by Bodie Thoene
“Of course! They try to trap him with words, accuse him of Sabbath-breaking, of sorcery. Try to get him in trouble with the authorities over paying taxes. Remember, I saw what they attempted to do with my own sister.”
Nicodemus nodded and stroked his beard. “They haven’t stopped. After your … restoration …”
No one quite knew how to report that someone had been brought back to life. Raised? Revived?
Nicodemus continued, “There was a furor in the Council at the lack of success in destroying Jesus’ reputation, and now about you! ‘What are we accomplishing?’ they said. ‘If he goes on like this, everyone will believe in him, and the Romans will come and take away our leadership positions and our nation.’ ”
I snorted. “Right to the heart of the matter: their wealth, their importance, their ability to stay on good terms with Rome. It doesn’t matter that Jesus teaches us to love our enemies.”
“Or that he raises the dead. No, that makes him worse in their eyes. You can dismiss the teaching of a rabbi from the Galil, but you can’t argue when the evidence of divine authority walks around the streets of Jerusalem. You again, you see?”
Suddenly I understood the threat I represented. Alive, I was a witness to Jesus’ power. I was the ultimate testimony to the truth of his claims. As was Peniel, the once-blind man. “And how did Caiaphas respond?”
“He told them they were stupid and ignorant and easily panicked. He told them …” Nicodemus lowered his voice and motioned for me to bring my ear close to his lips. “He told them it was better for one man to die for the people than that the nation perish.”
“He said that? The high priest?” Amid my words of protest I knew the truth of the report. Lord Caiaphas and all his cadre were perfectly capable of killing anyone they saw as a threat to their ability to remain in power. “And that plot includes me?”
Nicodemus nodded grimly. “You especially. Jesus must withdraw from Judea, and you must go with him. In time this may blow over … or Caiaphas may die … or something. But for now, you both must leave.”
“Jesus certainly must go,” I said. “But me? How can I say this? I’m not afraid of dying. Never will be, ever again.”
My friend’s gaze bored into my own. He saw there that I spoke the absolute truth. Still, he shook his head. “But others may be hurt trying to protect you. Think of Mary. Think of Martha. Carta and Patrick. If they tried to rescue you, they would die too.”
I understood but still was not ready to agree. “Let me think and pray over this tonight. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Again, the good-hearted Pharisee disagreed. “No, nor can we meet again anytime soon. I’m certain the high priest’s assassins will try to follow me to you or to Jesus. I’m glad you hired bodyguards, but it’s not enough.”
“They’re not bodyguards,” I protested. “Those men are here to protect the grapes, not me.”
Nicodemus dismissed the difference. “Doesn’t matter. They may be the only reason you haven’t already been attacked. But you can’t stay inside your fences forever. They will certainly try to kill you in Jerusalem and make it look like the act of a thief or a Zealot. Or they might bribe one of your guards to kill you himself.” Nicodemus shuddered.
Bowing my head in thought, I said, “We need to know what’s going on inside the Council. Who can we trust to bring the news?”
“Already allowed for. Our friend Peniel can easily travel among the beggars of Jerusalem. He can go and come without exciting notice.”
“Isn’t he also a target?”
“Not anymore. Not since you have given them a much bigger, more important one.” He stood and replaced the hood, then grasped my hand. “You must believe me.”
Solemnly I promised, “I’ll pray it through tonight and send you word tomorrow. Thank you, my friend. You are also taking a risk by coming here.”
Chapter 32
It was the dawn of a gorgeous, late winter day. A bright yellow sun rose over Bethany on the morning after Nicodemus’s visit. The air was scented with the promise of spring. Passover was not far off, when a million pilgrims would converge on the Holy City.
The vines of Faithful Vineyard were budding. There was some small threat that a late season frost would damage the new growth, but I did not expect it.
In fact, the morning was so perfect I had difficulty taking Nicodemus’s warning seriously. Surely he was exaggerating the danger. Lord Caiaphas and his minions postured and threatened, and they were bullies and cowards, but would they attempt assassination? Looking at the orange, red, and yellow poppies springing up between the vine rows, and at the pastel-blue-tinted sky, I could not believe it possible.
The contrast between night and day left me torn in my spirit over what I should do.
Before the nocturnal visit from the good Pharisee I had planned to visit the Temple this morning. I had the tithe from a recent sale of wine, and I was eager to offer it to God.
Grabbing a hasty breakfast, I almost managed to get away from my home unchallenged, but not quite. “Brother,” Martha said, catching me by the sleeve, “Porter says Master Nicodemus was here late last night. Is that true?”
“Yes, very late,” I admitted.
“And he was in disguise?”
“Not exactly a disguise,” I argued. “You know how the curious want to question me and everyone who knows me. He just wanted to avoid any delay.”
Despite my attempt to make light of the circumstances of Nicodemus’s visit, my sister was not convinced. “But what did he want that made him come so late? Why couldn’t it wait until today?”
“He is concerned about Jesus’ safety,” I confessed. “He heard of a plot and thinks Jesus should avoid Jerusalem for a time.”
I was never able to hide anything from my sister. “And the plot names you as well, doesn’t it? He could have gone straight to Jesus’ encampment in the fig grove, but he came to you.”
