by Krishna Rose
Death was still upon him, for my brother had stumbled clumsily, swaying and moving unnaturally, floundering before us like a disembodied spirit. It was the strangest yet happiest thing I ever did see! Flabbergasted, we ran to him, marveling at the unworldly event we had witnessed. And as we came upon him, his eyes widened. Suddenly he lurched forward, drawing in quick breaths, covering his mouth with his hand which was still swathed in bandages. He had a look of confusion on his face, as yelping, he gasped, walking unsteadily toward us. Everyone jumped back, petrified.
“Lazarus is risen!” someone shouted, while my brother touched his hand to his forehead disbelievingly. “I saw him dead four days since, and now look—he is alive!”
“This must be Satan’s work!” one of the women hollered, vocalizing her terror.
Glancing around to see if others were witnessing the same incomprehensible event, my father pounded a fist against his chest, running astonished into his son’s arms before the awed crowd. Martha and I held on to one another, staggering to Lazarus’ side. I was unable to find words to explain, or fathom, what had taken place.
Carefully we unwrapped my brother’s bandages, revealing his greenish-gray limbs and a disagreeable, putrid smell. A nervous energy pumped through my veins, disregarding my personal overwhelm. Jesu then covered my brother’s body with his shawl, leading him through the gathered throng of pale-faced eyewitnesses, who were quite obviously unsettled by what they had seen.
Later that same night, Jesu had told my father that he wasn’t sure why he had overturned my brother’s fate. For as he came upon Bethany, transported by the sound of the wailers, without thinking, believing in a positive outcome—he knew he was willing to put himself in harm’s way to get Lazarus back. Obeying the Lord’s will, for He had so commanded him, in that moment he had thought only of heeding the Lord’s call. He had not wished to appear boorish, yet in some fated way, he had known that it was part of his destiny to raise Lazarus.
This one miraculous event changed our lives forever. Jesu had reversed the cause of our family’s distress, and it drew attention, both good and bad—to his transparent, significant power. Far and wide, rumors of Jesu’s supernatural occurrence spread, and Jews and Romans alike flocked pleadingly, hopeful of his assistance. Jesu was propelled into the limelight as a man having the light of God’s power within him, while some suspicious minds were convinced it was the work of dark magic. ‘Since the beginning of time there are always those who see only darkness in the light.’
Letters came from people everywhere, beseeching him to heal their sick and dying. In turn he gave them comfort, offering hope unto the downcast and unfortunate, who faithfully flocked to him, overburdened by distress. Generously he gave to all who came to him, telling them to be faithful unto the Lord, and to shield themselves defensively against immorality and wickedness. Within weeks, throngs of people searched him out.
There were so many people, that Jesu led the crowds into the countryside, away from the faithless leaders who he knew would find fault in what he did. Hundreds of manic, helpless men, women, and children, all yearning for relief from their terrible tribulations, followed us into the desert to receive healing. It was plain for all to see, that the foretold prophet had finally arrived, for Jesu had the power to return life—which was a power belonging to the Lord and His representatives alone.
Surviving death had made my brother a somber, introspective man. In death, he had seen things which are beyond human imaginings. Lazarus disclosed to us in detail, how on the fourth day he could feel someone’s will being so great, that it had forced his soul to obey his command, despite his having passed over the ninth wave. “I was very happy to remain there . . . in Heaven,” he had told us with a far-off look in his eyes. “But Jesu was too powerful for me, I could not deny him. His will was thunderous, as he overruled the unrelenting laws of death for our sake,” he said, smiling. “Death is not what people imagine it to be . . .”
Very soon after, the shock of what had transpired, took its toll on our father, who quickly took to his deathbed, leaving us orphaned.
This time Jesu came not to our rescue, for it was father’s time.
‘How could I feign to have an inch of power as was in him?’ I thought to myself. I had made an attempt to move Heaven and earth, to call my husband back to the land of the living, yet it hadn’t been enough. My will was weak, and that despairing thought, fed my already festering low self-esteem, plummeting me into another bout of sorrowful weeping, as our brethren sang dolefully downstairs.
