Take This Cup

  Though I did not speak, Joseph noticed my distress and somehow understood its cause. “We will not give up hope, boy,” he whispered to me. Then, to divert me, he asked, “Would you like to see inside? I have no torch, but I think there’s enough light.”

  I nodded.

  A massive stone disk, taller than me, stood on edge in a channel cut for the purpose. It rested against the outer wall of the tomb and was wedged there by a block beneath it.

  I eyed it suspiciously. “Safe?”

  Joseph nodded. “But once the wedge is removed, the covering rolls into place, sealing the entry.”

  The master mason explained proudly, “When shut, it will take at least four men to roll it back up the slope. Sir, would you like to inspect the work?”

  Joseph nodded, then motioned for me to go first. “Go ahead. Go in.”

  The opening was so small that even I had to duck to enter. Joseph followed me. The mason remained outside.

  Inside, the floor was lower than the entry, so I stood upright. I was surrounded by hewn stone walls bearing the fresh marks of hammers and chisels.

  There was no carving or other adornment in the tomb, but the corners were all perfectly square. Every angle was completely uniform. The floor, walls, and ceiling were smooth and level. It had cost a lot of labor and expense.

  On three sides of the chamber were low benches cut out of the very rock. Each was the length of a man lying down and about twice his width. Because the tomb was brand-new, there were no bone boxes or niches cut in the walls, as would be true when multiple generations of Joseph’s family had been buried there. It was a rich man’s tomb, different from the primitive burial caves of my homeland.

  “It’s almost like a little house, you know? When no one’s in it.” I paused. “I mean, nobody dead.”

  Joseph touched the cool wall. “Yes. I suppose. I like to think of this place as where my family will gather to await the resurrection at the last day. We are not Sadducees, who expect no resurrection. No, my father and I expect to be reunited, even if parted for a time. Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “if what Jesus did for Lazarus is true, then perhaps all of what we know about death will change.”

  There seemed nothing left to see or say, especially since my mother and father were again strongly, forcefully in my mind.

  The mason lowered his face and smiled in at us. “Is it to your liking, sir?”

  Joseph gave a short laugh. “I am in no hurry to move in, but I am sure it will be a comfortable place to wait for the resurrection.”

  The mason stepped aside as we emerged. “I was hoping you would be pleased with our progress.”

  Joseph touched his money belt. “A bonus if you’re finished before Passover. I’ll return before Shabbat to pay the workers for their labor up to now.”

  I squared my shoulders and attempted to match the stride of Joseph as we returned up the gravel path to our mounts. I felt the eyes of the boys take me in furtively, then look away. Perhaps they imagined I was the son of the wealthy merchant.

  “Come along.” Joseph untied the reins and gave me a boost onto my donkey. “The day is passing, and I want to reach Bethany before sunset.”

  It was dusk when we passed the Mount of Olives and reached the hamlet of Bethany, a couple miles east of Jerusalem. The villa of Lazarus was set below a hill crowned with a fig orchard, in the midst of a vineyard.

  I shuddered at the thought of all that had taken place here over the last weeks. I hoped I would have a chance to meet and speak to a real, live dead man. I wondered what he would look like and imagined it all somewhat fearfully, but with excitement.

  The vines had been thoroughly pruned. Twisted stalks, crusted with gray bark, looked like roots protruding out of the red earth. But even amid winter’s desolation, rebirth was apparent. Beginning where each branch grew nearest the trunk of the parent vine, pairs of tiny, dark green leaves fluttered.

  “Banners of returning life,” Joseph said to himself. Then he turned and spoke to me over his shoulder as we rode. “What do you know about vineyards?”

  I shrugged. “My folks are shepherds. Papa drinks wine, which comes from vineyards. That’s it.”

  Joseph gave a laugh. “The wines of Lazarus are drunk by emperors and kings as far away as Brittania. It comes from here. As hard as it is to believe right now, in six months these hillsides will be completely shadowed by lush growth. The branches will be bent with the weight of the clusters. And the laborers of David ben Lazarus will harvest them so he can work his magic. From dead sticks to the taste of new wine in three quarters of a year.”

  “So kings drink it. Lazarus makes good wine, then?” I said.