“You’re right,” I admitted, then hurriedly added, “but I’m sure he’s wrong.”
“Brother,” Martha said sternly, with the voice of sisterly authority I had disliked for decades, “he’s right. You have no idea how much darkness hates the light and will do anything to quench it. You and Jesus must both leave today. At once!”
Gently chiding her, I said, “Martha, I am going to the Temple. I will pray and reflect on what you say, but look … ” Spreading my hands wide, I motioned toward the breathtaking view of the mist hanging in the vale below Faithful Vineyard and the dark green mass of our fig trees.
Martha was unmoved. “You must go with him.”
I nodded. “I will tell you something. I don’t ever want to be away from him. Wherever he goes is where I also want to be.
Not just today, but forever. That’s what I’m going to pray about. How can I leave my responsibilities here? Yet if he is leaving, how can I remain behind?” Leaning forward, I kissed the worry lines of her forehead. “I’ll be back soon.”
At Martha’s insistence I had two of my sentries accompany me into Jerusalem. I admit I chose men well known to me and trustworthy. Having been up most of the night patrolling the orchards, they yawned and grumbled. They were in no mood for conversation on the brief hike over the Mount of Olives.
I deposited my tithe in the trumpet-shaped mouth of the offering box, then went into the inner court to pray. Some worshipers recognized me and crowded near. Their expressions suggested that rubbing elbows with me would improve the answers to their prayers.
I tried not to study every man with suspicion. Was there evil in that one’s eyes? Was another’s movement furtive? Did I see the outline of a dagger beneath another’s robe?
It was outside Nicanor Gate that Peniel found me. “The Master sent me to you,” he said. “He’s traveling today and wants you to come with him.”
I experienced such a rush of joy and relief. The decision had been made for me. There was no question now about going or staying behind. If Jesus called me, I would answer.
&n
bsp; Even that brief thought resonated like the trumpet blast of a shofar. From across a great gulf I remembered Jesus calling me by name: “Lazarus! Come forth!”
Descending the steps by the Sheep Gate, the way was crowded with worshipers going up as we four tried to descend. At a particularly narrow turning, three men abreast left almost no room for us to pass. All were husky-built, broad-shouldered chaps. They were dressed alike, wearing nondescript brown robes topped by dark blue hoods. It was almost like a uniform, though I gave little thought to it then.
Unaccountably, Peniel stumbled on the hem of his robe. His lunge knocked me sideways past the oncoming trio. There was a chorus of complaints and a strange, momentary hissing that did not register with me at the time. My two sentries helped get the tangle sorted out, and then we continued downward.
“Sorry, sorry!” Peniel said, smiling. “Sometimes I think I’m still not used to walking by sight, instead of by faith alone. It has taken some getting used to.”
It was not until we reached the outskirts of Jerusalem that one of my guards called my attention to a tear in the fabric of my robe. My thoughts flashed back to the encounter on the stairs. Now I understood. The sound I had heard like steam escaping from a kettle was of an extremely sharp blade slitting cloth. My garment was sliced from chest to waist, without touching my skin.
If Peniel’s fall had not pushed me out of harm’s way, would the dagger have lodged in my heart?
I had no way to know.
The village of Ephraim was where Jesus chose to lead his band of followers on his self-imposed exile from Jerusalem. It was about ten miles north of the Holy City. The tiny hamlet lay very near the border between Judea and Samaria and was even smaller than his home in Nazareth.
As far as I could judge, Ephraim possessed only two claims to fame. Situated on the highest hill along the spiny ridge stretching from David’s City to the Galil, it had a magnificent view in every direction. From its summit I saw the sink of the Dead Sea, a great swath of the Jordan Valley, and the summit of Mount Hermon far to the north.
I watched a curling, black smudge on the southern horizon where the smoke of the Temple offerings rose to the Almighty. I studied the Temple itself, standing like a snow-capped peak above the buff-colored sandstone walls.
I thought about what went on within its courts: prayers and tears, repentance and supplication, joy and thanksgiving … envy and plots.
Two of Jesus’ closest followers stood beside me. Phillip remarked, “If they send a troop of soldiers after us, we can see them coming for miles.”
“And then what?” Thomas returned drily. “Throw rocks?”
Ephraim’s other significance was that it lay above one of the pilgrim routes to the sacred feasts. When Passover arrived, as it would in a short while, hundreds of families from Galilee would pass almost beneath our noses.
“You know he still intends to go back there for Passover,” John, one of the Zebedee brothers, remarked. “We’re only staying here until he can return to Jerusalem with friends from home.”
“Perhaps I can talk him out of it,” mused Peter, the one they called “Rock” or “the big fisherman.”
“You’ve had no great success with that before,” Andrew, Peter’s brother, observed. “Not once.”
“And he must go,” Judas Iscariot said sharply. “It’s time for him to reveal himself. If he misses this feast, everyone will say he’s afraid. He’s already losing popularity by disappearing, like he has now. He must assert himself, and then they’ll all rally to him.”
