Son of God

by Roma Downey

  “Oh, mercy,” Peter moans. “Why did we leave without Jesus? He would know what to do.” Lightning flashes. In the distance, he sees a solitary figure. Perhaps we’re closer to land than I thought, Peter says to himself, staring into the blackness. Another bolt of lightning. And again, Peter sees a man standing straight ahead, although much closer this time. Peter squints his eyes to see what’s out there and feels the wind blast his face. If this man is standing on a dock, Peter should keep a sharp eye, otherwise the boat will be smashed on the rocks.

  A new bolt of lightning is followed immediately by another. Peter is blinded by the light, but forces himself to search for this mystery man. Peter gasps. He has seen Jesus. Peter is sure of it. He tries to stand up in the boat, but it’s like standing on the bare back of a bucking mule. The other disciples have seen Jesus in the darkness and also try to stand for a better look. “Sit down,” Peter orders.

  His eyes peer into the darkness for Jesus. “Teacher,” he cries out, his words almost swallowed by the wind. “Talk to me!”

  And just like that, he can clearly see Jesus standing atop the waves. That’s right: standing on the water. Peter knows that he’s not hallucinating. What other man can do such a thing? Is Jesus merely a man? Peter thinks of all the times that Jesus made mention of “my Father,” as if God were truly his parent. But maybe it’s all true. Could it be? In the depths of his heart, Peter finds a new kernel of faith. He tries to wrap his mind around this novel concept that Jesus is who he says he is: the Son of God. Not just a charismatic teacher. Not just a prophet. But the one and only Son of God.

  “It’s a ghost,” Thomas, one of the disciples, cries out in terror.

  Peter stills his troubled thoughts. “Lord,” he shouts, “if it is you, tell me to come to you on the water.”

  “Come to me, Peter.”

  Peter has two hands on the gunwales and vaults himself up and over the side. He is not drenched by waves or gasping for breath in the water. He is standing. A terrified smile flashes across Peter’s face at the absurdity of it all. He laughs, a great belly laugh in the middle of the all-consuming storm, and walks confidently toward Jesus, his eyes locked on his teacher’s. His heart swells with newfound faith, and Peter knows that he will never look upon Jesus the same way again. The Son of God, Peter thinks. I am looking into the eyes of the man who is truly the Son of God.

  Suddenly, the practical side of his mind tells him it is impossible to walk on water. He looks down into the depths, and the one thing that has led him to follow Jesus all this while—his faith—suddenly disappears. Peter sinks. His robes weigh him down, and he plunges farther under the water. He keeps his mouth closed, desperate not to feel water rushing into his lungs, but his chest feels like it will explode from lack of breath. Then Peter feels Jesus pulling his hand, lifting him from the water. In an instant he is out of the waves and lying on the pitching deck, soaking wet. Peter opens his eyes to see a loving Jesus standing over him, his face filled with kindness.

  “Peter,” he says. “Oh, you of little faith. Why did you doubt?”

  Peter is now a changed man, and he desperately wants Jesus to know it. “I have faith, in you. You are my Lord.”

  Then Jesus calms the storm. He orders the wind to stop, and to the waves he says, “Be still.” At his command, the wind dies down, and all is still. The disciples look at him with the same reverence Peter displayed. “Truly you are the Son of God,” they say, bowing down in worship.

  The sight of Jesus appearing in the middle of the storm, and then walking upon the waves, is not quickly forgotten. Upon reaching the shore, the disciples sit on a hillside, watching the sun rise over the Sea of Galilee, and they cannot stop recounting their individual memories of what they saw. Jesus has set himself apart from them once again, praying alone within sight of their camp. From their lofty perch, they can see from one side to the other of this once tempestuous inland body of water and marvel that it is now as placid as a village well. Their cooking fire is small, for there is little wood in these parts. Peter is still drenched, so he sits as close as he can to the heat in order to dry himself.

  John sits beside Peter, who is obviously distraught.

  “I let him down,” Peter tells John. “I let you all down. I’m sorry.”

