by Angela Hunt
* * *
On our return to Capernaum, where we were to stay again at Peter’s home, we met a group of Pharisees and Torah-teachers who had been sent from Jerusalem to investigate Yeshua’s activities. I took their presence as a good sign—apparently Nicodemus and others who supported Yeshua had made headway with the religious leaders. If these representatives carried a good report back to Jerusalem, our cause could advance quickly.
The fragile peace that had held since our meeting on the road shattered when we served the mid-day meal. As was our custom when we traveled, the men sat in a circle in the grass while we women offered bowls of fruit, bread, and cheese. After reciting the blessing of the bread, Yeshua and the disciples took from our bowls and ate, but the men from Jerusalem would not even touch the food.
Tension filled the air like smoke when their leader turned hot eyes upon Yeshua. “Why do your disciples disobey our age-old traditions? They do not wash their hands before eating.”
I knew the answer to that question even if the Pharisee did not. Any water used for the washing of hands would have to be hauled from the lake on my back, as well as Salome’s, Joanna’s, and Susanna’s. Yeshua’s decision to forgo the ritual hand washing was a kindness to us women, but these Pharisees apparently thought only of their tender consciences.
Yeshua turned to the Pharisee with smoldering eyes. “Why do you, by your traditions, violate the direct commandments of God? For instance, God says, ‘Honor your father and mother,’ and ‘Anyone who speaks evil of father or mother must be put to death.’ But you say, ‘You don’t need to honor your parents by caring for their needs if you give the money to God instead.’ And so, by your own tradition, you nullify the direct commandment of God.”
Yeshua’s voice went soft, but no one could miss the venom in his words. “You hypocrites! Isaiah was prophesying about you when he said, ‘These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far away. Their worship is a farce, for they replace God’s commands with their own man-made teachings.’”
The Pharisee to whom Yeshua had been speaking regarded our rabboni with a new expression. His face had been transformed, the pious and compassionate veneer peeled back to reveal the bitter ugliness underneath.
Yeshua lifted his voice so everyone in the vicinity could hear: “Listen to what I say and try to understand. You are not defiled by what you eat; you are defiled by what you say and do.”
Like the others, I stared at Yeshua through an astonished silence.
Peter leaned toward him. “Do you realize you have offended the Pharisees by what you just said?”
Yeshua gave the Pharisee a quick, gleaming look before turning to Peter. “Every plant not planted by my heavenly Father will be rooted up, so ignore them. They are blind guides leading the blind, and if one blind person guides another, they will both fall into a ditch.”
In that instant, my hope for rabbinical endorsement vanished like a mirage.
* * *
In the spring of that year, when we were near the Jordan River, we received word that Lazarus of Bethany, brother to Miryam and Marta, was sick. Yeshua nodded gravely when he heard the news, but assured us that Lazarus’s illness would not end in death.
After two days, Yeshua told us we would go to Bethany, which was only a short walk from Jerusalem. The disciples objected, for by that time the hostility between Yeshua and the religious authorities had flared into outright war, but Yeshua insisted we should go. Lazarus had fallen asleep, he said, and he needed to go wake him up.
Thomas, ever the pessimist, drew a deep breath and said we should go to Jerusalem … and die with our rabbi.
When we arrived in Bethany, a weeping Marta met us outside the city gate. “If you had been here,” she said, “my brother would not have died.”
Compassion struggled with grief on Yeshua’s face as he regarded her. “Your brother will rise again.”
“I know he will,” Marta said, sniffing, “when everyone else rises on resurrection day.”
“Marta.” Tenderness vibrated in Yeshua’s voice as he took her hand. “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die like everyone else, will live again. Do you believe this?”
I did not hear her reply, for at that moment Miryam, Lazarus’s youngest sister, ran through the city gates, trailed by a band of mourners. She fell at Yeshua’s feet and repeated Marta’s statement: “If you had been here, our dear brother would not have died.”
