The Kingdom and the Crown

by Gerald N. Lund

  “I—”

  “But if you don’t want to hear any more about Jesus, then you’d better go back into the hills, Deborah, because the whole town is on fire with what has been happening. Don’t talk to Anna, because she has no question in her mind. And if you see Andrew’s wife, you’d better turn away because she was there, and she’ll want to tell you what happened too.”

  She pulled her knees up, hugging herself, trying to shut out his words.

  “Deborah, know this much. You can no longer ignore Jesus. You can’t simply dismiss him because he offended you with his teachings about the Romans.”

  “If I can’t accept his teachings, how can I accept him?” she cried.

  “I’m not trying to convince you. I really mean that. I am just saying that you can no longer pretend he is just another man out trying to gather a following. Talk to Anna. Talk to your daughter, to your son and his wife. Listen to what happened, to what they saw and heard. Then you’ll know why they are convinced that Jesus is not just any man.”

  She said nothing. Her mind was in turmoil. She felt sick at heart. If Simeon came home to this, he and his father would never be reconciled.

  “There’s something else you need to know, Deborah.”

  “Not tonight, David,” she sighed. “Haven’t you told me enough?”

  He went on softly. “Day before yesterday, I was alone with Jesus for a few minutes. So I asked him a question.”

  She thought she knew what that question was. Are you the Messiah? But she was wrong.

  “I asked him if he had been born in Nazareth.”

  Her head turned slowly. A sudden prickling sensation raced through her body.

  “He said no. He said that though both his father and mother were from Nazareth, because of some unusual circumstances he had been born in Bethlehem.”

  She just stared at him, her eyes wide in the dimly lit room.

  “His parents went to Bethlehem during Passover because of the call for the Roman census. Both are of the lineage of David, so they returned to the city of their ancestors.”

  Now he seemed far away from her, lost in his memories of that time. “He said that by the night they reached Bethlehem, Mary’s time had come. Mary is his mother’s name.”

  He stopped again, and Deborah found that she was holding her breath.

  His voice became very quiet and very somber. “They could find no lodging there, so a kindly man made a place for them in a stable.”

  “And that’s where he was born?” she whispered, feeling as though her head was whirling.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell him your story first?” Deborah asked, grasping for something to steady herself. If David had told Jesus of his experience first, then it would be easy to—

  “No. Nor did I tell him afterwards. In recent years, I have spoken to only three people about that night, Deborah—you, Simeon, and now Leah. I haven’t even told Peter.”

  That cut off her next question. If Peter had known, perhaps he had told Jesus. Then she shook her head. Was she so desperate to avoid the truth that she would do anything to sidestep it?

  “I also asked him how long ago that was,” David finished softly. “He said it was thirty years ago this last Passover.”

  II

  For a long time after David’s breathing had steadied and deepened, Deborah lay on the bed, staring up into the darkness. When she was finally sure he was asleep, she slipped carefully off the bed, found her robe, and tiptoed out of their room. She padded noiselessly down the hall, eased through the main door, and went out into the courtyard.

  For almost an hour she sat in the moonlight, staring at nothing, barely moving as she tried to sort through the tumble in her mind. After going back and forth a hundred times, she eventually came to this. She either had to reject David’s experience of thirty years before or decide that he was lying to her now, or she had to accept the possibility that Jesus of Nazareth was what her heart and mind could not believe was true—he was in truth and deed the promised Messiah. That was her choice—simple in one way, terrible in another. How could she in honesty to herself simply dismiss David’s incredible experience in Bethlehem thirty years earlier? She had never doubted him before. Had Jesus somehow learned about the experience shared by the shepherds that night, and was he capitalizing on it to pass himself off as the Messiah? She shook her head. It was possible, but so remote, so unlikely.