  “The best! He says it takes the vines nine months to give birth, but the children of his vineyard will travel far and wide.”

  “I bet my papa said Kiddush on Shabbat. Your friend’s wine poured into cups in Amadiya,” I said, thinking of home and Joseph’s cup at the same time.

  Joseph nodded vigorously. “Shared in Rome and Alexandria.” Then in a more thoughtful tone he added, “It’s strange. Every year before this the wine is what I wanted to talk about—how many barrels, how much to charge, where it would be shipped. My family is proud to be his partner. But this year? I want to hear from him his own story about what happened. Was he really dead? What was it like? Who is this Jesus?”

  These were the very questions in my head.

  From the vineyard a cheerful voice joined our conversation. “Yes, Master Lazarus was truly dead. I can vouch for that. But still, those are all very good questions! Very good, indeed.”

  A young man, perhaps as old as twenty but thin-bearded, fresh-faced, and smiling, emerged from the shadows beside the fence enclosing the vineyard. “Shalom, sir. The master and his sisters are not at home. They’ve all gone off to follow Jesus. Leaving the vineyard in the care of Samson, the steward. But who knows when they’ll be back? The Herodians would like Lazarus dead permanently.”

  Joseph stopped his horse and pivoted the animal to face the stranger. “I can understand that. But . . . who are you, and how do you know so much?”

  “My name is Peniel. I’ve seen you here before, sir. I am also one blessed with the vision of Jesus.” He touched his eyes. “I serve as a messenger from Lazarus to his servants.”

  I knew the name of Peniel. He was one of those whom Jesus had miraculously healed of blindness.

  Joseph nodded. “Ah. Yes, I remember now. Peniel, the beggar of Nicanor Gate. The man born blind, they say.”

  I blurted out, “The one Jesus gave eyes. I heard about you from one of the Sparrows.”

  He bowed elaborately. “That’s me. They’d love to put my eyes out again, I fear. So I stick to the back roads and mind my own business. One thing you learn as a beggar, silence is a virtue. You learn more if you act dumb or invisible.” Grinning still more widely, Peniel stroked the nose of Joseph’s horse. “Now I’m learning to be a scribe. I love a good story. So, you are here seeking Lazarus?” He snapped his fingers in recollection. “Master Joseph . . .”

  “Joseph of Arimathea, the Younger . . .”

  As we dismounted and entered the Lazarus home, Peniel explained, “The Temple rulers—high priest and others—they want to kill Jesus . . . Lazarus too. They already tried. So the master and our band have gone away from Jerusalem.”

  “Gone?” My voice and Joseph’s chimed as two octaves of the same note.

  “Don’t worry,” Peniel reassured us. “I was sent back to meet those Lazarus said might be coming. I can guide you to them. That’s my job . . . that and learning your stories.” Then, addressing me, Peniel asked, “And you are a servant to Joseph?”

  “Apprentice,” Joseph corrected, giving a lift to my pride. “Nehemiah bar Lamsa. From Amadiya near Gan Eden.”

  “You have an unusual accent.” Peniel eyed me with pleased curiosity. “We won’t travel until tomorrow. There’s a fire and a kettle of stew and fresh bread. What do you say? Will you stay up late and tell
me your tale? I’ll tell you stories of Jesus if you will tell me how you happened to come from Paradise to Jerusalem. If I can share a ride on your donkey, we can reach the village where Jesus is within a day.”

  Part Three

  Jesus told them, “You are going to have the light just a little while longer.

  Walk while you have the light, before darkness overtakes you.

  Whoever walks in the dark does not know where they are going.

  Believe in the light while you have the light, so that you may become children of light.”

  JOHN 12:35–361

  Chapter 26

  It was after dark when we arrived at the village where Jesus and his followers were staying. Campfires of pilgrims dotted the hillside outside the walls.

  Peniel, whose eyesight was keen even in the darkness, led the way toward the gate of the inn. “Jerusalem is only a day’s walk from here. But somehow the people know. They’ve heard Jesus is here, so they camp here. Build their fires by the road in hopes he’ll show himself.”

  Joseph replied quietly, “And my friend Lazarus?”

  Peniel answered, “Yes. Yes. They all want to see Lazarus. To speak with him about where he was. What he saw, you know? Yes. Everyone wants to see Lazarus.”

