Daughter of Jerusalem

by Joan Wolf

A man walking in front of us tripped over his own sandal and fell into me. Daniel put his arm around me, holding me upright, and said angrily, “Watch where you’re going!”

  It felt strange to be so close to him, to feel his body against mine. It felt even stranger that I had no urge to turn toward him and hold him tight. When he released me, I stepped away without a second thought.

  We looked at each other, and the distance between us seemed much wider than the few inches that actually separated us. He said, “This man is not the Messiah, Mary. The Messiah will be a man like Judas Maccabeus, a man who is a leader, a soldier, a prince. This man may have some true things to say about where we have gone wrong in our duty to the Lord, but he will never lead armies. He is no David come to save us. He is a prophet, that is all.”

  I felt a rush of sorrow. “Oh Daniel, how I wish you could see as I do.”

  Ezra said, “Perhaps he’s the Messiah for women.”

  “Be quiet,” Daniel snapped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I reached up to touch Daniel’s cheek. “I love you. I will always love you. But it seems as if our lives must part again.”

  “Yes.” His red-brown eyes reflected back my sadness. “My life has taken a path I hadn’t planned, but I think it’s the right path for me.”

  I looked over his shoulder and saw Lazarus and Nicodemus coming through the Nicanor Gate. “I must go. My brother is here.” I rose up on my toes and kissed his cheek. “God bless you, Daniel.”

  He nodded, turned to his friend, and said, “Let’s go back to Qumran. There’s nothing for us here.”

  He walked away, and I turned to greet my brother and his friend.

  On the way home Lazarus told me about his conversation with Nicodemus. “The Master escaped yesterday because the Temple guards refused to go after him. Nicodemus says the priests are beginning to regard Jesus as a genuine threat. His talk yesterday was provocative, to say the least. He told the people he was the Messiah and the Son of God. The priests of the Sanhedrin were livid.”

  “He cannot go back to Jerusalem,” I said. “It’s not safe.”

  “I agree. He would be better off in Galilee than here.”

  “I don’t think Galilee is safe either,” I said.

  The truth of my statement was made clear as soon as we reached Bethany. An elegant looking litter, with uniformed litter carriers, stood in front of Lazarus’ house. As we watched, a woman came out of the house and approached us. It took me a moment to recognize Joanna, the wife of Herod’s steward who had been one of the women on our tour of Galilee. She was dressed in a draped Grecian-style tunic, and jewelry glinted at her throat, arms and fingers.

  “Joanna!” I stared at her thin, high-nosed face. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have come to warn the Master. Galilee is dangerous, Mary. Herod Antipas wants to kill him the way he killed John the Baptizer.”

  Sharp as an arrow, fear stabbed through my heart. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. I heard it from a reliable source in the palace.” She stepped closer. “No one must know I’ve been here. My maid is telling everyone in Tiberias that I am ill and must keep to my room. I have to get back as quickly as I can.”

  “It’s dangerous for him in Judea too, Joanna. Where can he go?”

  “North,” she said, “to Philip’s territory. Once Philip hears that Antipas wants the Master, he’ll do everything in his power to protect him. There is no love lost between those brothers.”

  The bearers had moved to the four corners of the litter, ready to pick it up. “I must go,” Joanna said.

  “Thank you for coming,” Lazarus said.

  She looked from his face to mine. “Convince him to get away.”

  “We will try,” Lazarus said and I agreed.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jesus and the disciples left Bethany the following day. It was a difficult parting. With Jesus in the north, my house in Capernaum was going to feel painfully empty. But I was relieved to see him go. I hoped the Master’s absence from Jerusalem would allow heads to cool and the tide of danger to recede. Nothing in my life was more important than Jesus’ safety.

  I returned to Capernaum after the worst of the winter rains had passed and took up my old life. A letter arrived from Julia telling me there was a great deal of unease in Sepphoris over Jesus and asking if I thought he posed a threat to Roman rule. I wrote back that Jesus had less political ambition than the rest of the Jewish hierarchy, and it would be safer for Rome to protect him than to persecute him.

