by Bodie Thoene
He took the light from Lazarus and held it high as we all spoke the final blessing together. “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam . . . Blessed are you, who separates sacred from secular; between light and darkness; between Israel and the nations; between the seventh day and the six days of labor.”
Then Jesus slowly lowered the flame toward the wine he had poured out. He hesitated and then, with a sigh, dipped the wicks into the wine and extinguished the flame. In that instant his reflection vanished, along with the light. “Amen,” he said quietly, dipping his finger and touching wine to eyelids, mouth, heart, and the back of his neck.
In my heart I heard the word separation. I sensed the end of something . . . and the beginning of something. But what? I imitated the actions of Jesus. Dipping my finger into the drops of wine that remained, I anointed myself. Though my family had not followed this custom of anointing with wine, I felt somehow that everything Jesus did meant something.
Surely Jesus would be crowned during Passover. He would establish his kingdom and take over the palace in Jerusalem. Perhaps, when Jesus drank the last drops of wine from Joseph’s cup, there would be no more simple Sabbath meals shared with us common folk.
We sang a psalm at the end of the service, then all began to laugh with joy.
Everyone laughed except Jesus. What was the sorrow I glimpsed in his eyes?
Zadok called to me along with his sons. He clapped me on the back and presented us each with a toy wooden sword he had made. The blades were engraved with the Hebrew word Chazak, which means “courage.”
As the grown men talked, the women cleared the tables. I crossed swords with Avel, Emet, and Ha-or Tov. My thoughts, however, were on Joseph’s cup, which had been soaking for days. I could hardly restrain myself from running to Mary and asking her to fetch it for me. But I played like a boy with my companions and pretended to be thinking of nothing else.
At last Yediyd flew from its perch and settled on Emet’s shoulder. Emet found crumbs to feed it, and I hurried to find the Lord’s mother. She cleared dishes from the table with the other women.
“Do you think it’s finished?” I asked, tucking my sword in my belt.
She knew instantly what I meant. “The cup! It has begun, at least. While we rested, the new wine was at work. And you’ve been thinking about it today. Waiting for the day to end? Come on, then. Let’s have a look.”
I followed her to the wine jar containing the precious chalice. Using a long spoon, she fished it out of the concoction. The paste had nearly dissolved. Wine dripped from the metal.
Mary examined it. “Ahhh, a stubborn case. But this will give you a start.” At first it seemed unchanged; then Mary picked at the rim with her finger and a dark strip peeled off, revealing bright silver beneath. Finely engraved grape leaves shone beneath. Mary wrapped the cup in a towel and gave it to me. “It is worthy. Yes. Beneath centuries of neglect, tarnish, and soot there is something so beautiful . . . Look! Nehemiah, you’ll have to be diligent. For his Passover supper in Jerusalem. The tarnish will yield to you, if you don’t give up.”
Sabbath officially ended, but Jesus continued teaching into the night. I held the cup in my hands and rubbed and rubbed as Jesus spoke. Layers of grime began to wear away under my patient labor. The beauty of the silver slowly shone through.
It was late when Joseph of Arimathea arrived at our lodging. He had left Jerusalem the moment Sabbath ended, in the company of several Pharisees who were his friends. They had ridden hard through the rain to reach the village where we stayed. Joseph and the others were soaking wet but did not stop to change. I spotted Joseph when he slipped into the dining hall.
Joseph stood, dripping, at Lazarus’s back while his two companions moved to sit beside the once-dead man.
Avel frowned at the cup and complimented my labor. “Well, it’s something, isn’t it?”
“Maybe by Passover.” I scrubbed harder.
Avel leaned in closer and whispered, “That’s Rabbi Gamaliel, who came in with your master. A member of the council of seventy. And Nicodemus, his nephew, with him. Must be important if they rode all this way through the storm. Gamaliel and Nicodemus are good friends of Lazarus. They come often to hear the Lord teach. Zadok says they’re good men.”
