When Jesus Wept

  It was while I was visiting with a former vinedresser of mine who had moved to Cana to plant his own grapes that I received two shocks in quick succession. The first surprise was the arrival of Jesus of Nazareth. Since this wedding was an important event in the life of the communities west of the Sea of Galilee, it made perfect sense that such a celebrity—for that was what he had become since I’d seen him with John, being baptized in the river—would be invited to bless the gathering. After all, Nazareth, his home village, was a scant handful of miles away. He was almost a neighbor.

  Because I had been so recently forcibly reminded of how Rome treated dissenters, I somehow expected him to remain in seclusion. Still, I had heard no tales that he preached sedition or rebellion. Such accusations were leveled against John the Baptizer, but so far, not against Jesus.

  The second shock came so abruptly on the heels of the first that it drove my curiosity about the young rabbi out of my head. Unwarranted and unwanted, my sister Mary had indeed chosen to come to the festivities.

  I could not believe it. Mary was an outcast from all proper society and flaunting a relationship with a Roman centurion.

  Before I could collect my thoughts, Martha was at my side, bubbling with indignation and resentment. “David! You’ve got to do something! I will die of embarrassment! What if someone thinks we asked her to come? Make her leave, David.”

  Mary was camping in a grove of trees outside the town. It was before her tent, as it was being erected, that I confronted her … quietly. I led her away from ears eager to absorb and tongues eager to repeat gossip. She was angry and resentful, but I also saw a flicker of fear in her eyes when I told her that if she stayed, the people would publicly shame her for the harlot she was and drive her away. They would make an example of her; it was already agreed to by the elders. I begged her not to stay—not to do this to herself or to Martha and me.

  At last, as I gazed at her with sorrow—she still was my sister, after all, though she had humiliated all of us—she agreed to leave.

  I returned to the feast, all my good feeling soured. Even Martha’s praise for me did not relieve the sense that the evening, in fact the entire trip, had been spoiled.

  It was then I had my next encounter with the rabbi from Nazareth.

  “You were at the riverside with John,” said a pleasantly resonant voice behind me.

  Brown eyes containing dancing golden flecks regarded me as I turned. “Yes … I … his message is powerful … perhaps, too powerful … dangerous.” I felt myself babbling. My friend Judah had been with me at the Jordan when we saw the Baptizer, and then he had been arrested and carried off to captivity and likely to his death. Unreasonable, I know, but in that instant I somehow blamed John for what happened to Judah.

  That resentment spilled over into a sudden distrust of the Nazarene.

  “A true prophet,” Jesus said with certainty. “There is no one born of woman greater than John.”

  “He … he speaks well of you also,” I replied, scratching my beard to cover some confusion. Having heard the man in front of me identified as “the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world,” how was I supposed to respond?

  What were my choices? Did Jesus of Nazareth believe himself to be the Chosen One, the Deliverer? In that case, he was either a charlatan or a lunatic … unless …

  Martha scuttled up to me, peered askance at Jesus, and plucked at my sleeve. “David,” she urged. “They’ve asked you to offer the blessing over the wine. Come with me. The chuppah is ready and the bride is coming. Hurry!”

  Jesus smiled at me as I let myself be hustled away toward the ceremony.

  The groom, dressed in spotless white kittel, was already in place. Accompanied by her mother and her soon-to-be mother-in-law, the bride was conducted seven times around the groom while the cantor sang a passage from the Song of Songs:

  “My dove in the clefts of the rock,

  in the hiding places on the mountainside,

  show me your face,

  let me hear your voice;

  for your voice is sweet,

  and your face is lovely.

  Catch for us the foxes,

  the little foxes

  that ruin the vineyards,

  our vineyards that are in bloom.”1

  O Lord, I breathed, how I miss my wife, my beloved. In that moment I believed no one in the world had ever felt such grief and loss as I experienced.

  Soon after I was called for, I shook myself out of my reverie. Handed a brimming cup of my own special wine, I held it aloft and recited: “Blessed art thou, O Lord God, King of the universe, who brings forth the fruit of the vine.”

  As I completed my duty, I caught Jesus of Nazareth watching me intently, as if my words contained a greater meaning than I perceived. It made me uncomfortable again. What was it about this mild-seeming man that provoked uneasiness in me?

  The rabbi conducting the ceremony took up the thread and again pulled my attention away from Jesus. “Marriage,” the rabbi said, “is like wine. When properly regarded and carefully matured, it goes through a miraculous transformation to become something wondrous that brings joy and flavors life with gladness.”

  “Well said, Rabbi,” I heard Jesus acclaim.

  The blessings continued with the new couple sharing the cup: over the new family being formed, over their future together, and over their future children. Thanks were returned to God for his wisdom in creating man and woman as two parts intended to form a miraculous whole.

  The seven b’rakha being concluded, what followed was the witnessing of the cheder yichud. The new husband and wife were ushered alone into a closed room and left there together, which act concluded the legal requirements of the marriage.

  Meanwhile the party began in earnest.

