by Bodie Thoene
“Don’t look around,” Peniel added, “but here comes Lord Caiaphas now.”
He was correct. The sensitive hearing of the blind man had picked out the strident, pompous tones of the high priest before he and his entourage rounded the corner of the Court of Israel and hove into view. Watching them arrive was like being on the docks at Caesarea Maritima when a fleet of galleys maneuvered into port.
With a nod that barely passed for courtesy toward Nicodemus and a mere curl of the lip toward me, the high priest arrived outside the door to his offices. A swirl of sycophants orbited around him as if they were bits of wood caught in a current and he the drain toward which they were being drawn.
“Lord Caiaphas,” one of the acolytes said in a fawning manner, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” He waved a perfumed hand toward Peniel and spoke as if the boy were one of the gilded railings and not living at all. “Tell me your opinion. Who sinned—this man or his parents—that he would be so cursed as to be born blind and live such a wretched life?”
In sonorous syllables reeking of boredom, the high priest replied, “Probably all of them. Many generations of sinners, no doubt. He was utterly conceived in sin and born in sin and no doubt lives that way as well. Still, it’s an uninteresting question, since one thing is absolutely certain.”
“And that is?”
“He will never be healed. Never, since time began, has it been recorded that anyone ever opened the eyes of one born blind. See for yourselves that I’m right. All the authorities agree that it is hopeless—the ultimate in divine retribution and an example to us all.”
With that the high priest and his flotilla swept on into the building. Over his shoulder he addressed Nicodemus: “Nicodemus, don’t be late to the council meeting, or we’ll have to start without you.”
The door of his chambers banged shut behind him.
Nicodemus was seething. “Doesn’t he just hope I’ll be late. Because he knows my uncle and I are two of only a handful on the Sanhedrin who don’t automatically support him in all he says and does.” Turning toward the blind boy and stooping low, he said, “That was disgraceful and cruel, Peniel. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
Smiling, Peniel replied, “I’ve heard much worse, really. And I am an object lesson, you know. I like to think that when folk come to the Temple to pray, and they see me, that they are reminded of all they have to be thankful for. Besides, once a year Lord Caiaphas sends each of the Nicanor beggars a silver coin.”
“Once a year …,” Nicodemus sputtered. “Here, boy, are five silver coins, and I regret I have no more with me.”
“I am going to make a fellowship offering,” I said. “Would you like a haunch of mutton when I come back this way?”
Peniel’s face beamed. “Very much! Thank you both, very much, kind sirs.”
“I must leave you,” Nicodemus said to me. “Perhaps I’ll ride out to visit with you one day next week. You should be on the council yourself, you know.”
“Not me,” I protested. “I have no desire to get involved with politics. It never leads to anything good.”
“Amen to that,” Peniel concurred. “That’s why I keep my ears open and my mouth shut.”
I selected the ram for my fellowship offering from the preapproved flocks available for purchase on the Temple Mount. Because I shamelessly used Nicodemus’s name, I was not seriously overcharged, as were all the unsuspecting pilgrims from the Galil and elsewhere.
The eastern expanse of the Temple plaza was entirely given over to the noise and smell of commerce. Entire herds of bleating goats and sheep competed with lowing bullocks. Flocks of twittering doves responded to the cries of vendors hawking their wares. All these noises mingled with the chants of the psalms. The air was punctuated by the sharp, metallic odor of blood and the aroma of the meat charring on the altar.
I gathered with a group of other men who all had a todah—a thank offering—to perform. One had been in a shipwreck and survived. Another had received word his only son had been killed while on a journey to Ecbatana, but the rumor was proven false when the son returned unharmed. Still another had recently seen the birth of his firstborn son and was celebrating with his friends. I swallowed a flood of returning grief and offered my congratulations.
A chorus of Levite singers began the hymn: “Give thanks to the Lord and call upon his name.”