  Joseph was silent for a few paces, and I guessed that, like everyone else, he was anxious to see his old business partner and learn the truth. “Lazarus. Good man. The Herodians want Lazarus dead . . .”

  Peniel lifted a brow. “Dead again, you mean.”

  “Dead is dead. And as much as they want to kill Jesus, they want Lazarus dead . . . permanently. Jesus and his disciples mustn’t come to Jerusalem for Passover.”

  In the distance the lights of Jerusalem gleamed through the haze of smoke like a new constellation in the mist.

  Peniel raised his fist to knock on the gate of the inn. “Master Joseph, is that why you’ve traveled so far to find the Lord? To warn him of danger? Why you’ve come by night? You could have given me the message. I would have delivered it to him. So, what’s your story, if you don’t mind my asking? I do love a good story.”

  I could hear a smile in Peniel’s voice.

  Joseph cleared his throat. “I am no different from everyone else.”

  “Except you’re very rich.” Peniel laughed and banged on the gate. “Not that money means anything to Jesus. But money will open these gates. Just watch.”

  The watchman growled, “Gates are closed for the night. Go beg a place beside a pilgrim’s fire.”

  Peniel replied confidently as he held silver coins up to the peephole, “It’s Peniel. A friend of the master. Go ask the big fisherman.”

  “They’re all gathered ’round in there,” the gruff voice answered. “Your master is teaching. Mustn’t be disturbed, Peter says.”

  “A denarius for the one who opens the gate. Two more for the innkeeper who provides a place to sleep and bread.”

  “How many of you?” hissed the sentry.

  “Two men. One boy. Go on. Peter the fisherman will tell you. Say to him, Peniel is waiting outside the gate.”

  The port slammed shut. Minutes passed before the bolt of the gate slid back and the hinges groaned.

  “Hurry,” instructed the gatekeeper. “There’s a mob would like to break in here. Beggars and sick among them.”

  When Joseph and Peniel had walked through the entrance, the gatekeeper tugged me by my coat, as if I weren’t moving fast enough for his liking. Then he slammed and locked the gate behind us. His hand whipped out to snap up the coin in Peniel’s fingers before scuttling away into the shadows.

  Peniel shook his head, then set off through the dark courtyard of the caravansary. “I guarantee he wouldn’t have bothered to fetch Peter if there hadn’t been a coin in it for him.”

  Joseph remarked quietly, “How much would it take for the sentry to open the gates to the Temple Guards?”

  We moved to the watch fire and warmed ourselves. A large, bearded man stepped from the portico. I spotted a dagger tucked into his belt.

  “It’s Peter,” Peniel mumbled. “Not happy.”

  Peter gripped the weapon with one hand as he challenged, “Peniel. So, you’re back at last. With news from Jerusalem, I hope. And who are your friends?”

  “Shalom, Peter,” Peniel greeted him. “This is Joseph of Arimathea. The younger Joseph. A merchant and friend of Master Lazarus. He was on a journey when all unfolded with Lazarus . . . Missed it all.”

  “And? Why sneak in here by cover of night? Business couldn’t wait?” Peter was clearly irritated.

  Joseph extended his hand. “I am a friend of Master Lazarus, as your companion explained. A partner in wine exporting. If you speak with Lazarus, he will vouch for me. I am here to warn your master—”

  Peter’s chin rose in defiance. “You think he doesn’t know? That we don’t know? This could have waited till morning, Peniel.” He shifted his gaze to Joseph. “Look, money will buy people like you a lot of things, but Jesus doesn’t care if you’re rich or poor, see? He treats everyone the same. Money won’t buy an audience with the Lord. He’s teaching. Pharisees sitting there among us. He’s giving it to them straight, and they don’t much like it.” He turned his surly gaze on me. “And what are you here for, boy?”

  I stammered. “I . . . I am . . . My name is Nehemiah. Cupbearer.”

  Peter waved his hand dismissively. “So what?”

  Fumbling for the precious cup at my waist, I held it up. “I . . . you see, sir . . . I brought this . . . a gift for . . .”

