muddle through as best we’re able. We must trust him to bring us full understanding when it’s time.”

  Halfheartedly we sang:

  “The LORD watches over you—

  the LORD is your shade at your right hand;

  the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.

  The LORD will keep you from all harm—

  he will watch over your life;

  the LORD will watch over your coming and going

  both now and forevermore.”4

  Two phrases reverberated in my thoughts: “All the prophets wrote about the Son of Man” and “Rise again.” I could not begin to define or even comprehend what all that meant. With each step nearer to Jerusalem, I was certain we would very soon find out.

  Chapter 33

  We descended the hill of Ephraim and set out toward Jerusalem. Instantly we were surrounded by old friends. The first family I met was that of my cousin Jairus, the cantor from the Capernaum synagogue. With him was his daughter, Deborah, whom Jesus raised from the dead.

  The girl spotted Jesus while they were still some distance apart. She ran to him and, casting aside any reserve, threw her arms around him. He hugged her in return, the embrace growing in intensity and participants as Deborah’s father and mother also sealed the reunion.

  The gloom that had settled on the disciples over Jesus’ talk of his death was instantly dispelled. Instead, we felt the radiant joy of life restored and families reunited. Just as morning sun over Faithful Vineyard drives away mist, so joy made our anxiety vanish.

  The two pilgrim groups mingled. Deborah walked beside me, impulsively seizing my hand. “Dear cousin, how glad I am to see you again,” she gushed. “And I hear we share something few others can speak of.” She confided in me: “I know my death caused great sorrow for my family. But when I am again in olam haba, if it’s up to me, I won’t come back here again.”

  My heart was carried back to my precious wife and son. “I know,” I agreed. “What makes it possible for me to remain here now with any happiness is—”

  “The presence of Jesus,” she concluded for me.

  “Exactly.”

  We walked along together. Different knots of old friends met and coalesced like raindrops splashing into puddles and the puddles in turn overflowing to form rivulets.

  Jairus brought me to another man whose life had also been transformed by Jesus. “You know Simon. He’s a Pharisee, but he has a good heart!”

  Simon owned two estates—one in Galilee and another not far from my own in Bethany—but we had never been close friends.

  “My sister Mary told me more of you,” I said, shaking his hand. “It was at your home she anointed Jesus’ feet after he saved her life and set her on a new path.”

  A twinge of anguish crossed Simon’s face. “I was still a self-righteous fool in those days.”

  “Me too,” I said, breaking into a big grin.

  “Then I was known as Simon the Pious; Simon the Pharisee. That was before I became known as Simon the Leper. Jesus took away both my diseases—my skin ailment and my heart trouble! And do you know what meant more to me than anything else?”

  “Tell me!”

  “His embrace,” Simon said. “I tried to hide my leprosy. I tried every medicine you can imagine, even sorcery.” He shuddered at the recollection. “When my secret came out, everyone abandoned me. My friends turned against me. Not really their fault,” he admitted. “I would have done the same to them. Forced to live away from everyone, to cry, ‘Unclean!’ wherever I went. When I went to Jesus, I was afraid he would not want to heal me, knowing who and what I had been, how I had treated others. I
said to him, ‘Lord, I know you can heal me … if you want to.’ And he replied, ‘I want to,’ then hugged me. Me! A leper! He could have stood far off and healed me without coming close. I believe it! But he did the opposite. His touch meant more to me than anything in the world, if you understand me.”

  “I do!” I fervently agreed. “With me it’s his voice, calling my name: ‘Lazarus, come forth!’ ”

  Halfway between Ephraim and Jerusalem a Roman centurion galloped up on a black horse. The file of pilgrims moved off the road to let him pass. Some spat on his shadow as he went by.

  But when he reached me, he reined up and got down to walk beside me. “Shalom, David ben Lazarus,” Marcus Longinus greeted me. Then he added, “So you could not persuade him not to come.”

  “I didn’t even try,” I said. “Jesus made it clear he knows the danger but is determined to go anyway.”