“Give thanks to the LORD, proclaim his name
make known among the nations what he has done.”
At which point those of us gathered around the altar of sacrifice joined in:
“Sing to him, sing praise to him;
Tell of all his wonderful acts.”2
A todah is a celebration of thanksgiving, but it is also a commemoration of past blessings and triumphs. It was a way to remind ourselves and others of God’s faithfulness.
Even in the midst of being grateful, there was an undercurrent of longing because things still weren’t all they should be:
“Cry out, ‘Save us, O God our Savior;
gather us and deliver us from the nations,
that we may give thanks to your holy name,
and glory in your praise.’ “3
All the people standing around the altar and all the witnesses to the sacrifice or awaiting their turn to approach the altar, shouted, “Omaine! Hallelujah!”
Once the ram was slaughtered and roasted, half the meat became the property of the priests who performed the sacrifice. The rest, two quarters of roast mutton, was returned to me, wrapped for carrying home.
One parcel I immediately took to Peniel.
“Thank you, sir,” he said as I approached.
“I hadn’t even spoken yet. How did you know it was me?”
“I heard the Hallelujah sounding. When I smelled the delicious aroma coming directly toward me, I knew it was you … or at least I hoped!” He stood, begging bowl under one arm, and I placed one of the parcels in his hands.
“Will you stay until they close the gates?” I asked.
“Ordinarily, sir, but not today. Between the generosity of Lord Nicodemus and yourself, I want to go home right away and share my good fortune with my family.”
“Would you like me to guide you?”
Peniel smiled. “Not necessary, sir. I know every twist and turn between here and home.”
“Then go and be well,” I said. “We’ll see each other again …” I stopped in consternation at my ill-chosen words. “I mean, I’ll see you …” That was even worse.
The blind beggar laughed. “Not to worry, sir. People are always getting their tongues tangled around me, it seems. Perhaps it means the message of my life is getting through to them.”
“Shalom, Peniel,” I replied. “And yes, it does mean that.”
As I exited the Temple Mount and made my way back toward the Bethany road, I pondered Peniel’s cheerful good nature. What a bright, shining soul to live in constant darkness! If my sight were taken from me, would I still be grateful for my life, or would I be swallowed up in bitterness?
How many varieties of blindness were there in the world?
How blind were the Temple authorities, who had less regard for the beggars of Jerusalem than for their own comfort?
How blind were the people around me, so immersed in the struggles of each day that they could not thank God for anything?
How blind were those who listened to the words of John the Baptizer, or Jesus of Nazareth, and felt only curiosity, or nothing at all?
How blind was I if I let grief or worry or bitterness or anger overwhelm me?
So deep was I in these musings I did not notice where my steps took me. I had already passed out the Sheep Gate, beneath the frowning shadow of the Antonia, the Roman fortress, and reached the edge of the Pool of Bethesda.
The twin reservoirs together known as Beth Chesed, the House of Mercy, were also called, by some, the House of Shame. So far had the more extreme sect of Pharisees prevailed that to be crippled, blind
, ill, or debilitated in any way meant that there was sin in the life of the afflicted. God punished sin, they said. They concluded that the more severe the punishment, the more flagrant the sin. Since the House of Mercy was a place where invalids gathered, hoping for a cure, it represented a collection of the worst sinners, unsurpassed in all of Jerusalem.
When I thought of Herod Antipas and the cronies of Lord Caiaphas, I had to disagree with the Pharisees, with one exception.
Surrounding the pools were white limestone colonnades supporting red tile roofs. These four porticoes, together with a fifth that divided the body of water into two parts, were another reason the structure was linked with Mercy. For cripples who had no ability to move from blistering sun or chilling rain, these covered spaces represented the only shelter many would find.
Reaching the terrace along the east side of the columns, I could not help myself. I turned in, expecting to see exactly what my eyes beheld.
Across the pool from me, crouching against one of the pillars, was Bikri ben Zimri—traitor and wretched talebearer—who had caused my grandfather’s death.