Yeshua looked at the weeping women and the crowd beyond, all of whom were wailing. A troubled look crept over his face. He turned to Marta. “Where have you put him?”
She gestured to the nearby graveyard. “Come and see.”
Yeshua went … and wept with every step. The disciples and I followed, and we couldn’t help overhearing the words of the mourners:
“Look how he loved him!”
“If he loved him, why didn’t he come in time to save him?”
“He healed a blind man, so why couldn’t he prevent Lazarus from dying?”
When we reached the graveyard, Marta led Yeshua through the gate and pointed to the tomb. A stone had been rolled across the entrance.
Yeshua folded his hands. “Roll the stone aside.”
“But Lord,” Marta cried, “he’s been dead four days! By now the smell will be terrible!”
My stomach tightened into a knot as sorrow brushed the edge of my mind. I turned and pushed through the crowd, unwilling and unable to bear another moment at the tomb.
Too much pain. Too many memories. Not only did the images of Yaakov, Avram, Rachel, and Binyamin rise up to torment me, but I could never stand in a graveyard without reliving all those days I lived among the dead because the living could not abide my presence.
I reached the edge of the mourners and shouldered my way to empty space, where I gulped breaths of fresh, clean air. The air at the tomb’s entrance would be fetid and foul, and what did Yeshua hope to accomplish by viewing the decaying remains of his friend? I had seen him raise a boy from a funeral bier; I had seen him heal people whose souls hovered between this world and Sh’ol. But this was different. Lazarus had been four days dead.
The master’s strident shout cut into my grief: “Lazarus, come out!”
My heart thumped against my rib cage as the crowd went silent. I closed my eyes and stifled a scream of frustration.
How would Miryam and Marta react when Yeshua failed to restore their brother? The Pharisees who stood at the edge of the crowd pretending disinterest would rejoice at Yeshua’s failure, but Lazarus’s sisters would suffer the grief of false hope as well as the grief of separation. I would try my best to comfort them; perhaps I could take them aside once we had gone inside the house—
“He’s not coming,” a man near the gate remarked, a smirk crossing his face. A flood of reproachful shushing drowned this cynical opinion, but I could find no fault with it. A man’s soul might linger for a day, perhaps two, but every rabbi I knew said that no soul could resist the call of Sh’ol more than three …
I lifted my head as something moved near the tomb. Had Yeshua stepped inside? For I could see movement—
The still air of the graveyard quivered as feminine cries scattered the dust motes and shivered my skin. Miryam and Marta were sobbing; an instant later their voices were swallowed up by shouts of joy and disbelief.
“Unwrap him,” I heard Yeshua call above the bedlam. “Unbind him and let him go!”
I looked at the cynical man by the gate. His eyes were still narrow, but his mouth hung open, a silent gape. Two of the Pharisees had risen on tiptoe; one Torah-teacher supported himself on his companion’s shoulder as he tried to peer over the crowd.
I rose, too, clinging to the graveyard fence as I struggled to glimpse the miracle by the tomb. I had just spotted Marta’s head when the crowd stilled.
“Master.”
The voice, deep and resonant, belonged to Lazarus of Bethany; I’d have recognized it anywhere.
“M
y friend Lazarus.” A smile warmed Yeshua’s greeting. “Shall we take you home?”
A cheer erupted from dozens of throats and the crowd surged toward the gate. I stepped back, speechless, as Miryam, Marta, Lazarus, and Yeshua led the astounded group away from the tomb and toward the city.
I watched them pass and shivered as a new realization bloomed in my chest: I would never doubt the success of Yeshua’s plan again. With a pulse-pounding certainty I knew the Holy One of Isra’el had sent Yeshua to lead us against Rome … because he had the power to bring even dead soldiers back to life.
Did the others comprehend what we’d witnessed? Did they realize what this meant?
Under Yeshua’s leadership, victory would be ours. For not even Rome could boast of an immortal army.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Six days before the Passover ceremonies began, we returned to the house of Miryam, Marta, and Lazarus. The crowds heard of our impending arrival, and dozens of men, women, and children flocked to Lazarus’s house to personally view the man who’d come back from the grave.