In the distance thunder boomed and rain sluiced off the eaves. The storm drummed on the rooftop.
By candlelight, Jesus told us one last story.
“Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed, ‘God, I thank you that I am not like the rest of men, extortioners, grafters, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give tithes on everything I earn!’ ”
I saw the shadows on Joseph’s face. His eyes narrowed as he pictured the scene. His expression was set like flint as he listened. I did not know why he lingered in the back while his friends had taken their places with Lazarus.
“But the tax collector, standing afar off, would not so much as raise his eyes to heaven but beat his chest, saying, ‘Oh God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ ”
Jesus looked across the heads of the crowd and seemed to speak directly to Joseph. “I say to you that this man returned to his house more righteous than the Pharisee. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and everyone who humbles himself will be exalted.”1
There was a stirring among the rich exalted men in the crowd that night. I heard them muttering as they made their way to their bedchambers. Only Joseph, Gamaliel, and Nicodemus remained behind with Lazarus, Zadok, Peniel, and the twelve of Jesus’ closest disciples.
A few of us boys stayed in the room. I tucked the cup into its pouch and moved forward with my friends, wanting to show Jesus my progress.
Peter and James rebuked us. “Go on to the stable with you! The master is tired.”
But Jesus heard them and called us to him. He placed his hands on our heads and blessed us.
I will never forget what happened after that. Jesus put his hand on my shoulder and said, “The Kingdom of heaven is for those who are like these boys. I say to you, he who will not receive the Kingdom of God like a little boy will never enter into it.”2
I tried to think what he meant by that. What set boys apart from the men who towered over us? Yediyd perched on Emet’s head. He reached up to scratch Yediyd’s feathery belly. Avel drew himself erect and grinned at a sour-faced disciple. Ha-or Tov, who clasped a wooden sword, raised it high, saluted, and bowed. And I reached into the pouch and held the half-clean cup up to show its renewed gleam to the rightful owner.
“By Passover,” I promised.
Jesus smiled. “Boys. The happy stewards of God’s Kingdom.”
Then Joseph cleared his throat and asked Jesus, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit everlasting life?”
Jesus leveled his eyes on Joseph’s face and smiled. “Why do you call me good? There is no one good, except One, that is God. You know the commandments: ‘Do not commit adultery,’ ‘Do not murder,’ ‘Do not steal,’ ‘Do not bear false witness,’ ‘Honor your father and your mother.’ ”
Joseph’s face seemed so eager as he answered, “All these things I have done from my boyhood.” He looked at me, and I knew by his reply that he was trying to tell Jesus that he was indeed trusting God like a little child.
Jesus lowered his chin and moved his hand from my shoulder to that of Joseph. “You lack one thing.”
“What is it, Lord?”
“Go. Sell everything you have and give it to the poor and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”
The light in Joseph’s face dissolved into sorrow because, as everyone knew, Joseph was very rich.
When Jesus saw his sorrow, he said quietly, “How difficult it is for those who have wealth to enter into the Kingdom of God! It is easier for a rope . . . khav-la . . . to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God.”
Thunder clapped and t
hose in the room muttered, “Who then can be saved?”
Avel, who stood apart from us a few paces, told me later he thought he heard Jesus say it was easier for a camel . . . gamla . . . to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom.
That would have meant it was impossible for any rich man to be saved! How could a camel pass through the eye of a needle?
But I was there at Jesus’ right hand and I heard him speak the Aramaic word khav-la, “rope,” distinctly. Though rope and camel sound alike, I understood, by the unchanged language of my homeland, exactly what Jesus said. As a son born to a weaver, I knew well enough that to thread a rope through the eye of a needle meant that only a single strand could fit. In my earliest childhood I sat at the feet of my mother and watched her weave a bell rope—khav-la—to hang around the neck of a ram. The rope began with one single thread between her fingers.