His skull-like head lolled forward on his thin, sunken chest. Dank, faded yellow hair hung across his face like discarded scraps of tattered cloth. His legs, useless and twisted, coiled beneath him like the snake he was. Only his arms showed any evidence of the hale and strong young companion he had once been to my grandfather. His shoulders still displayed some muscles near his neck. His hands were bound in leather strips, since they were Bikri’s only means of transport into shelter, or out to beg along the highway.
I was glad he was still there. I was not ready for him to die yet. He had not suffered enough.
Besides shelter from the elements there was yet another reason why the ill and infirm congregated at Bethesda: the possibility of a miracle. Every now and then, without warning, the water bubbled and roiled in the pool. It was said that an angel troubled the waters. In that instant, whoever was the first to enter the water would be healed … instantly cured.
I do not know if it was true or not. I had never met anyone who had been healed by the waters of Bethesda, but I hoped it was true. It gave me great satisfaction to know that Bikri, crippled as he was, would never, ever, be the first into the water. I wanted him to witness others being cured, being restored to their friends and family, while he lived on, alone, unloved, and hopeless.
If he lived to be a hundred, instead of the sixty that he now was, he would do so as a miserable lame man, despised by many, pitied by few.
In his case I truly believed the Pharisees had it right.
Shifting the remaining haunch of meat to my other arm gave me an idea. The amount and quality of the meat was more and better than a beggar could hope for from one year to the next.
I could walk up to Bikri, announce my name and identity, and offer it to him … only to take it away and give it to someone else. Remembering Peniel’s keen sense of smell, I knew I could add another layer of torment to Bikri’s existence.
Suddenly my stomach was sour, and I tasted bile in my mouth. Enough!
Approaching the nearest beggars at random, I handed over the mutton. “Share this,” I said.
“God bless you,” they chorused. “God keep your worship. What a good and kind man you are.”
The sickness did not leave me until I passed the crest of the Mount of Olives and tasted the sweet air of home.
Chapter 11
Notorious! Jesus of Nazareth and my sister Mary of Magdala shared that title for different reasons. Jesus was slandered for his persistent righteousness. Mary was justly shunned for her flagrant sin.
Mary’s presence in Jerusalem was something I dreaded, even though she was counted as dead to our family.
It was the morning of the final day of the high holy days when I happened upon my sister and Jesus of Nazareth by chance.
I rose early and made my way toward the Temple for the morning sacrifice. It was cool. The sun had not yet warmed the stones. The wide porticoes and courts were almost deserted. Only one place was crowded. I spotted Jesus seated on the steps near the treasury. Two hundred people were gathered around to hear him teach.
Curious to know what he was saying, I was drawn toward him. Suddenly there was a commotion at the gate. Temple guards and Pharisees dragged Mary forward. She was weeping and clothed in her nightdress. I did not need to ask why she was being brought to this place of judgment. There was a blush of shame upon her cheeks and her bare shoulders. Her feet were bare and bloody, her hair unbound. They threw her to the pavement at the feet of Jesus.
The rabbi leapt up and, in a posture of protection, stood between her and the men who shamed her and plotted her execution.
With great effort she raised herself to her knees and crouched there. Her hair hung down, almost obscuring her face, but I saw her shoulders heave with sobs.
I felt as though I would choke. My heart ached for the sister I had loved … whom I still loved. In that terrible moment, I remembered Mary as a child. Pretty. Sweet and innocent. Now here she was before a cadre of men with stones in their fists.
Yet I made no move to protect her.
A priest challenged Jesus, “Rebbe! This woman was caught in the very act of adultery!”
The crowd gasped. Jesus looked at Mary with compassion. He did not move from his place, physically shielding her from the stones in upraised fists.
A second priest continued, “In our Torah, it is commanded that such a notorious woman be stoned to death so that we will put evil out of the house of Israel. What do you say about it?”