Jesu’s heir needed refreshment. The child in me would be the small ray of hope I needed, to give me good reason to pay heed. For I was burned-out, broken-down, and urgently in need of nourishment. As if sent by God, someone knocked on my door, “Mariam” the maid called, “. . . I have a plate for you,” she said softly, placing something on the ground at the door’s sill.
Once she had left I opened the door quietly, quickly picking the platter up quickly, hoping not to be seen. Once back in the safety of my room, I bit hard into the juicy grapes and ate hungrily. The baby kicked, urging me to consume more. After feasting on the sumptuous spread, I bathed and dressed myself in the fresh pressed black mourning cloth which had been left for me. Sitting back on my bed, exhausted, I brushed and oiled my parched, tangled hair, while rehearsing and refining my speech. I would wait until the morrow to face the music.
Passover stirred memories of past celebrations when we had rejoiced together, united—good times spent in holy thankfulness. Never again would we share a holy day with Jesu. Passover would surely become a festival I would wish to forget entirely for the rest of my days.
“Birkat ha-Mazon,” they sang. Birkat ha-Mazon was usually sung to festive tunes on celebratory high holy days like this one, yet tonight, it was sung in a low undertone, for no one in this house was rejoicing.
I pictured the faces of the confused, bored children, who dreaded the lengthy blessings as we had done when we were young. Absorbed in my own thoughts, time slipped by, until sometime later the sounds of bentching filled the air, announcing that festivities had come to an end, rousing me from my despairing thoughts. This was a day I did not want to face.
‘Do not grieve or rejoice in me, but attend only to the Almighty Lord’s ordainment,’ a voice whispered. ‘Preserve your heart and seek to diligently follow in my footsteps.’
If there were ever a need to go deep into isolation, this was it. But our brethren no doubt waited for and needed me. Through me, they would feel Jesu in some small way and it would offer them comfort. I knew this, yet no one could give solace to me—not one living soul. “God give me strength,” I sighed, as the moon rose in the darkened sky. Shabbat had finally drawn to a close, so I bowed my head to the east, reciting prayers faithfully, weeping as I did so.
‘My loyalty lies not with any of them now,’ I contemplated. ‘Now we must all accustom ourselves to the fortunate and unfortunate events which we have been privy to. Adversity is the interwoven trial by fire which my brethren and I have been forced to endure . . . perhaps so as to impress upon us, our need to query the cause of our true grieving. For change is the crucible by which each of us is cleansed and tempered. We must look to the future now, trusting in the Lord unreservedly, for His will is our consolation.’
‘Let your fears not dishearten thee, Mary. Lean on the Lord,’ a voice breathed.
Morning came faster than I would have liked. It was one of those awkward days that everyone has at least once in a lifetime—one of those days one would prefer not to face. The kind of day you might in fact wish to avoid altogether. It would be a miracle if this day would pass by without difficulty. Reluctantly, I dragged my heels into such a day, aware that I had no choice but to take this moment and be brave for Jesu and for our unborn child. With hands shaking, I opened th
e door. There would be no escaping what had to be done, none whatsoever. ‘Perhaps today would be the day that I too would be arrested—for my lies,’ I speculated.
The house was deathly quiet. Abiding by my determined course of action, apprehensively, I made my way to the dining hall, where I found The Mary hunched in a chair by the fireplace. The room was long and dark, lit only by a bed of fading coals. She barely noticed that I had crept in and I wondered if she had sat there all night commiserating. Feeling great pity, I went to her.
“Mother it is time,” I said, gently rubbing her shoulders. “I cannot, Mariam. For if I go to him . . . I shall not prevail . . . and you may grieve for me too this night,” she said choking on tears. “It is a wife’s duty to perform burial rites, therefore I beg you to forgive me and give me cause to remain here with my thoughts,” she said, wiping away her tears. “Mariam, my anguish . . .” she gasped. “Mother, fear not, I shall go to him,” I said, reaching for her hand, which was curled up tight in a fist.
