Daughter of Jerusalem

by Joan Wolf

  Nicodemus answered. “Yes. We brought him to a nearby tomb, but the guards forced us to leave because of the Sabbath. It was too late for the women to return to Bethany.”

  Peter began to sob. I saw tears in the eyes of most of the others, and suddenly I was furious. “Where were you while the Master was being crucified?” I shouted. “John, Mary, and I were there. Where were you?”

  No one would look at me.

  Mary said, “I would like to sit down.”

  The long, low table at which they must have celebrated their Passover supper last evening took up half the room. Andrew hurried to push one of the couches against the wall, and Mary and I sat.

  Nicodemus said, “Let me find the owner and see if he has a room the women can use.”

  After the door closed behind the Pharisee, John said, his face grim, “Who is going to answer Mary’s question? Where were you?” His gaze fixed on Peter. “You were supposed to be in the high priest’s courtyard, but when we arrived, you were gone.”

  Peter began to cry again and tears continued to rain down his cheeks as he told us his story. At last night’s supper, here in this very room, Jesus had told him that, before the cock crowed twice this morning, Peter would deny him thrice. And that’s what happened. The servants in the high priest’s courtyard kept asking him if he was a follower of the Master, and Peter kept saying he didn’t know the man. The last time Peter denied knowing him, he heard the cock crow for the second time.

  “I betrayed him,” Peter sobbed. “I loved him, and I betrayed him.”

  “Well, no one else even made it to Caiaphas’ house,” I snapped and looked around again.

  Every man looked miserable. “It’s true,” Thomas said. “We failed him.”

  I looked at their grieving, humiliated faces, and my anger died as suddenly as if a bucket of water had been thrown on it. For the first time I understood why Jesus had chosen these ill-educated, hardworking men to be his disciples. They loved him with all their hearts. Unlike Daniel, they were open to what he expected of them—not what they expected of him. They were human, and they had their flaws, but arrogance was not one of them. They had let fear drive them, and they grieved for their failure to stand by their beloved Master. They knew they were wrong and that Jesus was right. Even now, faced with his death, a death they never expected, they believed in him.

  Judas had been like Daniel. He wanted the Messiah to fit into the mold he had envisioned. John said, “Have you seen or heard from Judas? He knows about this house. We may not be safe here.”

  Matthew rubbed his eyes. “We have nowhere else to go.”

  I said, “I don’t think Judas will give us away.”

  Heads turned my way.

  I had thought about why Judas had done this heinous thing. “I don’t think he ever meant this to happen. He wanted the Master to be a warrior messiah, and he thought that being arrested would make him more radical. I don’t think he ever thought Jesus would be executed.”

  “I don’t care what he thought,” Peter growled. “I’d like to get my hands around his throat!”

  Rumbles of agreement came from every male in the room.

  The door opened, and Nicodemus came back in. “I spoke to the owner, and he has offered a downstairs room to the women.”

  I helped Mary to her feet, and we followed Nicodemus downstairs, into a room that, miraculously, had two Roman beds with cushions. Mary and I washed in the water that was waiting on a marble-topped table and crawled under the wool blankets. Within minutes I was asleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The next day was the Sabbath, so I couldn’t go to the tomb to wash and anoint Jesus. Mary and I sat in the upper room with the disciples, and I counted the minutes until sundown. I told myself that the weather was cool, and it would be even colder inside the stone tomb.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of finding him with decay.

  I wouldn’t think about it. I would think of something else.

  I sat on the couch against the wall and tried to understand what had happened and what it could mean. How could the Son of God die? Why should he die? And in such a horrible way?

  Was it possible he wasn’t who he said he was?

  But then I thought of that transcendent moment in my garden. I had looked into his eyes, and I had known.

  He was the Son of God. He was the Messiah we had been praying for. He had raised my brother from the dead. And now he was dead himself.

  It had to mean something. It must mean something.