Strip away all the extra fiber and what remains is one thread. The core of a rope is a single strand. In the end, only that core thread will fit through the eye of a needle.
Jesus spoke the truth. A man is born in this life with nothing and will take nothing with him when he leaves. Rich or poor, it is only that thread of faith in God at the core of a human soul that will pass through the gates of eternity.
Jesus answered, “Those things which are impossible with men are possible to God.”
The metaphor made perfect sense to me.
Simon Peter shook his shaggy head and waved a brawny hand to encompass threadbare clothing and worn sandals. “Look! We have left everything and followed you!”
Jesus answered, “Truly I say to you that there is no man who leaves houses or parents, or brothers or sisters, or wife, or children for the sake of the Kingdom of God, who will not receive many times more at this time, and in the world to come, life everlasting.”3
These words seemed to please the disciples. Visions of wealth and government positions made them smile. I saw their expressions light up, and I knew why, even though I was a boy.
It was after this that Joseph, Gamaliel, and Nicodemus drew Lazarus and Jesus and his closest followers aside and explained why they had come that very night through the rain.
“You must not go to Jerusalem,” Nicodemus said. “There is a plot that reaches from the palace of Herod into the heart of the Sanhedrin. Herod and the high priest are now the best of friends. It is the common hatred of you that has given them common cause.”
Jesus thanked them for coming and wished them good night. I remained by the fire, polishing the cup. Did he not see me there?
Lightning flashed through the windows. Thunder shook the house.
When the room was empty, Jesus said to his twelve closest friends, “We are going up to Jerusalem, and everything that is written by the prophets about the Son of Man will be fulfilled. I will be delivered over to the Gentiles. They will mock me and spit in my face. They will scourge me and curse me and kill me. On the third day I will rise again.”4
I found a quiet place to be alone in the stable. Removing the cup from its covering, I admired the pattern that had begun to emerge. It had been so black and dingy—seemingly disreputable—so how could it be so valuable? How could something so shabby be the heir to so much history and prophecy? Why wasn’t it shined up and in a palace somewhere before we found it? How could it be that so much meaning was contained within something so obscure?
Thunder boomed and echoed hollowly, rolling around the hills outside.
I thought I fully understood the vessel’s significance. In Abraham’s case, it was a symbol of worship and reverence for the Almighty. With Joseph the Dreamer, the cup represented how God’s plan may permit suffering, but never suffering without purpose. For David, it was an emblem of kingship and divine appointment and recognizing that loyalty and faithfulness might bring danger and sacrifice.
But if nothing was left to be revealed, why had the cup been so tarnished? Why couldn’t I polish it before now? It had possessed no form or comeliness to make it desirable. In its former state it was a very poor gift for anyone, let alone for Messiah.
While still puzzling over the chalice, I returned to our bed of straw and fell asleep . . .
“Shalom, Nehemiah.”
“Shalom, Joseph. I was expecting you,” I replied to the Dreamer.
“You have been thinking about the cup, yes? Here is a psalm for you: ‘For in the hand of the LORD there is a cup of his wrath . . . and all the wicked of the earth drink it down to its dregs.’ ”5
I shivered. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Cupping my face in his hands, Joseph said, “Have no fear, Nehemiah. Would you like to meet someone?”
“Where are we going this time?”
“We’re already there. See?”
In a tiny room, no larger than the pantry in my home in Amadiya, sat an elderly man with a furrowed brow. His flowing hair and equally long beard were both snow white, like the hart’s hide. A prophet, surely, I thought. At first I did not recognize the repeated scratching noise I heard. By the smoking light of a single oil lamp I saw a pen in the prophet’s hand. He was intently inscribing line after line on a roll of parchment.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Look over his shoulder,” Joseph encouraged. “See if you can read what he’s written there.”
I read, “ ‘Behold, I have taken from your hand the cup of . . . my wrath.’ ”6
“This is Isaiah,” I said. “He writes of the time when God’s judgment against Judah will be complete and the exiles will return to the land.”