  Marcus nodded. “He is in danger, you know. Every mile nearer the city increases the risk. Your chief priests would like to arrest him openly and charge him with heresy or sorcery or leading others astray.” The Roman looked around. “They won’t do it, though. Not while he’s in the middle of a crowd. Whatever they do, they will do secretly. If they can, they’ll kill him and blame someone else.”

  “I know,” I said, recounting the tale of my own encounter with a would-be assassin on the Temple Mount. “So we keep to big crowds … not a problem during Passover week, eh? But what of Rome, Marcus?”

  The centurion considered. “Pilate has made too many missteps already. He will take action only if he thinks it’ll be seen favorably by the emperor. Pilate came to Judea headstrong and sure of himself and sure of his support in Rome. Now he’s lost both his backer and his backbone. That’s both good and bad, I suppose. As long as Jesus does not raise a riot or preach treason, Pilate won’t act unless pushed to do so. And he can’t be pushed unless he’s threatened with another bad report to Rome that’s undeniable. Is that clear?”

  I shook my head and laughed without mirth. “About as clear as all the rest of the political intrigue in Judea. I know Rome doesn’t care about Jewish religion. You know that Jesus teaches meekness. What about him is any threat to Rome?”

  A pair of mockingbirds flitted in and out of the brush ahead, keeping pace with the cavalcade. “I did not see you there, but I hear you witnessed it when he miraculously fed the thousands on the hillside?”

  I agreed that I had been present to see that astonishing event.

  “Here’s what Rome saw: he had the crowd sit in groups of fifty and one hundred—just as Roman soldiers are fed—only Jesus doesn’t need a quartermaster or a commissary or a supply train. If a Roman soldier is wounded, he must be cared for, and he is a drain on the army’s resources. But one of Jesus’ soldiers can be healed by him. And if one of them should be killed …” He met my gaze directly. “You know, the last time I rode out of Jerusalem to Jesus’ camp it was to carry the news that you were sick enough to die … and then, you did die. Yet here you are, marching again beside him.”

  “Oh,” I said. The kind of threat Jesus represented to Roman rule was suddenly very clear. “But he preaches no sedition. Never has.”

  “I know,” Marcus said. “That’s why Rome makes no move against him.” He stopped me with a hand on my arm. “I have to ride back now. It’s not good for either of us, or for Jesus, for me to be seen entering the city with you. I probably won’t be able to visit you again until Passover is done, but you can send Peniel to me if you need me. You know I’ll do whatever I can.” With that the centurion remounted the war stallion.

  “Shalom, Marcus,” I said.

  “Shalom,” he returned. “Keep a crowd around him at all times. No lonely places. No small groups. Understand?”

  “I understand. We’re going first to my home in Bethany. After that … we’ll see.”

  My home in Bethany was too small to accommodate all those who wanted to see Jesus. I reminded Mary of the healing of a crippled man in Galilee. His friends took apart the roof slates so the paralyzed man could be lowered into the presence of the Lord.

  It was not practical to take off our roof, so we accepted an invitation from Simon the Leper to use his home for the feast. Even Simon’s sprawling estate overflowed with guests. My sister Martha was in her element, bustling about. Simon’s wife graciously moved aside to let Martha take charge, assisted by Jesus’ mother.

  Martha ebbed and flowed like the ceaseless tides, ordering tables and chairs to be rearranged. She dashed off to the kitchen to supervise Delilah’s cooking, then sent Samson back to our storage shed for beeswax candles. She ordered Carta, Tavita, Patrick, and Adrianna about as if dispatching reserve troops into battle. She was in constant motion but remained entirely unflurried.

  Mary and I kept out of her way. Since Jesus was the guest of honor, we stood beside him, welcoming all the rest.

  It occurred to me that we two were good representatives of his ministry.

  Jesus had said of himself: “I have come that you might have life and have it abundantly.”

  In my case he had restored my physical life. After four days in the tomb I was dead, dead, dead. No one argued about that. Many had seen me dead, seen me entombed, and then seen me not only alive again but healed and restored to perfect life.

  With Mary I recognized the other side of Jesus’ touch: healing the soul. Mary’s soul had been blighted, like a vine so diseased that it would never produce good fruit. Normally it would be ripped out of the ground and burned before it infected others.