  “No, that was just a moment—a moment we could have never been prepared for.”

  “Do you think it was a test?”

  “I think that this is all a journey, Peter. You can’t get there in one step.”

  Peter laughs. “Where is ‘there’?”

  It’s a rhetorical question, for they both know Peter is alluding to the Promised Land. John looks off to where Jesus is praying. His is a different kind of Promised Land, one not of this earth. John quietly marvels at their teacher’s immense powers of concentration.

  Jesus’ eyes open. He looks directly at John. It’s as if he’s looking straight into his soul. In that instant, John is reassured. He knows that Jesus is truly the King of the Jews, sent by God to save Israel, but not from the Romans.

  Rivers of blood flow through the gutters of Jerusalem. The high priest Caiaphas watches over the cleanup of this crimson tide, his face a mask of concern and his heart full of grief. Pilate has had his revenge on the Jews for their riot in Caesarea. When a new aqueduct needed funding, Pilate had requisitioned the Temple coffers. The people of Jerusalem rebelled, and this time Pilate did not turn the other cheek. Hundreds of Jews were put to the sword. Caiaphas is powerless to stop the Roman oppression.

  In his ornate palace in Caesarea, Pilate revels in his triumph. The marble floors gleam as the Mediterranean sun shines in through the large windows. Herod built this palace, but to Pilate it’s as if the place was designed with his own personal needs in mind. Far from the fanatics of Jerusalem, close to a port from which he can embark for Rome on a moment’s notice, and most of all, a bastion of civility in this wretched post with its quarrelsome population. Some days he can even pretend that he’s back in Rome.

  Pilate sits at his desk as a scribe brings him a stack of official documents. As he signs them, Pilate congratulates himself on how well he handled this latest Jewish rebellion. He knows his behavior will be carefully scrutinized in Rome, and he is certain he had more than enough justification for his brutal response. In his official report, he will honestly tell Emperor Tiberius his no-nonsense approach to the Judean troublemakers is working.

  Pilate’s signet ring comes down hard on a pool of wax, sealing his official report. If it’s rebellion the Jews want, it’s suppression that they’ll get.

  In these these harsh times, it becomes obvious to many Jews that they cannot put their faith in Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin, the Pharisees, or any others of the Jewish religious hierarchy. All eyes focus on Jesus. Some even say that he has power over life itself. He has restored sight to the blind, cured the lame, cast out demons, healed the handicapped, and raised the dead. Some say that if a person has enough faith in Jesus and his teachings, the sick can be healed, the physical body can be made whole, and life itself can be restored.

  Caiaphas can’t make that claim. Nor can the Pharisees. Jesus is soon put to the test, as he and his disciples walk through a village, enjoying the games played by the young children and the generally festive atmosphere of the day. A messenger comes running with a desperate plea. He tells Jesus that his friend Lazarus, who lives in a neighboring town, lies dangerously ill. Mary, the woman who anointed Jesus’ feet in the home of Simon, and her sister Martha had given up hope until they heard that Jesus was nearby. They see this as a sign from God. They know Jesus can save their brother, and they ask him to come quickly and help them in their hour of need.

  Jesus knows her brother Lazarus well. Yet he does nothing. Lazarus lives in a region of Judea whose people had tried to stone Jesus and the disciples. They would risk their lives returning there. The disciples assume this risk must be on Jesus’ mind, although it is not like Jesus to back down from a challenge. “Aren’t we going to see Lazar
us?” they ask him.

  “This sickness will not end in death,” Jesus tells them. “No, it is for God’s glory, so that God’s son may be glorified through it.”

  Two days pass. Finally, Jesus tells the disciples, “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to wake him up.”

  The disciples are unclear of his meaning. “Lord,” they tell him, “if he sleeps he will get better.”

  “Lazarus is dead,” he says bluntly, forced to spell it out to them. “And for your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. Let us go to him.”

  “Let us go so that we may die with him,” Thomas says glumly, thinking of the Judeans’ previous attempt to stone them.