  It hurt to look at Mary, who sat beside me. She had aged twenty years overnight.

  At one point John came over to us. He squatted in front of her and said, “The Master gave you into my care. I will do anything in the world that you ask of me.”

  She had just looked at him helplessly.

  I took her hand into mine and said, “I’m sure your son James will want you to come home.”

  “James. Yes.” She closed her eyes. The skin under them was deeply shadowed. “I will have to tell him about Yeshua.”

  I said, “I’ll go to the tomb tomorrow morning and anoint him. Then I’ll come back here, and we’ll decide what to do.”

  “You can’t anoint him alone.”

  It would be difficult, but there was no other woman to help me, and she was too fragile. She had spent all her resources yesterday.

  “Of course I can. I’m used to being on my own, remember?”

  “You will do it properly, Mary. I have every confidence in you.” John’s voice was deferential, a note I had never heard from him before.

  “Thank you, John. And thank you for being there for him. And for us.”

  He just shook his head, unable to answer, and moved away.

  Mary and I went to bed as soon as it was dark and I lay awake all night, willing the sun to show itself. As soon as I saw the first faint light in the high window, I was up and moving.

  The streets were still dark and empty as I approached the Dung Gate. In an hour’s time the farm carts would be rolling into the city with produce to sell, but for now I was alone.

  The gate was not yet open, and I called to the guardroom above. A guard stuck his head out and told me it was too early.

  I debated what I should do to convince him to change his mind. Latin? No, not with these fellows. I slipped my veil from my head to my shoulders and shook out my loose hair. I produced my most dazzling smile and said, “Please? My brother is ill, and I must go to him.”

  He looked at me. I kept on smiling. “Oh, all right, I suppose I can open a little early.”

  I passed through the heavy doors, giving him another smile and saying, “Thank you. I’ll remember your kindness.”

  The sky grew brighter as I walked. Jesus’ tomb was near the intersection of the roads to Joppa and Caesarea. As I walked along, I tried not to think. I looked at the Grecian magnificence of Herod’s palace rising above the city walls to my right. I stopped to pick a stone out of my sandal. I thought of Lazarus, who I prayed was safe in Capernaum. I worried about Martha, who must be frantic with fear for all of us.

  Then I saw the hill of Calvary, with three empty crosses stark against the morning sky.

  I turned away from the sight and proceeded to Joseph’s garden.

  The sun was fully up by the time I arrived. I found my way through the almond trees to the tomb, half expecting to find a guard posted outside. No one was there.

  I narrowed my eyes against the sun, abruptly realizing there was no stone at the cave entrance. My heart began to pound. The Roman guard had put one there. I had seen him do it.

  I heard the Roman’s words again: “Don’t give your friend’s enemies a reason to take the body someplace you can’t get to.”

  I ran, tripping and almost falling over a branch in my way.

  The mouth of the cave yawned wide and empty. Slowly, fearfully, almost on tiptoe, I went inside. After my eyes adjusted to the dark, I looked toward the rock shelf where we had left him. Folded neatl
y upon it was the cloak I had covered him with. The oils and burial garments were untouched where we had left them.

  Jesus was gone.

  Blind rage possessed me. They’ve taken him! The Sanhedrin has taken him so we cannot give him a proper burial!

  I backed out of the cave, my fists clenched, my body vibrating with fury.

  I have to tell the others. I have to tell them what has happened.

  I ran all the way to the city, through the Dung Gate, where the guards yelled after me, and back to the upper room where they were all waiting for me. By the time I arrived, I was so out of breath I could barely speak.

  The disciples listened to my story, a mixture of horror and confusion on their faces.

  “I’ll go and see for myself,” Peter said.

  “I’ll go with you and show you the way,” John said.

  “I’m coming too,” I said.

  We went quietly down the stairs, not wishing to disturb Mary, who was still asleep. Then the three of us retraced the journey I had already made twice. The guards at the Dung Gate made jocular comments as we went through.