I knew this trap was meant to discredit Jesus. The life or death of my sister was of no concern to the twelve priests who formed a circle around her and Jesus.
If Jesus spoke for mercy, then he would be denounced as a false teacher and a breaker of the laws of Moses. But if he agreed with the sentence of death for Mary, then all his teaching about mercy would come to nothing.
No one moved or spoke as the world hung on the reply that Jesus would give. What would the rabbi do? Would he discredit himself? Or condemn Mary?
I saw Jesus scan the accusers. Who or what did he focus on? I could not tell. It occurred to me this might be the moment when he called upon his followers to turn on the Temple guards and fight. Perhaps Mary, who had caused so much unhappiness, would spark the beginning of rebellion.
Then Jesus did something extraordinary. He gazed down at Mary for a long moment, then stooped beside her. His head was level with hers. If the judges threw the stones now, Jesus was as vulnerable as Mary. He would share her condemnation, take the stones that were aimed at her. The jagged rocks, meant to tear her to pieces, could not miss him.
“What do you say, Rabbi? How do you answer the laws of Moses?”
Unafraid, Jesus locked eyes with Mary. She studied him with wonder as he calmly smoothed the dust of the ground into an even surface.
The frustrated challengers repeated their demand. “What do you say, Rabbi? Sin should be exposed and punished according to the law!”
Jesus did not reply. Instead, he deliberately began to write Hebrew letters in the dust. The priests leaned forward to read what he wrote. And as the message became clear, they faltered and stepped back.
Slowly, Jesus stood, careful to stand as shelter over Mary. He searched the faces of her accusers. Were they not also his accusers?
“The one of you who is without sin,” Jesus said, “let him cast the first stone at her.”
His words pierced my heart like an arrow. I, who was her own brother, had condemned her. I, who had known her as a child and had married her off to an old man to save our family’s name … was I not guilty of sin?
While his words hung in the air, he stooped again beside Mary. Her only advocate, her only protector, he stayed close as the stones fell from the fists of the executioners one by one. I was certain, as the crowd drifted away, that Jesus would have died there with her, defending her, rather than allow her to be harmed.
I stayed close enough to hear. All of them walked away. Only Jesus and Mary remained. Then he stood. His shadow fell over her.
Standing beside her, Jesus asked gently, “Where are they? Does no man condemn you?”
“No man … Lord,” she said, amazed. Ashamed before him, she bowed her head and her tears fell into the dust where he had written.
Jesus waited a moment longer. Then he stretched out his hand to help her stand. “Neither do I condemn you. Now go, and don’t sin anymore.”1
He did not need her to reply. Her ordeal was over. Jesus turned to go. She started to follow him, but then my sister raised her eyes and saw me standing there.
I did not approach her. We gazed at one another over a gulf. Her shame was great, but his forgiveness was greater.
She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. I saw her lips move. “Forgive me.”
I mouthed, “Mary, come home.”
She did not reply but turned away, following after Jesus.
I did not pursue her.
At that instant, sudden lightning split the sky in the east. A raindrop struck my cheek. And then the rain began to fall in earnest. I saw my sister Mary holding out her hands, receiving it as if it were a blessing, a cleansing.
Chapter 12
It was Patrick, my barrelmaker, who suggested I again go hear John the Baptizer speak.
Samson and I were in my wine caverns, tasting from the barrels of the latest vintage. He and I sampled the wine from Faithful Vineyard on the first day of every week. The oak had contributed much to the flavor and aroma of the new wine, but there would come a time when I needed to move the contents to clay jars. I did not want to let even an extra Sabbath pass untested, lest perfection be lost.
Since the barrels were his creation, Patrick was equally interested in following the progress of the wine.
As Samson drew out a sample from yet another barrel, I remarked, “I met Nicodemus the Pharisee at the Street of the Coppersmiths yesterday.”