  But just as seemingly lifeless vines in the dead of winter await the touch of the sun, so it was with my sister. The touch of the Son had brought her new life and given it to her abundantly. She had always been beautiful; now she was radiant. She was gracious, kind, compassionate. If she had been self-centered before, all those useless canes had been cut away. Now she was entirely other-centered and most gentle to hurting souls.

  I noticed a large stone flask protruding from the pocket of Mary’s apron. When I asked her about it, she waved away the query. She turned to greet another arrival, brought forward by Simon to greet the Lord. The house was packed with souls that had been hurt. Many were crushed by life’s winepress until Jesus turned their injuries into a fragrant vintage of hope restored.

  Zadok, the muscular former chief shepherd of Israel who had been present in Bethlehem at Jesus’ birth, was also there. With Zadok were his three adopted sons, Avel, Ha-or Tov, and Emet, who had once been one of the Jerusalem Sparrows.

  Zacchaeus the tax collector was there, the much-maligned businessman from Jericho. He was part of the newest vintage from the Lord’s winery since he had only met Jesus two days earlier.

  At the Lord’s elbow stood Peniel, beaming at everyone, recording names on a wax tablet and listening attentively to every remembrance. His bright, shining eyes reminded me of one who was missing at this gathering: Centurion Marcus Longinus. The Roman had warned me that he could not seem to be too friendly with Jesus. “If I can serve the Lord and remain a soldier, it’s better if I keep some distance,” he had said. “The Lord knows I love and honor him. He will understand my absence.”

  Martha summoned us all to the meal.

  As was the custom, the men reclined around a large, horseshoe-shaped table. We lay on our sides on couches, with our heads toward the center and our feet toward the walls. The women and children ate in a separate room, but they moved among us, pouring wine and handing around the serving trays.

  I had brought all that remained of an oak-barreled vintage from Faithful Vineyard. As I had noticed on other occasions, some imbibers stopped to savor and sense the nuances of the wine. Others drank, raised their glasses, and called for more. Judas Iscariot was one who acted in that way.

  The Lord was very complimentary of my work.

  “Thank you, Lord,” I replied. “Coming from you, a master winemaker yourself, that’s high praise.”

  Because not all who were at this dinner had witnessed the
miracle at the wedding in Cana, those of us who saw it happen recounted the event.

  There was some confusion at the meaning of the miracle.

  Even those who had absorbed the Lord’s teaching for years were still puzzled. It was not a miracle of healing a cripple or curing the blind or raising the dead. The closest link was to the times when Jesus miraculously fed multitudes from a handful of provisions. Even those comparisons failed to explain the significance of turning water into wine.

  I said, “I think it’s far more than just a kindness to keep a family from embarrassment. Part of the importance is because of the words that were spoken. Remember the b’rakhah at a wedding? ‘Blessed art Thou, O Lord God, King of the universe, who gives us the fruit of the vine?’ There was a message there, but we didn’t understand it until later. Am I right, Lord?”

  Jesus did not reply but motioned for me to continue.

  Now that supper was ending the women came to retrieve the platters. Not wanting to interrupt the discussion, they stood around the sides of the room, listening. Mary stood near the Lord’s feet.

  Apart from Judas, who whispered to the man on his right, the rest of the room listened as I said, “As a winemaker myself, I’ve thought about how much greater that sign was, even if I didn’t comprehend it at the time. Each winter I prune the dead canes. Each spring I wait to see that a new birth will occur. I water between the rows, to make the roots stretch for the liquid and so grow stronger. I thin the leaves and the bunches so that all the energy of the sun and the vine will concentrate in making the finest fruit.”

  Nodding toward Patrick and Samson, I said, “Sometimes I fight pests that would devour the crop. If I succeed in keeping the grapes safe until harvest, they must be gathered at the peak of ripeness … not too green, nor too sweet … and then they must be crushed to release their juice. Think about that! We tend the vines all year long, defend them, fight for them, so that we can take their fruit and utterly crush the lifeblood out of it! Even then, it is a combination of skill,” I pointed out Patrick and Samson again, “and faith that what emerges from the barrels in another year’s time will be drinkable and not vinegar!”