  We were almost at the garden when John ran on ahead of us. By the time Peter and I reached the tomb he was coming out of it. “Mary’s right. He’s not there.”

  Peter went in and I followed. I saw once again the empty shelf. Peter buried his face in his hands. “What can have happened?”

  “The Sanhedrin has taken him.” I wasn’t angry anymore. All I felt was a bleak chill emptiness.

  We were silent, staring at the shelf and the robe. Peter’s shoulders shook, and I knew he was crying.

  John said slowly, “Surely it’s in the Sanhedrin’s interest to keep the Master’s body visible?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Peter turned his tearstained face to me. “We must tell the others.”

  “You and John go. I’m too tired; I’ll come after I have rested.”

  They left, and I sat for a while on the stone that had held his body. I lay down on it, pressing myself into it, hoping to feel something of him in the cold hardness. Finally I stood up and went outside.

  The daylight was so bright after the darkness of the cave that it dazzled my eyes. It was a moment before I saw the outline of a white-robed figure standing a few feet away from me. I blinked, thinking the man must be a gardener. Perhaps he had been here earlier and had seen what happened.

  “Sir,” I said, approaching him and squinting in the sunlight, “I beg you, if you know where they have taken him, tell me. I promise I won’t tell anyone who gave me the information.”

  The man replied with one word, spoken in a familiar, beloved voice.

  “Mary.”

  I blinked again, my vision cleared, and I saw him.

  “Master!” I dropped to my knees at his feet and bent to embrace them.

  “Do not touch me, Mary,” he said quietly. “I have been with my Father, and my body is not as yours.”

  I pulled away and jumped to my feet. Tears began to pour down my face. “I thought the Sanhedrin had stolen you away,” I sobbed.

  Through my tears I could see that he was unmarked—he didn’t even have the scar above his eyebrow.

  He said, “Did you not understand? Did I not raise your brother from the dead? I thought that you, of all of them, would know I would rise. How else was I to show the world that I have conquered death? That all who follow me will conquer death?”

  I tried to wipe away my tears. “I’m sorry, Master,” I said. “I didn’t understand.”

  He smiled at me, the rare smile that went straight to my heart. “You must go to my brothers and tell them. I shall appear to them soon, but they must know what has happened. They must know so they can preach the word to all the world.”

  I didn’t want to let him out of my sight. “Will I see you again?”

  “Yes. You are the first to see me, and you will see me again. Go now, and bring the news to your fellow disciples. Go back to Bethany, you and my mother, and I will see you there.”

  “I will, Master. I will.”

  I returned to Jerusalem, as free and light as a bird gliding through the air.

  At first Peter didn’t believe me. “You say he was outside the tomb, but we were outside the tomb, and he wasn’t there.” He looked at the amazed faces that were gathered around me. “He wasn’t there,” he repeated.

  John said, with a gentleness that was new to him, “He wanted to see Mary first, Peter.”

  That was the problem, of course. Peter was jealous that he hadn’t been first.

  I said, “He told me he would appear to all of you. And, remember, Peter, he named you as our leader. You are our rock. He depends upon you to spread the word of his resurrection to the world.”

  Peter’s chin lifted. “I will never fail him. Never.”

  None of us mentioned that Peter had already failed Jesus by denying him three times.

  “I know you won’t,” I said.

  Mary and I left for Bethany early in the afternoon. We met Martha on the way; she was coming into the city to find us. I told her what had happened, and she turned and accompanied us back to Bethany.

  We received word from Lazarus the following day. He was safe in Capernaum and begged us to let him know what was happening in Jerusalem. Clearly he had not yet heard of Jesus’ crucifixion.

  Mary, Martha, and I were sitting silently in the courtyard sun when I saw him come through the gate. He was dressed in the same white robe, yet he looked different. The scar was back on his face, and I saw the wounds in his hands and his feet.

  “Yeshua!” Mary leaped up and ran into his open arms.