  Some days later, Jesus and his disciples make the short walk to Lazarus’ village. They find a town consumed in grief. “Are you coming for show?” Mary cries at him through her tears. “You could have saved him.”

  Jesus says nothing as he keeps on walking toward Lazarus’ home.

  “We believed in you! We trusted you!” Mary sobs. “You’re the healer. You could have saved him. Why didn’t you come? Why? Tell me.”

  Martha, bereft, simply moans when she sees Jesus.

  An angry crowd of mourners soon surrounds Jesus and his disciples. The mood is hostile. “Fool,” says an unidentified voice in the crowd. “If you were so powerful you should have saved Lazarus from dying.” The disciples stiffen.

  “I am the resurrection and the life,” Jesus tells Martha and Mary. “If anyone believes in me, he will live, even though he dies. And whoever lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?”

  “Yes, Lord. I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God who was to come into the world.” Mary weeps as she speaks, and Jesus is deeply moved.

  “Where have you laid him?” Jesus asks. By now Lazarus has been dead for four days.

  They lead Jesus to their brother’s tomb to grieve.

  “Take away the stone,” Jesus commands when he arrives at the tomb.

  “His body will smell too bad for us to go near it,” protests Martha, because it’s well known that bodies begin to decompose after three days, and smell. Horribly.

  The disciples and the men of the village obey Jesus’ order and roll back the stone that covers the entrance to the tomb. Word has spread throughout the village that Jesus is at the tomb, and now hundreds have gathered, curious.

  “Lazarus,” Jesus shouts.

  Peter can’t bear the tension and steps away from Jesus. To conceal his discomfort he absentmindedly grabs a long grass stalk and winds it around his hands. This time Jesus has promised too much, Peter thinks. The man has been dead four days.

  Jesus with boldness yells, “Come out!”

  Lazarus’ sisters sob, worn out from false hope, then days of mourning. Then a uniform gasp erupts from the crowd and many fall on their faces in worship, as they stare at Lazarus, wrapped in his burial garments. His head is uncovered, and he squints as he steps into the sunlight. He is alive.

  Jesus speaks again, but in a voice so loud and authoritative that it can be heard a hundred yards away. “Whoever believes in me shall never die. Never!”

  Martha collapses in shock. Her sister Mary is shaking. John laughs, incredulous. Tears run down Peter’s cheeks. “It’s true,” he tells Jesus. “You really are the Messiah.”

  Jesus turns and strides through the throng. Hands reach out to touch him, and voices call him names like “Lord” and “the King.”

  Peter runs after him. John follows.

  “Lord,” Peter yells, “where are you going?”

  “It’s time, Peter,” Jesus tells him.

  “Time for what?”

  “How long have we walked together, preaching my message?”

  “Three years, Lord.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time, Peter, that we finally go to the one place that needs to hear my message more than any other?”

  Peter opens his mouth in shock. He knows that Jesus is referring to a place where Rome and the Jewish high priests have total control. They are, in fact, walking straight into danger.

  Jesus smiles. He stares at Peter. “That’s right, Peter. We’re going to Jerusalem.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  BETRAYAL

  It is the week before Passover, that holy day that marks the time in Jewish history when its people were spared from death and led out of slavery from Egypt. Ironically, they celebrate their freedom from past oppressors, while suffering under the yoke of new pagan masters—the Romans. It seems to never end.

  Right now, even as all of Israel prepares to celebrate this most important and sacred occasion, one very select group of pilgrims is making their way to Jerusalem. Jesus walks at the front of the single-file line, leading his disciples and Mary Magdalene.

  They are not alone on the dusty road leading into the city. Thousands of people walk dutifully in from the countryside and desert—children on their parents’ shoulders, the elderly. Men pushing handcarts, women leading the family donkeys. Now and again the crowd parts to let Roman soldiers through, knowing that to obstruct their path might lead to a sudden act of brutality.