“I am sorry . . .” I lamented, as if begging forgiveness for what I was about to do.
Startled, I jumped back when my uncle came discreetly beside me, motioning for us to leave. It was time. The Mary moaned softly to herself as we withdrew. “Come, Mariam,” he whispered with quivering lips.
Once we were outside, careful that no one could hear us, we spoke in hushed voices, to be certain that we both understood what was expected. “Please Uncle, don’t throw me to the lions, not now . . .” I wept unreservedly, losing my nerve. “Allow me to bury my husband. I . . . I cannot face him—Peter,” I stammered. Uncle Joseph knew all too well how much I disliked, nay, feared Peter. Nevertheless, I knew his response before he responded.
“Mariam, as much as I wish I could help you—in this circumstance I cannot. It is you who must do this,” he said patting me on the back encouragingly. I trembled, wishing this cup would pass from me. “Do it for your child, Mariam. And once it is done, meet me here and we shall make haste out of the city. Jerusalem is tense, so take care not to be seen as you move about today. There are many who will wish us harm once Jesu’s body is found missing,” he said, forcing a brave smile reassuringly. “I understand your burden Mariam, yet what we invoke now, will affect the future of the world,” he said as if reading my unsettled mind.
I nodded furtively as he draped me in an oversized cape, pulling its hood up over my head to disguise me. “Uncle, I have carefully considered things and I would like to go to Scetis until the child is born.” “Yes, Mariam. I had that same thought. Good luck today,” he said, kissing me on the head tenderly. Turning, he departed with his men, leaving me to do what needed to be done.
I hankered to return to my bed. My shoulders and neck were stiff. My thoughts raced, so I practiced my speech for Peter, on route to the sepulcher.
CHAPTER 5
RESURRECTION
Resurrection is when one is restored—renewed with life.
The hour of death ought to be a person’s moment to shine. In death they are glorified, idealized, and transfigured by its juncture, into something better than they had appeared to be while living. A life completed inadequately may be mourned, a whole life summed up in just a few paltry sentences, but no consolation could offer comfort for a death so premature and tragic as that which we had witnessed in Jerusalem that Passover week.
Arrows of grief pierced my heart as I prayed in presence of the Lord, beseeching the throne of God to overturn my sentence. Conflicted, I braved the bitter confusion, recalling moment by moment, the shocking series of events which had catastrophically descended us all into unmitigated disaster. With heightened watchfulness I came upon the sepulcher. The stone was rolled open and the guards had departed, just as my uncle predicted—no doubt paid off with a handsome pocket for their silence.
There was a strange, yet profound density in the air. The atmosphere at hand, was without doubt, out of the ordinary. It was unusually quiet. Even the birds seemed deathly still, for so great was the aggregate uneasiness. I propelled myself vigilantly into the catacomb, whereupon I saw everything just as we had left it. I shuddered, catching glimpse of Jesu’s burial shrouds, a bloody testimony of his death. ‘Evidence of his resurrection.’
My trembling hands took them up and held them close to my bosom. I wept upon smelling the balmy odor of my husband’s blood sacrifice. The shock of it drove me to dash from the sepulcher, choking on tears, the shrouds tumbling to the floor behind me. Swooning, I keeled over, collapsing to the ground. I know not for how long I lost consciousness, but when I woke, I dusted myself off and ran towards the city.
Like an actor on a stage, I would have to imitate a rejoicing, elated woman. Peter was an unforgiving man. His heart was hard by nature. He often caused fights among us, creating disharmony. Jesu loved him in spite of his insufferable demeanor, while the rest of us labored to endure his disrespect. When it came to women, even more so, when it came to me, his insults knew no bounds. It was as if I was the bane of his existence.
I needed to pull an astonishing performance out of the bag, for so awkward and distorted would this be—as in truth my heart was deplorably broken. My false joy could not betray me. Peter must believe.