  Apparently while I had been dealing with my sister Mary, fully half of the Galil had joined the festivities. Apart from the pilgrim feasts in Jerusalem, I had never seen such a boisterous, exuberant crowd. Platters of roasted meat held aloft by servants disappeared into the throngs and reappeared moments after, miraculously empty as by some conjuring trick.

  Calls for “Wine! More wine, here!” echoed and reechoed around the community. Hiram of Rumah, standing beside me, noted, “That wine of yours, David? Excellent. Exceptional. Too bad it’s already gone.”

  “Already?”

  Hiram nodded, waving his arm over the mob that swarmed the village like locusts, even spilling down the hill into the orchards. “I don’t think the wedding party expected this.”

  It was clear that the families of the bride and groom were disconcerted. I observed them from a distance, their heads together in animated conversation with the servants and the cooks. Much gesturing and finger-pointing followed.

  Nor was there any letup in the cries of “More wine, here!”

  At the far side of the scene stood Jesus of Nazareth, a nearby torch illuminating him, though all around was in shadow. Beside him was a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman, whom I took to be his mother by the similarity of their features. That she was entreating him to do something was evident by her earnest, imploring look.

  What could he possibly do to remedy this situation?

  Involuntarily, I moved closer to see what would happen. I had heard that Jesus was a carpenter by trade. Could that information be wrong? Was he, perhaps, a merchant, with storehouses of wine that could be opened in an instant?

  I saw Jesus shake his head, but he was smiling gently.

  Proving that she did not take his refusal to heart, his mother summoned a squad of servants to her side. Gathering them around her as if she were the mother hen and they the chicks, she extended both hands. First she waved toward them and then in the direction of her son. Her command was clear: “Do whatever he tells you.”

  Jesus took the lead, marching ahead of the servants, who trailed along in evident confusion. I followed the file as it disappeared into the darkness down the hill, lighting their way with a pair of torches.


  We soon came to a place with a well. The small, level plaza was surrounded by a ring of tall, stone jars designed to hold water for ceremonial cleansing. Each would contain some thirty gallons.

  From a distance close enough to observe and yet not be seen, I heard Jesus say to the servants, “Fill the jars with water.”

  “But, sir …,” one of them protested.

  It was not a servant’s place to question orders, but I know the attendants were as confused as I was. What was he doing? What could this exercise possibly accomplish?

  The servants dropped the leather bag for drawing water into the well, then hoisted it aloft. Each pouch contained no more than five gallons at a time. The task Jesus gave them to fulfill was not easily or quickly accomplished. The women filled one jar, then hesitated. Surely he did not mean for them to fill all six! How would that remedy the problem?

  “Sir, we have trays of food waiting …”

  When Jesus did not reply, the servants understood he had not changed his mind. He meant for them to continue.

  Five gallons drawn from the depths of the well. Cranked aloft, each was carried to a stone jar and emptied. Six jars. Six waterskins each. Thirty-six trips from well to jars until water sloshed out the top of each.

  Satisfied at last that his design had been fulfilled, Jesus said to the head of the group, “Now draw some out and take it to the master of the feast.”

  “But, sir!” the woman argued.

  Once again, Jesus met the dissension with silent firmness.

  With one of the empty wine pitchers in hand, the lead attendant shrugged. By loud sighs and rolls of her head and shoulders, she conveyed to her colleagues that the one giving the instructions was crazy, but what could you do?

  She dipped the pitcher into the first stone container and filled it. She turned and marched with the stiff-backed dignity of manifest disapproval back toward the feast. Stepping back into the shadows, I waited until the servants had passed, then I returned to the festivities.

  When we arrived the guests were still belligerently clamoring. The cantor tried to restore the lighthearted mood with more singing.

  “You have stolen my heart, my completer;

  you have stolen my heart

  with one glance of your eyes,

  with one jewel of your necklace.

  How delightful is your love, my completer!

  How much more pleasing is your love than wine.”2

  He got no further, being drowned out by calls of “More wine!”

  What happened next was incomprehensible to me.

  I saw a trio of servants approach the master of ceremonies. Two of them combined in pushing forward the third, who carried the pitcher in her hand. That she was unwilling to carry out her assignment was plain by the way she hung back. At last the master of ceremonies noticed her and demanded what she wanted.

  I saw her pour from the pitcher into his empty cup.

  I saw him raise the goblet to his lips and drink.

  Over his face came an expression of wonder and delight, mirrored in consternation and confusion on the face of the serving girl.

  Soon relays of serving men and women were snaking through the crowd. Firelight danced and sparkled on the flow of wine, like streams of glistening red fire as they filled and refilled cups and goblets and mugs.

  What had happened? From what secret trove had this new supply suddenly emerged? Why was the master of ceremonies slapping the bridegroom on the shoulder in evident congratulation?

  I had difficulty getting the attention of one of the servants. Many guests, waving their goblets aloft, caught her before she got to me. I was fortunate there was even a mouthful remaining.

  “Wait!” I demanded of her as she prepared to dart away. “What happened?”