  Peter squinted at the ancient vessel, then snorted with disdain. “If Joseph of Arimathea’s silver won’t buy you an audience to see Jesus, why do you think this dirty old cup will open the door?”

  “But . . . I came so far! It’s Joseph’s cup,” I pleaded.

  Peter shook his shaggy head. “Peniel! Are you crazy? What were you thinking? You want me to interrupt the Lord for this?” Lifting his chin, he scoffed, “So, Joseph of Arimathea, some of us can’t be bribed. Your journey is for nothing. Now we are all warned: Caiaphas wants to kill Jesus. And kill Lazarus. Big surprise. You can go now.” Then, “Let your friends out the way they came, Peniel.” Peter spun on his heel and reentered the building.

  I thought that except for Roman soldiers or bandits, Peter was one of the rudest fellows I had ever met. We stood together, silently staring after him. My heart sank. Though Peter ridiculed the gift, surely Jesus would recognize the Cup of Joseph the Great when he saw it. Silently vowing I would never again show the cup to any man but Jesus, I replaced it in its bag.

  Peniel’s good humor was undiminished. “Sorry. Sorry. He’s not a bad sort, really. Just unpleasant when he doesn’t get his sleep. He’s been standing watch with his sword drawn . . . just in case. I should have known, eh?”

  “Perhaps Lazarus?” Joseph asked. “He will be glad to see me.”

  Peniel held up a finger to his temple and laughed. “Without fear! Lazarus slept like a dead man, but now that he is awake, he is always happy to see old friends.”

  Peniel hurried into the inn, leaving Joseph and me stretching our hands to the fire. Only a few minutes passed before our guide came out on the portico and, with a wave of his hand, called us to enter. As we approached, he put his finger to his lips and nodded. I followed Joseph and Peniel into the inn’s large dining room, where travelers were fed. The space was packed with people. Rich and poor sat together on the floor in front of Jesus. Some listened with wondrous expressions on their upturned faces. Others among the crowd glared at him with resentment. Firelight flickered behind the teacher as he taught them. All were hushed as the clear, pleasant voice of the one I had been searching for filled the room.

  “There was a rich man, who used to wear purple and fine linen, and every day he ate and drank and spent his wealth extravagantly for his own pleasure. And there was a poor man named Lazarus, who was laid down at that rich man’s door . . .”

  All eyes then turned to a fellow sitting
near Jesus.

  Joseph whispered, “That is Lazarus. There.”

  Excitement tickled my stomach like a feather. It was like the first time I met the Great White Hart in the forest or heard a new story from Rabbi Kagba. I would have laughed for the joy of being so close to Jesus. Perhaps he heard my happy thoughts.

  Jesus locked his kind brown eyes on my face and met my smile with a nod. He had gained everyone’s attention by speaking of the man he had raised from the dead.

  Jesus continued his story. “Poor Lazarus lay there at the rich man’s door. He was afflicted with boils. He longed to fill his stomach with crumbs that fell from the rich man’s tray. Dogs came and licked the poor man’s boils.”

  I saw those who were wealthy stir uneasily. Jesus was a wonderful storyteller. I was fascinated instantly.

  “Now it happened that the poor man died, and the angels carried him into Abraham’s bosom. Then the rich man died and was buried. And while the rich man was tormented in Sheol, he lifted up his eyes from a distance and saw Abraham, with Lazarus in his welcoming embrace. And the rich man called in a loud voice . . .” Jesus cupped his hands and shouted, “ ‘O my father! Abraham! Have mercy on me and send Lazarus to dip his finger in water and wet my tongue, for I am tormented in this flame!’ ”

  I shuddered at the vision of it.

  “Abraham said to him, ‘My son, remember you received your pleasures when you were living, and Lazarus his hardships. And look—now he is comfortable and happy here, and you are suffering. Besides all these things, a great gulf is fixed between us and you. So those who wish to cross over from here to you cannot, neither from there cross over to us.’ ”

  I studied the rich men in the hall. Their faces were not happy. Here and there among the best dressed I spotted fear in their eyes.

  “The tormented man cried to Abraham, ‘If that is so, O my Father, I beseech you! Send Lazarus to my father’s house, for I have five brothers! Let Lazarus go and testify to them, so they may not also come to this place of torment!’ ”