  And yet, again and again her eye was drawn to a spot in front of the fountain. The moon was low in the sky, and the fountain was in shadow, but she didn’t need to see with her eyes. The stains on the tiles there were so vividly etched in her mind that she needed no visual reminder of them. What of that? she cried out in her mind. What of seeing her son struck down in front of her eyes. Or what of her father? What of her mother, who died in a cold and dreary cave because her heart had been shattered by the terrible events that had overtaken their family? If Jesus—who spoke of love and forgiveness and going the second mile—truly was the Messiah, what of all that? What of justice? What of evil unrestrained?

  Deborah looked up, staring at the moon and the stars that surrounded it. Then she moved from the bench and dropped to her knees. For a long time she didn’t move; then finally her eyes lifted again to the heavens. “O God,” she whispered. “What is happening? What am I to do?” She drew in a deep breath. “I would be honest with thee. I would do thy will. But I cannot see the path thou wouldst have me walk. Help me to open my heart to the truth. Help me to find the way.”

  She stopped, wondering what more to say. What more was there? Then her head bowed. “Help me find peace. Amen.”

  III

  30 May, a.d. 30

  “Esther, do you want to go to the market with Granmama?”

  Esther was seated on the floor, playing with some strings, forming them into endless patterns. She looked up, her four-year-old eyes gravely considering the invitation. She looked first at her mother, then at Deborah.

  Deborah crouched down beside her granddaughter. “Granmama is going to buy some food for supper, Esther. Why don’t you come with me?”

  It was as though she had spoken to a rock with eyes. There was not the slightest change of expression, not on her face, not in those eyes that were the color of the rich, dark earth.

  Deborah smiled and looked up at Rachel. “How does she do that? How can she not show the slightest reaction? It’s as though I weren’t even here.”

  Rachel shook her head. “I don’t know. She is so funny sometimes.” Then she came over to her daughter and squatted down to face her. “Esther, if you don’t want to go, that’s all right. But Granmama would like to have company. And you could help her carry things.”

  Esther blinked, still quietly taking the measure of them both. “What about Boaz?” she finally said.

  Her mother shook her head. “Boaz is still asleep, Esther. And besides, he’s not a big boy yet. He’s too little to help. But you’re not. Will you go and help your Granmama?”

  “I’ll hold your hand tight,” Deborah said, wondering if that was the cause of her hesitancy. She was always uncomfortable around people she did not know.

  Finally there was a slow nod. “All right.”

  “Wonderful.” Deborah stood up.

  Rachel took Esther’s hand and pulled her up as well. “Go get your sandals. You can’t go out with bare feet.”

  Esther turned and trotted out of the room. Deborah looked at Rachel. “It’s no wonder both her grandfather and I spoil her so much. She is adorable—those large eyes. They make her look like she’s twenty-five.”

  “Well, she loves you, that’s for sure. She won’t even go to the market with Ephraim.”

  “I’ll keep her right with me. We’ll be fine.”

  IV

  “You pick the ones you think are best.”

  Esther looked up at her grandmother to see if she was really serious.

  “Go on. You like rolls. Which do you think we should get?”

/>   Seeing that she really meant it, Esther turned back to the table where the baker had spread out his offerings. Her mouth puckered up in concentration; then she gravely pointed to some small round rolls on top of which the baker had put honey, letting it soak into the light brown crust.

  “Good choice,” Deborah said. She nodded at the baker. “We’ll have ten, please.” She opened the smallest of the cloth bags she carried, and he began to place them inside. When nine were in, Deborah reached quickly for the last one. “We’ll keep this one out,” she said. She paid him, then split the roll in two, handing the top half to Esther.

  “Thank you, Granmama,” she said in a little voice, eyeing the baker to make sure he would not be displeased.

  “You’re welcome, my little almond blossom.”

  She took her free hand, and together they continued, moving from stall to stall in the busy marketplace, munching on the roll as they walked. They bought some sunflower seeds from a young boy; ginger, pepper, and marjoram from the spice man; and some carrots and radishes from a vegetable farmer.