  The flax harvest had just begun when a paid messenger arrived with a message from Martha that Lazarus was ill in his lungs. She was worried about him and begged me to come.

  I called on Fulvius and asked if he would send a soldier on horseback to my sister with a letter. He agreed, and my letter to Martha went off at a gallop only two hours after I had received hers.

  Lazarus had to be very ill for Martha to ask me to come. I packed and was away the following day, escorted by Fulvius Petrus. We went by horseback with an escort of a dozen mounted Roman soldiers. I had never ridden a horse in my life, but I managed somehow. It was a scary, painful experience, but it kept my mind off my brother for a while.

  We were in Bethany by the end of the day. Fulvius left his men in the village and walked me out to Martha’s himself. He practically had to hold me up, my legs were so unsteady from the horse. But the look on Martha’s face when she saw me was worth all the pain. She threw herself into my arms and burst into tears.

  Fulvius refused to come in, saying he needed to get back to his men. I thanked him profusely for his help and followed Martha into the house.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I asked as soon as the door closed behind us.

  “Oh, Mary, I don’t know! He’s burning with fever, and when he breathes, he makes the most terrible noise, as if every breath is a struggle.

  “Take me to him.”

  Lazarus was lying on his mat clad only in a thin cotton tunic. It was cold in the room, and as she went to cover him, Martha said, “I’m trying to keep him warm, but he keeps kicking off his blankets.”

  I went to kneel beside him and spoke his name. After a moment his eyes opened.

  “Mary,” he said. His voice was weak and hoarse. He looked dreadful.

  I bent to kiss his forehead. His skin was on fire.

  Martha tried to get him to drink some water, but after two sips he closed his eyes. “Tired,” he muttered and fell silent.

  Martha and I stayed for a little, listening to his labored breathing. Then we went out into the front room and sat together on a bench. Her voice trembling, she said, “He’s worse today. Nothing I do seems to help. Mary . . . I think we should send for the Master.”

  Her eyes were filled with tears.

  I shivered. I was so afraid—afraid for Jesus if he came back to Judea, and afraid for my brother who might be dying. I said, “Fulvius must still be in the village. I’ll ask him to get a letter to Jesus. If it goes by horse, it will get there quickly.”

  “Thank you,” Martha said.

  Fulvius agreed to get the letter to the Master, and Martha and I settled in to do everything we could to keep Lazarus alive. If Jesus and the disciples moved as quickly as possible, without stopping to preach, he could be with us in four days.

  We succeeded in keeping Lazarus alive for those four days, but on the fifth day he died.

  Losing my baby had been terrible. Losing my brother was just as bad. Martha and I were sitting with him when he drew his last breath. We sat for another hour, on either side of the bed, holding his hands until they began to cool.

  Then there was all the business of anointing and burying the body. I had done it once for Aaron, but this was so much worse. This was Lazarus.

  In the midst of all the weeping, wailing, and moaning, my little sister was amazingly strong. She had been closer to Lazarus than anyone else. They had lived together for her entire lifetime. She had gi
ven up marriage for him. He had been everything to her. What was she going to do without him?

  The entire village followed as we bore him to the cave that was to be his final resting place. Everyone had loved Lazarus. But all the wailing and crying and screaming didn’t help Martha or me. Neither of us rent our garments or lifted our arms to heaven. We followed behind the bier, holding hands, keeping silent.

  All during that painful walk, my mind kept repeating, Lazarus. This is Lazarus we’re entombing. My brother, Lazarus. How can this have happened? Where is Jesus? Why didn’t he come?

  When the men rolled the stone over the entrance to the cave, I felt Martha flinch, as if she had been physically assaulted.

  I tightened my hand on hers and put my arm around her shoulders. This is a mistake. Jesus cured him. He shouldn’t die like this. Where was he? Where was the Master?

  I had a hard time convincing Martha to turn away from the cave, but finally she did. There was nothing else to be done for Lazarus except return home for the mourning period.