Word of what had happened to Lazarus had spread throughout Bethany and Jerusalem. During my visits to markets and city wells, I heard that eyewitnesses had reported the news of Lazarus’s resurrection to the Sanhedrin, our religious council. Fearing the power of his influence, the council wanted Yeshua dead.
Furthermore, our rabboni had become quiet and withdrew from us even more than usual. He spent long hours in prayer, and I fretted for him. Was he worried about raising the support necessary to see his cause through? Did he fear the Romans? I wanted to assure him that I had absolute confidence in him, but as a woman, it was not my place to speak about such things.
I spotted a pair of Pharisees among the crowd at Lazarus’s house and noted the look of scorn on their faces. How could they argue with a man who had been four days in the tomb? He had returned from Sh’ol because the word of Yeshua brought him forth.
The sisters prepared a wonderful dinner in Yeshua’s honor, and as the men ate together in the house, we women sat outside and nibbled at the feast. As hostess, Marta centered her attention on serving dinner, but I lingered with the younger sister, sensing that something lay heavy on her mind.
Finally Miryam met my gaze. “I don’t know,” she said, “how to thank him.”
I knew what she meant—many times I’d been struck speechless when I thought of the immense debt I owed my rabboni.
I squeezed her arm. “I know how you feel. How can any of us thank him for what he’s done?”
She smiled and shook her head. “No, not for what he’s done. For what he’s going to do.”
I faltered in the silence that engulfed us. Yeshua was going to usher in the Kingdom and deliver us from our enemies … yet I’d never considered thanking him for that.
Miryam crossed her arms, thought working in her eyes. “I—I have to help serve dinner,” she said, “but perhaps there is something …”
Marta called for her and Miryam stepped away. I paused outside the lattice-covered window and peeked inside the house. Lazarus, the picture of health, lay on the couch nearest Yeshua. He laughed and spoke like a man unafraid of anything, least of all the Pharisees who felt more threatened than ever by the prophet from Natzeret.
Lazarus’s laughter stopped as a sudden silence settled over the group. The men turned to look at something or someone, and I saw Miryam moving toward Yeshua. Carrying a large jar in her hands, she knelt at the end of the couch where he reclined. Without speaking, she opened the jar and sprinkled perfume on his feet, then wiped his feet with her long hair.
The sweet fragrance reached even to the window where I stood.
I looked at the others—Peter watched with a wistful expression, John smiled at her with tenderness, and Andrew gazed at her in wonder. But Judas wore a frown.
“That perfume,” he hissed, apparently not caring that Miryam could hear every word, “was worth a small fortune! It should have been sold and the money given to the poor.”
Yeshua turned to Judas, hurt and rebuke shining in his eyes. “Leave her alone. She did this in preparation for my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but I will not be here with you much longer.”
I felt my heart break for Miryam, who had flinched under Judas’s harsh words. Tears flowed freely down her face, but whether she wept from Judas’s condemnation or Yeshua’s praise, I couldn’t tell.
I wanted to rush in and wipe her tears away, but Marta was acting as hostess, so I could not walk into a room filled with men. I marveled that Miryam had found the courage.
But she didn’t need to weep. Yeshua’s hour of victory was almost at hand. He would be leaving us, but only to take his rightful throne as Messiah and deliverer of Isra’el.
* * *
We observed the Shabbat in Bethany, and left for Jerusalem on the first day of the week. The news of our approach preceded us, so a crowd of Passover visitors took palm branches and met us on the road with shouts of “Hosanna, son of David” which in our tongue means, “Deliver us, son of David!”
Not only did Jerusalem welcome Yeshua as Messiah that morning, but within the crowd Hadassah and I even spotted Gentiles who’d been caught up in the enthusiasm and were waving palm branches.
I had to restrain myself lest my excitement induce me to laugh aloud. The hour of victory was near; we could feel anticipation in the air. With Yeshua’s ability to perform mighty works and this kind of popular support, no Roman legion could stand against us!