  “Oh, look, Esther,” Deborah said a moment or two later. “The first of the melons are here.” She was pointing to a vendor three spaces down. He had no table, but he had a pyramid-shaped stack of watermelons on the ground in front of him. Behind him, a small cart was filled with more of the same. A woman was arguing loudly with the man over the price. Since it was the very first of the season, Deborah was sure the prices would not be very reasonable. As Deborah and Esther reached them, the woman shook her head and walked away empty-handed, grumbling aloud about greedy people.

  The farmer looked up at the two newcomers and pulled a face. “Some people would rob the food right out of my children’s mouth.”

  Deborah smiled to herself. The street hawkers and the fruit and vegetable vendors were all the same. They haggled fiercely. If you did not immediately pay the asking price—which was always about double the fair value and which they had little expectation of getting—you were accused of stealing food from their children, forcing them to let their aged grandmothers go without a roof, or taking the clothes off the family’s back. It was the way of their people, and their love of bargaining went back as far as Abraham, if not further.

  Deborah looked for any sign showing the price. There was none. Not a good omen. “How much?” she said. Esther, holding tightly to her hand now, had ducked in behind Deborah’s skirts and eyed the man from behind that point of added safety.

  “Half a shekel each.”

  “What?” Deborah cried, pretending shock and dismay.

  “First of the season,” he noted, gesturing with a waving hand. “You won’t find any others in the market on this day.”

  “For half a shekel I could grow my own and support my family in addition. And besides, they are small.” And they were. The melons were round and barely larger than a loaf of bread.

  “Lady Deborah,” he said, his voice as smooth as olive oil, “you have better things to do than to work all day in the blistering sun, raising calluses on your lovely hands, having your fair skin burned red as the flesh of the melon and your fingernails filled with dirt.” He held up his soiled hands to prove his point. “Why then would you begrudge a hardworking man a modest and well-earned living?”

  She laughed. He was good at this. It was all said with a mournful expression and great pathos. The fact that he knew who she was didn’t surprise her at all. David was one of Capernaum’s most prominent citizens. The wife of David therefore had a certain prominence of her own. The only bad thing was that he knew she could afford to pay whatever he asked. That would not work to her favor.

  Deborah looked down at Esther. “This early they won’t have much flavor.”

  Esther nodded gravely, as if she had already come to that same conclusion. The man gave the cry of a wounded bird. “Ah, Lady Deborah. Why do you speak so?” With a movement that was so quick that it startled Esther, he reached under his robe and withdrew a long knife. Esther shrank back, but he wasn’t looking at her at all. He grabbed a melon from the top of the stack, placed it on a board beside him, and split it open with one fluid movement of his hand. He quickly sliced a piece the thickness of his finger and held it out to Esther.

  She retreated deeper into the folds of Deborah’s skirt, peeking out after a moment to eye the man with considerable misgiving. Deborah took the piece from him and nibbled one part of it. It was good, better than she had hoped. She didn’t let that show on her face, of course. She reached down and held it out for Esther. “You try it,” she said. “Tell me what you think.”

  Tentatively, Esther took it from her grandmother and took one bite, then another. Again her expression gave nothing away.

  “What do you think, Esther? Is it good?”

  She gave the briefest of nods.

  “Ha!” the vendor sniffed. “At least one woman in this family has a sense of taste. Come, Madam, I give you a very good deal.”

  “We’ll take four,” Deborah said. She began to reach inside the small leather pouch where she kept her money, then stopped. “For one shekel.”

  “What?” the man cried. “Would you rob a man in broad daylight? Three for one and a half shekels, and that is still the cruelest of thievery.”

  “Actually,” Deborah said slowly, ignoring the jibe, “I don’t really need that many.” She sighed. “In fact, I don’t have that much room in my bag. And they are so heavy.” She looked at Esther. “Perhaps it is better if we get nothing today.”

  Esther shook her head slowly, her eyes showing her disappointment.