While the disciples continued squabbling among themselves, I thought more about Judas. He was a curiosity among the inner circle of the rabbi from Nazareth, since he was the only one not from Galilee. He was an educated, well-spoken man and had a head for business. He was trusted by the group to manage their meager finances, doling out coins from the money bag to buy bread or dried fish, but always grudgingly.
Peter said this stingy quality made him a good steward.
I thought it merely made him unlikable, but it was not my place to say anything.
The sun set and the light faded. Brilliant blue-white stars twinkled overhead. Facing south, I picked out moving orange dots that marked where Roman soldiers marched or Jerusalem Sparrows lit the way for travelers to cross the great city in safety.
The argument among the disciples moved on to which of them would be greatest in the Jesus’ kingdom. Peter expected to be made the chief steward. Judas argued that as royal treasurer, his was a higher rank than Peter’s. James and John claimed the preeminence was theirs, as they were his closest advisers and his cousins.
The quickest way to divert a discussion among the followers of Jesus was to pose the question, “What is the Kingdom of Heaven like?” No matter how many times Jesus tried to explain it or gave another example, there were always additional questions.
That was part of the skill of a master teacher, which Jesus certainly was. Early on, when he was training his disciples, they thought they knew everything there was to know.
Jesus had spent three years with them, proving how wrong they were. He also used each additional opportunity to help them dig a little deeper, explore a little further. He wanted them to wrestle with questions of faith.
Since I had been in olam haba, the world to come, I had been asked many questions about what I saw there. I tried to answer each to the best of my ability.
But heaven was not the kingdom to which the inquiry referred.
The question really referred to the citizens of the kingdom, not its location.
The disciples, including me, believed that the Kingdom of Heaven would be wherever Jesus reigned, inaugurated whenever and wherever he chose to rule. So, what were the attitudes that defined the members of his kingdom?
A bulging, waxing moon climbed up the eastern bowl of the sky. Its brilliance washed out many of the stars, but not Regulus, the Little King. That brilliant, blue-white star marked the front quarter of the image of the Lion of the Tribe of Judah. The Holy Spirit swam into view just behind the king’s own constellation.
When Jesus joined the circle around the campfire, it was Peter who inaugurated the dialogue with the old familiar phrase, “Tell us more about the Kingdom.”
Instead of immediately replying, Jesus looked at me. “David, when you fought and overcame the plague of locusts, did you have help?”
“Of course, Master,” I said, mentally reviewing the army of men I had hired on that occasion. “I think I sent for four groups of workers.”
“And so some worked longer than others?”
“Certainly,” I agreed. “I called more and more as the situation grew more desperate.”
“Now listen,” Jesus encouraged, though all of us already hung on his every word. “The Kingdom of Heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire men to work in his vineyard, yes?”
This was good, familiar territory. When the Sea of Galilee was too rough or the fishing too poor, many of the listeners hired themselves out as day laborers to crush grapes or winnow wheat or pluck olives.
Jesus continued, “The landowner agreed to pay them a denarius for the day and sent them into his vineyard. About the third hour, around the middle of the morning, he returned to the marketplace and hired more workers, telling them he would pay them what was fair.
“At noon he went again, hired more, and said the same.”
A cock quail called from a heap of rocks on the slope below where we camped. Immediately afterward, another replied to the challenge from the opposite side of the hill. The boisterous exchange made me recall the miracle of the quail cleaning up the remainder of the plague.
“Again, in the middle of the afternoon, when the first group had been working for nine hours already, he hired still more laborers. Finally, at the end of the day, he found still more and asked them why they were just standing around. They answered, because no one had hired them. And he sent them to the vineyard to work also, even though there was
only an hour of daylight left.”
There was a stir among the listeners. Where was this story going? A breeze swirling up from the valley below mingled two scents: roasting meat vied with the sharp, spicy aroma of juniper brush.
Jesus resumed: “At the close of the day, the landowner told his steward to pay the men, beginning with the last ones hired, then counting backward to the first. The last men hired received a denarius … a day’s wages. When those who had worked all day saw this they thought, If these fellows who worked just an hour get a whole day’s pay, how much more will we get? But when their turn came to receive their wages, they got … what did they get, David?”
Jesus’ sudden pivot toward me caught me off guard. I blurted out, “I paid every man a denarius, last or first, all the same.”
“And what did the earliest hired think of that?”
“There was some grumbling,” I admitted. “And how did you answer them?
“I told them they were each receiving what had been promised. I said it was my money to do with as I pleased, wasn’t it?”
Jesus nodded: “Just so. You were not being unfair to the first by being more generous to the last. And it was, as you say, your money to expend as you saw fit.”
Then Jesus brought home the point: “And so it will be in the Kingdom of Heaven. The last will be first and the first last.1 Remember this the next time you argue about who will be the greatest.”
Leaning toward me, Andrew said with a sheepish grin, “I didn’t know he heard us this time.”
As we headed toward our bedrolls, Peter gazed up at the sky and idly remarked of the moon, “Nearly full. The next full moon we see will be the Passover moon. Wonder where we will be when we see it.”
The trickle of pilgrims passing below Ephraim increased to a steady stream. Passover was still more than a week away, but many travelers from Galilee arrived early to secure lodging and see the sights.