  One family’s cart has a broken wheel, and the cart is blocking the road. The wife grasps their small children and the husband desperately rushes to get the cart off the road before it blocks the oncoming Romans, but the columns of legionnaires are forced to come to a halt. Their commander, a decisive man named Antonius, takes control. “Throw it down the bank,” he barks.

  Everything the family owns is loaded on that cart, but the Romans follow orders and shove it into a ditch. The wife cries softy. The children wail as their precious belongings are strewn over the hillside. Then the couple notices one of their children isn’t moving. The cart has fallen on their youngest daughter, and she lies crushed by its weight. As the devastated parents cradle their dead baby, the legionnaires move on. They don’t even notice.

  The pilgrims know this is no ordinary group of soldiers. There are too many of them, their shields and breastplates are highly polished, and they march with a precision and snap not usually seen in the Jerusalem garrison. They watch as Antonius gallops his horse down the line to a regal figure on riding a black stallion. It’s Pontius Pilate. This impressive procession is made up of his handpicked soldiers. Their job is to protect him and serve him. They will stop at nothing to ensure Pilate’s safety.

  “What’s the delay this time?” Pilate impatiently asks Antonius.

  “A broken cart, sir. We pushed it off the road.”

  “These filthy people and their wretched festival,” Pilate responds. “Every year it’s the same thing. I’d outlaw the thing if only Rome would allow me.”

  Pilate is returning to Jerusalem to take personal control of the city. As governor of this remote Roman province, it’s his duty to maintain order during this potentially explosive period.

  “How much longer?” asks Pilate’s wife, Claudia. She rides alone in a horse-drawn sedan, fanning herself to keep cool in the midday heat.

  “We’ll soon be there,” replies Pilate. The sedan jerks forward as the procession resumes its progress.

  Claudia peeks out between the curtains. All she can see are horses’ rumps and polished shields. She sighs and leans back, hating every minute of the journey to Jerusalem. Oh, that she could be back in Caesarea, lounging in her favorite chair. She hears wailing and sees the hysterical cart owner cradling his dead, bloodied child. Claudia, a believer in omens, recoils at the sight. Clearly it’s a very bad omen to start their time in Jerusalem by killing an innocent child. “Nothing good will come of this,” she mumbles, trying to shut the image out of her head.

  For Jesus, however, the week is off to a rousing start. The people of Jerusalem have heard about him for years, and they now celebrate his triumphal entry into their city. He rides a donkey, which is most unusual for a man who walks everywhere, but it is the traditional way a king would come to visit his subjects if he came in peace. Hu
ndreds of people line his path, throwing palm branches onto the ground to carpet the road. They chant “Hosanna,” which means “save us,” for even more than a spiritual teacher, these people hope that Jesus is the new King of the Jews. They believe he has come to save them from the Romans. “Hosanna,” they chant. “Hosanna, hosanna, hosanna, hosanna.” The roar is deafening, and Jesus acknowledges them all with a smile and a wave. The disciples walk on either side of him, somewhat dazzled by the excitement. This is their payoff for three years of sleeping on the ground and tramping through backwater fishing villages. Tonight they will sleep in a nice bed, eat a hot meal, and wash. The welcome is overwhelming for the disciples. This first big test of Jesus’ popularity since he left Galilee is a success far beyond any expectation.

  “Look at all the people,” marvels Mary Magdalene.

  “I never, in my wildest dreams, thought we would ever see something like this,” John agrees.

  Thomas can’t believe what he’s seeing, and even Peter, that most practical of all men, is dazzled. “This,” he gasps, “is incredible.”

  It is also audacious. Jesus has chosen to make his entry into Jerusalem on the donkey because scripture foretells that the King of the Jews will enter Jerusalem as a humble man riding on a donkey. The symbolism is not lost on the crowd, who know their scripture well.

  “It is written!” they cry in the midst of their hosannas, clapping and chanting and waving palm fronds as a sign of fealty. Their faces are alight with hope as they imagine the day when they will throw off the Roman yoke. This is the One, the man who will bring a new peaceful age, free from poverty and suffering.