  That delighted the man. “When your husband and sons return home tonight,” he said unctuously, “they shall sing your praises for bringing them fruit from the fields of Shaul of Genneseret. I would wager, in fact, that I shall receive a visit from your husband before morning. He shall ask if he can sell my melons throughout the whole of Galilee.”

  She wanted to laugh but held her peace. Here was one grand charlatan. Then finally she began to nod. “Three, then, for one shekel,” Deborah said, “and only because my granddaughter has believed your wild rantings and has taken pity on you.”

  “Done,” the man said with a sudden grin.

  Deborah sighed. She had offered too much, or he would never have agreed so quickly. The man began to reach for a melon. Deborah held up her hand. “Oh, no,” she said. “My granddaughter and I shall pick them.”

  He harrumphed a little but waved his hand, inviting them to proceed.

  Deborah explained to Esther how one could tell which melons were the best by thumping them. The lower the pitch, the better the taste and the juicier the fruit. That was a revelation to Esther, and she joined her grandmother in this new game with the first indication of any emotion. She thumped each one enthusiastically, cocking her head and listening intently. When Deborah indicated that the one Esther picked was probably the best of the lot, for the first time she saw that hint of a smile that was more noticeable in her eyes than on her face. They picked two more, and Deborah paid the man gladly. She had won a minor triumph with her little sober sphinx, and if she had been robbed in the process, it was worth it.

  They set the melons aside beneath the farmer’s cart, promising to return for them in a little while. They were heavy, and Deborah did not want to carry them with her everywhere they went. They walked on happily, Esther finally more talkative. She would answer in simple words or phrases when Deborah asked her questions, but otherwise was content to take in everything with that same grave expression.

  They left the area of fruits, vegetables, and dry goods and started down another street where the butchers and the fishmongers had their tables. They had barely approached that area of the market when Deborah saw a crowd of people ahead, blocking most of the street.

  “What is it, Granmama?” Esther asked, pulling back a little.

  “I don’t know. Just some people. Maybe it’s a fresh catch of fish.” She took her hand more tightly. “Come on. Pampa loves his fish fresh, an
d since Andrew and the others have stopped fishing, we have to buy them like everyone else. Let’s go see.”

  Esther moved in closer to Deborah, who squeezed her hand as they walked, but Esther did not protest. She carried the sack with the bread, while Deborah carried their other purchases in her other hand. As they reached the outskirts of the crowd, Deborah tried to see over their heads to what was there. It wasn’t fresh fish. The people were in a large semicircle around the wall of one of the houses. Deborah knew this area well and knew there was a stone bench there. She could see that someone was seated on it, his back half to her.

  “What is it?” she asked a woman just in front of her.

  She turned. “It’s Jesus of Nazareth.”

  A frown creased Deborah’s brow. So he was here in Capernaum again. She hesitated, tempted to turn away. Deborah was still battling with herself inwardly. She had not found the peace she sought. Part of that was her fault. That she knew. She had not talked to Anna, wife of Simon Peter, or the other women she knew. She had told Leah she wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened to her. Not yet. She still regretted that in a way. The pain and disappointment in her daughter’s eyes had made her almost weep. Gratefully, David seemed to understand. When Ephraim had started to raise the subject of Jesus at supper the first night after her return, it had been David who had stopped him with a look.

  But she had not been able to avoid hearing everything. The whole town was buzzing with news of Jesus. One could hardly go out without hearing a conversation about him—he had done this, he had taught this, he had been here. Mostly it was talk of the miracles. Some of it she dismissed as exaggeration and rumor, but some things she had heard from actual eyewitnesses. She had overheard a woman at the well who had been one of the mourners at the house of Jairus. She had seen that little girl, the woman said. She had seen her laid out on the bed, no life in her. And then she had seen Jesus come out of the house, and moments later Jairus and his wife and daughter followed them. Deborah had left then, without her water, her mind reeling.