Assuming that Peter’s house was watched by Caiaphas and his minion spies, I walked leisurely with my hood pulled low, knocking quietly on his door—five times, as was the code for our brethren. In that moment, I embodied forbearance, snuffing out all worry of being found out. I would take the message of resurrection upon my tongue and become the deliverer of good news.
‘Peter is frightened,’ I thought, noticing the closed shutters. Until now I had not considered that his life, or any of the others’, might also be in danger. Listening at the door, I could hear hushed voices inside. “Dear Lord, please give me strength,” I prayed.
The door cracked open and I lifted my hood so that Peter could see me more clearly. Impatiently he ushered me inside, a quiver running through my swollen womb. James, Andrew, Matthew, and Peter’s wife, Mari, were all seated at the long table in the corner of the room, with one lit candle at its center. Others lounged in the adjoining room, too exhausted or discouraged to acknowledge my presence. Peter walked over to the table, standing defensively with arms crossed in front of him, his back against the wall.
Jesu’s brother James, with bloodstained eyes, was seated at the head of the table beside the dimming fireplace. Startled, he immediately stood up when he saw me enter. All of them seemed disoriented, disheveled, as if they had perhaps been talking all night. Lifting my chin, to give an appearance of confidence, I strode boldly over to where they were seated, willing my throbbing heart to slow. Swinging my uncle’s cape excitedly over the back of a chair, I feigned exhilaration, torturously aware of the dejected, melancholic vulnerability of the group.
“Peace be with you,” I said looking around, taking in the seriousness of what I was about to do.
Peter’s eyes were on me. He was unnaturally quiet, save for his sidelong glances toward his brother, Andrew, who was pushing his morning meal around on a plate with his finger. “Peace, Sister,” they said impartially.
“Brethren, be of good cheer, for I bring good news. Today our Master lives. He was dead . . . and now he lives by God’s own hand! Resurrected, he has thus established himself as the anointed one . . .”
“What?” Peter shouted. “What stupid lies do you speak, woman?” “Peter, calm down,” Mari said to her husband, walking over to his side, sensing his anger rising. “Oh ye of little faith, what I have told you is true—he lives! Why would I have cause to tell you an untruth? I saw him with these eyes on this day and he spoke with me,” I said, imitating honesty. “If you do not accept my word, then go to the sepulcher and see for yourself Peter,” I said fixing my eyes on him unfalteringly, pointing at the door.
“What are you saying, woman? You dare to come here with your lies! Did you steal his body from the tomb?” he said, irritated. Frowning, James sat transfixed, staring at me for an overly long moment. Instinctively, I walked over to him, laying my hand on his back confidently. Once more I reiterated, “Brethren, what I have said is true. Why do you doubt me? Do not cast doubt on this glorious day—for he was dead and now lives,” I said breathlessly, rubbing my rounded belly with my hand.
“You lie!” Peter shouted, pointing his finger in my direction. “For what purpose would I deceive you Brother? As usual, your behavior is irrational,” I said, as if offended by his insinuation. Peter’s distrustful glare bore down on me. Aggressively, he pushed his chair to one side shouting, “Who are you, that you come bearing such news? You are nothing but a dishonest, accursed woman! With Jesu gone, you no longer hold any sway over us. You dare to come here expecting us to believe in you? Do you think us fools? Do not play games with us woman, for your dishonesty comes only to break the codes of trust between us!” he said looking around at the others, hoping to get their approval.
Andrew shook his head in disbelief at his brother’s reproach, but said nothing. Matthew, his hair out of place and fists tight on the table, seemed intrigued by my double-crossing. He seemed as if he was weighing up the pros and cons of my trumped-up story—just as he weighed money each day in the marketplace, day after day, year after year. Weighing was what he did. He saw both sides of everything until the truth stuck. It was his nature.
“What if?” Matthew said suddenly. “What if? What if? Matthew, have you no wits about you? Can’t you see what she does?” Peter shouted, fidgeting uncomfortably.