  “Be at peace, Mother,” he said. “Be at peace.”

  “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you would rise! I’m so glad to see you!”

  She stepped away from his arms and looked up into his face. Her voice shook. “It was so awful, Yeshua. So awful.”

  His voice was tender. “I know, but it is over.”

  She touched his cheek and nodded.

  He looked from his mother to where Martha and I were standing beside the table. He said to me, “Now the real work must begin. Do you understand, Mary? The good news of my teachings and my resurrection must be brought to all the nations of the world. That will be the mission of my disciples, to be apostles of my Word.”

  The way he was looking at me, I knew he was including me in his mission. Our eyes held, and I felt the union of my spirit with his. I was filled with such love, such joy, such hope. I could do anything he asked of me. Anything.

  He said, “You have always understood more than the others. Can you take my Word out into the world and bring it to the souls who hunger and thirst for the truth?”

  I fell to my knees in front of him. “Yes, Lord, I can do that.”

  “Always remember this—I will be with you, even unto the end of time.”

  “I know that, Lord.”

  He reached out a hand and drew me to my feet.

  Martha had been standing by the table as if transfixed. Now she said, “Are you hungry, Master? Can I get you something to eat and drink?”

  He gave her his “Martha” smile.

  “I would like that very much,” he said.

  Martha’s face lighted to radiance. “I’ll go and prepare something,” she said and ran off in the direction of the house.

  Epilogue

  We had him with us for forty days. During that time he appeared to all the apostles and to many of his faithful disciples as well, including Lazarus. He also came again to me, to his mother, to Ruth, and to Peter’s wife, Rebecca.

  I cannot begin to express the infinite joy it was to be with him. I knew his time on earth would end, but when it finally did, when we saw him return to his Father, instead of feeling deserted, I was filled with anticipation and hope. Before he left, he told us that the Holy Spirit would give us the strength to witness to his Word in Jerusalem, throughout Judea and Samaria, and all the way to the ends of the earth. I b
elieved him. We all did.

  During his stay among us, the apostles had remained in the upper room while a smaller group of us stayed in Bethany. Word of Jesus’ resurrection had spread among his disciples, but no one had dared yet to preach it in the Temple. The Sanhedrin left us alone because they thought the death of our leader had crushed us, but we were waiting for the promised strength of the Holy Spirit to give us the courage to go forth as Jesus wanted.

  Lazarus had returned to Bethany after Jesus appeared to him, and we also had the company of Jesus’ brother James. When he saw his mother sitting in the courtyard, he fell to his knees before her, buried his face in her lap, and began to sob like a child.

  “I failed him, Mother. I didn’t understand. I thought he was deserting us, and I couldn’t forgive him. But I never stopped loving him!” His broad shoulders shook with grief. “Yeshua!” It was a cry of anguish. “I should have known. Why didn’t he tell me?”

  Mary gently stroked his hair. “He had to work out for himself who he was and what he was supposed to do. But he always understood your feelings, James. He always knew you loved him.”

  “I know. I saw him.” He lifted his head. “I saw him. It was the greatest moment of my life.”

  He rose to his feet and turned to look at Lazarus, Martha, and me. “Yeshua asked me to come to Jerusalem to be a leader of his church. I told him I wasn’t worthy, that such an honor should go to those who had followed him, but he said he wanted me. So I promised I would do it. I will devote the rest of my life to telling other people about my brother, the Son of God.”

  “So will we all,” said Lazarus. “So will we all.”

  Two days after Jesus’ return to his Father, Peter sent a message to Bethany to let us know he was calling a meeting. On the appointed day we made the familiar journey to the house in the Upper City.

  The upper room was filled with disciples from Jerusalem and the surrounding area. I noticed in particular the women. They had been devoted to the Lord, many of them following him on the terrible journey to Calvary. I saw the woman who had defied the Romans by wiping his face as he went by. We were too far apart to speak, but we shared a knowing, tearful smile.