  The house was already filled with women when we got there. They had brought food and planned to sit with us day and night, weeping and wailing in their genuine sorrow for our brother’s death.

  It was exhausting. Perhaps it was supposed to be exhausting so the bereaved wouldn’t feel their loss so acutely. It worked for me in that I found the women so irritating that they distracted me from other thoughts. It didn’t work for Martha, however. She had been strong during the anointing and the funeral, but now she couldn’t seem to stop weeping.

  On the fourth day of mourning I pulled Martha aside. She needed to get away. “Why don’t you go out to the road and keep watch for the Master? He must be close by now, and one of us should be there to greet him when he arrives.”

  A little light came into her swollen, tear-stained face. “It will be so good to see him.”

  It would have been even better to see him four days ago.

  But I didn’t say that. I knew Jesus would have come if it were possible. I knew it wasn’t his fault that he was too late. And I knew that he would help Martha.

  She slipped out the door, and I went back to the women.

  Time passed. It was stuffy in the crowded front room, but hospitality forbade me from leaving. My eyes were glazed over, and I was half asleep sitting up when a village boy came in and whispered in my ear, “You must come quickly, my lady. The Master is just outside the town.”

  I jumped up and ran out of the house, leaving all the women twittering behind me. I ran through the village and up the road. As I ran, others began to run after me.

  Then I saw him. He was standing on the road next to Martha, and his face looked tense and drawn. I didn’t notice anyone else. I didn’t think. I just threw myself at his feet and began to cry uncontrollably.

  “Where have you been?” I sobbed through my tears. “If only you had been here, my brother would never have died.”

  I felt his hand rest on my bare head—I hadn’t even stopped to put on my veil. “Don’t cry, Mary,” he said. “Have you lost your faith in me? Your brother will rise. Don’t you remember? I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will have everlasting life. Lazarus believed that—don’t you?”

  I raised my face to look up at him and was astonished to see tears flowing down his cheeks. My heart contracted in grief for him. He felt dreadful that he had been too late. “I do believe Master,” I said.

  It was the truth. I did believe, and I understood what he was telling me. I understood that he couldn’t raise a man who had been dead for four days. He’d raised people to life before, but they had been the newly dead. Lazarus was alive, but only in the Kingdom of God, not here in Bethany.

  Jesus reached a hand to help me to my feet. “Where have you laid him?” he asked, making no attempt to stem the tears that continued to flow down his anguished face.

  Martha, who was standing on his other side, said, “It’s this way, Master.”

  The three of us walked along the narrow path that led to the cave where my brother lay. The disciples followed behind us, and behind them came the inevitable crowd from the village. As we drew near the tomb, Jesus slowed. It was a warm day, but I could see he was shivering as if it were midwinter.

  He turned to John and said, “Take away the stone.”

  Martha’s breath caught. “He’s been dead for four days, Master! There will be a stench.”

  I pressed my knuckles to my mouth to keep from speaking. I didn’t want my memory of Lazarus tainted by the foul evidence of his death, but I trusted Jesus.

  We were standing just behind him, and he turned to face us. The shivering had stopped, and he was sweating. His face had gone white, and the sweat mixed with his tears. “Didn’t I tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?”

  I put my arm around Martha’s shoulders and said, “Go ahead.”

  John was able to roll the stone away by himself, and once the opening was revealed, Jesus raised his eyes to the heavens. When he spoke, his voice was clear and composed. “Father, I thank you for hearing me. I know you always hear me, but I wish these people to hear me also, so that they may know who I am and believe.”

  I felt Martha’s whole body trembling. Then Jesus walked into the tomb entrance, and she whimpered.

  Jesus called into the darkness, in the same clear, composed voice, “Lazarus, come forth.”

  I stopped breathing, and we waited in absolute silence.

  First we saw a shadow in the doorway of the tomb, and then a figure stepped out into the sunlight. He wore the winding sheet we had wrapped him in, and when he slowly reached up to remove the cloth that covered his face and stood blinking in the sunlight, we all recognized my brother. My healthy-looking, perfectly intact brother.