“Very good!” Joseph applauded. “The rabbi has taught you well. And answer me this: Why was the nation judged?”
“Because we were stubborn and rebellious and arrogant. Because we did not listen to the prophets who warned us not to worship other gods.”
“Again, well said. And is such a judgment only leveled against nations? What does the Almighty expect of each man?”
“The same?”
“Now, Nehemiah, answer me this: How is the cup of wrath emptied? Can it just be poured out? Or must someone drink it?”
“This is a riddle and not a lesson,” I objected.
Joseph smiled. “A fair objection. Look to see what Isaiah has now written.”
“ ‘He has no form or comeliness . . . that we should desire him.’7 That’s what I said about the cup,” I noted. “But I still don’t understand.”
In response Joseph pointed at the parchment, urging me to bend closer to the scratching pen.
The prophet read aloud what his pen had recorded. “ ‘But he was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities.’ ”8 Laying aside the quill Isaiah raised his face and his hands to the ceiling and groaned aloud. “Ah, but no, Lord,” he said. Then, as if weights pressed on his arms, his shoulders sagged. The pen was inexorably reapplied to the scroll. The writing resumed.
A peal of thunder rattled the shutters of the prophet’s chamber.
I’m sure I wore an expression of horror to match Isaiah’s. “No wonder Isaiah looks so miserable,” I said. “He is writing this about the Messiah? About our coming king? But how can it be?”
Joseph’s index finger remained outstretched, forcing my eyes back to the inscription.
“ ‘The LORD has laid on Him the iniquity of us all. . . . You make His soul an offering for sin.’ ”9
“Like a drink offering,” Joseph commented.
Isaiah wrote, “Because He poured out His soul unto death . . . He bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.”10
“Please, no more,” I pleaded. “Messiah is going to die? Why? How can it be?”
Joseph spoke gently to me. “For the cup of God’s wrath to be removed once and for all, it is necessary for someone to drink it. Every last drop. Every consequence of sin and rebellion from our Father Adam to the last man on earth—every debt, yours and mine—must be paid. Either we must drink it, or someone who is both willing
and able to drain the cup must do it for us. Do you see?”
Thunder grumbled and muttered outside as it drifted off to the east.
“No,” I protested, “I don’t see and I don’t want to. Please take me home. This is a bad dream. I want to wake up.”
The lip of the cup had pressed a groove into my cheek. The outside of the bowl was damp with my tears.
It was not yet light. The boys of the camp slept in fresh straw. We were sprawled this way and that, like a pile of puppies. Our wooden swords were planted in the soft ground of the stable. The tiny sparrow perched on a hilt, its head beneath its wing. Avel’s arm lay across my face. Emet’s feet were too close to my head. Ha-or Tov was mostly buried in our bedding. Peniel had long ago climbed into the loft and snored contentedly apart from our disheveled sleeping quarters.
Dawn was only beginning to creep up the eastern rim of the sky when Joseph came to the barn door. My eyes opened at the groaning of hinges.
“Nehemiah!” he called in a loud whisper.
I was already awake but exhausted. Long hours I had wrestled with what Jesus said about being killed and rising again. I did not know what he meant, did not like it, but was afraid to ask him to explain further. In all that I was not alone. Whispered conversations, some angry, some fearful, had circled round the disciples the way the stars pivoted overhead in a single night.
“Here I am,” I replied.
“Get up, Nehemiah,” Joseph urged. “Dress quickly. I’ve had a message. We must set out for Jerusalem at once.”
Slipping out from the blanket atop the straw, I tugged my robe over my tunic. After donning my sandals, I secured the cup around my waist.
Stepping outside, I glanced at the sky. The thunderstorm had passed, leaving chilly, sparkling air in its wake. Clearly visible in the south, the constellation of the Snake Handler prepared to crush the head of the serpent. And the serpent was still poised to strike the hero’s heel.