  “That man … the one from Nazareth,” she explained. “He had us fill the jars with water from the well, then told us to draw it out and take it to the master of the feast to taste, and … see for yourself!”

  At that moment the master of the feast said loudly to the bridegroom, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”3

  I raised the cup to my lips.

  Incredible sensation! If my wine had a faint lavender aroma, this was like walking through an entire field of lavender and roses. This wine burst on my tongue in waves of exquisite tastes—powerful without being overwhelming. The flavors were the embodiment of an endless summer of ripe fruits—a banquet.

  The most memorable wine I had ever experienced.

  And meanwhile the cantor sang:

  “Praise the Lord, O my soul!

  He makes grass grow for the cattle,

  and plants for man to cultivate—

  bringing forth food from the earth:

  wine that gladdens the heart of man,

  oil to make his face shine

  and bread that sustains his heart.4

  “Return to us, God Almighty!

  Look down from heaven and see!

  Watch over this vine,

  the root your right hand has planted,

  the son you have raised up for yourself.”5

  Part Two

  In the last days …

  everyone will sit under their own vine

  and under their own fig tree,

  and no one will make them afraid,

  for the LORD Almighty has spoken.

  MICAH 4:1, 4

  Chapter 10

  I was on my way into Jerusalem to make a fellowship offering at the Temple. Other services were for sin and guilt and forgiveness. These were somber in nature, as befitting their purpose. The fellowship offering was a joyful sacrifice of praise to the Almighty for answered prayers, or just to say thanks to the Lord of heaven and earth for his goodness.

  As I strode along I sang:

  “Ha’yadeh, l’Yahweh, ke tov, ke l’Olam Chessid

  Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good,

  for his ‘to forever love and mercy.’ ”1

  In this instance I wanted to convey my gratitude for the success of the wine in the oak barrels. It was in my heart to establish the reputation of the House of Lazarus throughout the empire. This new vintage gave me exactly that opportunity.

  How could I not be grateful?

  In riding toward the Holy City, I passed by Bethphage and thought again of the loss of my grandfather’s property and his life through the treachery of Bikri. The recollection was more bitter in my thoughts than sour wine in my mouth. My grandfather was completely innocent of wrongdoing.

  It did not matter that Bikri had already endured decades of suffering to repay his perfidy. As far as I was concerned, it still was not enough.

  I had become increasingly convinced that there was much about the world and about my nation in particular that needed to be corrected. Since the days of the Hasmonean kings ended some one hundred years earlier, there had been no Jewish rulers over us. Either Roman puppets like Herod or Roman governors like Pontius Pilate had governed our country.

  When would our state be restored? How long would it be before Jews again ruled the Land of Promise as the covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob promised?

  When would the Deliverer come?

  And could Jesus of Nazareth be the one for whom we prayed? It did not seem possible. Perhaps John the Baptizer could have filled that role, with his angry denunciations and powerful diatribes, but not the pleasant-seeming preacher from the Galil.

  How could he ever redress wrongs? I heard he said things like “Turn the other cheek.” This was not the justice for which I, or my people, longed.

  All these thoughts mingled with my anger at what had happened to my grandfather and to Judah ben Perez. Though the two men had suffered abuse some forty years apart, they were now forever linked in my mind.

  I met Nicodemus the Pharisee outside Nicanor Gate, on the plaza of the Temple Mount. Since the fellowship offering was the lone ser
vice after which the meat of the sacrifice was eaten by the participants and not just by the priests, I had invited him to share it with me.

  But it was not to be.

  “I’m sorry, David,” Nicodemus said, gazing up at the lustrous hues of the Corinthian gold that formed the latticework of the gates towering above our heads. “I am summoned to a meeting of the council that cannot be postponed. It was already too late to catch you, or I would have sent word.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll find someone to whom I can give the food. What’s so urgent, if it’s not a great secret?”

  Looking around him as if anticipating the presence of spies, Nicodemus leaned close and whispered, “Lord Caiaphas is concerned about Jesus of Nazareth. He fears he will be blamed if Jesus leads a rebellion against Rome.”

  “The Nazarene rabbi?” I scoffed. “Have you heard him speak? There never was a less likely candidate to be a rebel commander.”

  “You’ve heard him, then?”

  “I’ve met him,” I replied. “He is altogether a gentle soul. Too simple and too genuine for this world. Perhaps Lord Caiaphas expects to find in Jesus a reflection of his own twisted, conniving soul.”

  “Shh!” Nicodemus urged. “I agree with you. In fact, I sought Jesus out myself to question him … but I went at night and not openly. The walls have ears, you know.”

  A low, chuckling laughter erupted almost at our feet, frightening Nicodemus and startling me.

  Tucked in an alcove of the gate was a thin, teenage beggar boy I recognized. His name was Peniel.

  “Not only the walls, kind sirs,” Peniel said, “but the floors and the nooks and crannies. I’m sorry to overhear your conversation, but then, I was here first.”

  Peniel, blind from birth, was a sweet-natured creature in spite of his disability. The son of a potter, he had a hard life, subsisting by begging for the charity of strangers.