  Lazarus had been raised from the dead.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I felt him in my arms, warm and vibrant and alive. I looked into his brown eyes, and they were the same. I laughed. I cried. I laughed and cried at once. It was impossible, but it had happened. Jesus had raised my brother from the dead.

  The crowd was hysterical, and we had a difficult time trying to leave. The disciples once more turned themselves into a military guard and managed to get us home. Once we were inside the house, Peter barred the doors. We didn’t dare go out into the courtyard, where we could be seen from the street. Instead we all huddled together in the front room, where only a short time ago I had been the center of a group of mourning women, and stared at my brother.

  “I’m hungry,” Lazarus said.

  Martha leaped up and rushed into the kitchen. I just sat on the floor looking from my brother to Jesus and back again.

  The Master wasn’t fully recovered from the emotion that had overtaken him at the tomb; he was tired and quiet.

  We all wanted to know what it was like to be dead, but Lazarus didn’t have many details. For him, it had seemed but a moment in time from when he died to when he had awakened in the tomb. All he remembered was being filled with joy and enveloped in a beautiful light.

  “Did you see God?” Thomas asked.

  “No.” Lazarus shook his head in bewilderment. “I can’t believe I was dead for four days. It went by so fast. I must have been in a place of waiting.” He turned to look at Jesus, who was sitting by the high window, with the sun streaming in on his head. “Your Father must have known that I would be coming back to life again.”

  Jesus didn’t reply.

  I listened to the chatter going on around me and thought with satisfaction, This will show Daniel and all the rest of the doubters. How can anyone not believe Jesus is the long-awaited Messiah, the Son of God, after this?

  Those who had witnessed the miracle raced into Jerusalem to spread the word, and people started to come out to Bethany to see Lazarus for themselves. Passover was near, and Jews were already pouring into the city for the holy day. As soon as they heard about the miracle, they too wanted to see Lazarus.

  And ev
eryone wanted to see Jesus of Nazareth.

  However, Jesus and the disciples had moved to Ephraim, a Judean town close to the eastern mountains. He told Martha and me he needed some quiet time before he returned for Passover. The raising of Lazarus had drained him, and I was glad to see him go. Bethany wasn’t a quiet refuge these days.

  The one sour note in all the euphoria about Lazarus came from Nicodemus, Lazarus’ Pharisee friend. He came out to Bethany to warn us that the Sanhedrin had met, and Caiaphas, the high priest, had told the assembly that Jesus was too dangerous to be allowed to go free.

  So now the Master, who already had influential enemies in the scribes and Pharisees, had the priests of the Sanhedrin against him as well.

  When Jesus returned to Bethany two days before Passover, I told him what Caiaphas had said. He shrugged as if the Sanhedrin was of no importance. I thought he was wrong, but I knew nothing I might say would keep him from going into Jerusalem.

  That evening Martha served one of her wonderful suppers. We set up the long table in the front room, as it was too chilly to eat outdoors, and the girls who helped Martha passed around platters filled with fish, lamb, and fruits. Flagons of good wine circulated as well.

  The conversation was cheerful and excited. The disciples were confident that Jesus would receive a rousing reception in Jerusalem. By now everyone had heard about the raising of Lazarus, and many were hailing the Master as the Messiah.

  I was nervous, but I kept one reassuring thought in my mind: Even if the worst happens and the Sanhedrin arrests Jesus, there is little they can do to him. Herod beheaded John the Baptizer because he has the power to execute in Galilee, but only Rome can execute a prisoner in Judea.

  Rome wouldn’t intervene in Jewish religious affairs. I comforted myself with this thought. Even if the Sanhedrin should act, Jesus’ life would be safe.

  As we sat around the table, the meal done, the conversation quieter, I slipped out of my seat and went to fetch the jar of nard I had purchased from one of the most expensive merchants in Jerusalem. I lifted the thin-necked alabaster container in my hands and carried the precious oil into the front room. I went up to Jesus and knelt before him, the alabastron in my hands. I looked up, to see if what I was going to do would be acceptable, and he gave a slight nod.