Someone offered Yeshua a young donkey. Because he was weary—I saw shadows beneath his eyes—he straddled the animal’s bony spine and rode it through the city gate. He looked more like a tired and dusty traveler than a triumphant king, but still the crowd recognized their Messiah.
And as I followed, words from the prophet Zechariah rose on a wave of memory: “Rejoice greatly, O people of Zion! Shout in triumph, O people of Jerusalem! Look, your king is coming to you. He is righteous and victorious, yet he is humble, riding on a donkey—even on a donkey’s colt.”
* * *
Among those waving branches when we entered Jerusalem was a group of Greeks. Some of them knew Philip, and they asked for an audience with the prophet. I overhead Philip telling Andrew about their request, then they went together to ask Yeshua if he would speak to the Gentiles.
Yeshua agreed and went out to meet them. “The time has come,” he told the Greeks, “for the Son of Man to enter into his glory.”
I caught my breath. Yeshua had referred to himself as the “Son of Man” before, but I’d always assumed he was referring to his humanity. In that moment, for the first time, the phrase struck a chord—Yaakov had often read to Avram from the writings of Daniel the prophet, who had written about the coming Son of Man.
I closed my eyes and was filled with remembering. Yaakov’s voice merged with Yeshua’s, and I heard the beloved words as clearly as if my husband were whispering them in my ear:
As my vision continued that night, I saw someone like a Son of Man coming with the clouds of heaven. He approached the Ancient One and was led into his presence. He was given authority, honor, and royal power over all the nations of the world, so that people of every race and nation and language would obey him. His rule is eternal—it will never end. His kingdom will never be destroyed.
A blush of pleasure rose to my cheeks as I watched my dear rabbi talk with the Gentiles. Yeshua had been cagey with the religious leaders, but with the Greeks he spoke plainly. The hour was near. Victory was nearly upon us.
I edged closer, hoping he’d extend a plea for their cooperation in his revolt against Rome, but instead his plain speech dissolved into riddles. “The truth is,” Yeshua continued, “a kernel of wheat must be planted in the soil. Unless it dies it will be alone—a single seed. But its death will produce many new kernels—a plentiful harvest of new lives. Those who love their life in this world will lose it. Those who despise their life in this world will keep it for eternity.”
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My burgeoning hope deflated like a dead pufferfish. What did he mean? Was he saying that we’d have new positions in the coming kingdom? I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t like this talk of death. I knew some men would die in the revolt—few revolutions have been bloodless—but I’d seen Yeshua raise a man four days dead. Surely he’d restore any losses we suffered.
“All those who want to be my disciples,” he told the Greeks, “must come and follow me, because my servants must be where I am. If they follow me, the Father will honor them.”
Watching him, I saw something that looked almost like regret enter his face. “Now my soul is deeply troubled,” Yeshua went on. “Should I pray, ‘Father, save me from what lies ahead’? But that is the very reason I came! Father, bring glory to your name.”
What happened next is still a matter of debate among those of us who had gathered around Yeshua. Some claimed they heard a clap of thunder, some said they heard an angel, but I heard a voice. A rumble from heaven answered Yeshua’s cry: I have already brought it glory, and I will do it again.
Yeshua looked out at us as if his soul had grown tired. “The voice was for your benefit, not mine. The time of judgment for the world has come, when the prince of this world will be cast out. And when I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw everyone to myself.”
Murmurs fluttered through the crowd:
“Is he saying he will die?”
“Scripture says the Messiah will live forever. And who is this Son of Man he’s talking about?”
Yeshua looked down at his hands. “My light will shine out for you just a little longer. Walk in it while you can, so you will not stumble when the darkness falls. If you walk in the darkness, you cannot see where you are going. Believe in the light while there is still time; then you will become children of the light.”
A Greek woman turned to me with a question in her eyes. “You follow this man?” She pointed at Yeshua. “Can you explain what he means?”
I could only shake my head.