Take This Cup

by Bodie

  She smiled again. “Ah. The student of Rabbi Kagba, among the Magi from beyond the two rivers.”

  “He sent me in his place. Told me to bring your son this final gift from distant kings who knelt to him and recognized him first among all men, except for us shepherds.”

  She took the cup from me and peered into the dark well of it. Her pleasant eyes grew sad, and I thought for a moment she must have seen something terrible and tragic in it.

  Mary whispered, “Your burden is a very old one, Nehemiah. To know something wonderful . . . that what men intend for evil, God intends for good. Yes. A sword to pierce a mother’s heart. To know and yet never to speak of it.”

  “Joseph’s cup. The ancient son of Jacob, who saved all his people after his brothers meant him evil.”

  “Only a few would recognize the glory of this cup.”

  “Unless I clean it, it won’t be worthy.” I showed her my chapped fingers.

  Once again I became just a boy, and she became a woman of practical household knowledge.

  She instructed, “You’ll never get it clean only by scrubbing. The tarnish is too deep.”

  “Then how?”

  “Come with me.”

  First, Mary immersed the cup in a pot of boiling water and left it there. She led me to a stack of baggage that traveled with the camp. Rummaging through wooden boxes, she produced a plain container crusted with white powder. “Natron,” she said. “From the shore of the Dead Sea.”

  I knew it well. Natron was a common substance carried for trade among the caravans that crossed my father’s lands. It was a form of salt, a preservative. First found at the springs of Wadi al Natron in Egypt, the ancients used the mineral to embalm royalty. It was a chief ingredient in the preservation of fresh fish. Mixed with olive oil, it made a fine soap.

  With a long metal spoon, Mary fished out the vessel and wrapped it in a towel. The cup seemed unchanged to me, yet she assured me the boiling water had loosened the grime. Then she measured out a small amount of the pale mineral and mixed it with olive oil and lemon juice. Placing the substance in a wooden bowl, she instructed, “Rub this on when the metal cools a bit. With time and effort the cup will reveal what lies beneath the crust of ages.”

  Jesus, Lazarus, and the other disciples left the caravansary in the afternoon to teach and to heal among the multitude of pilgrims who gathered outside the gates. My new friends, Peniel the scribe, Ha-or Tov, Avel, Emet, and the old shepherd, Zadok, accompanied them. Even the little sparrow, Yediyd, chirped once, ruffled his feathers, then flitted away and swooped over the wall of the inn to pursue them.

  Only the women remained behind to prepare for our Shabbat supper. I wanted to fly away with all my heart. But the morning lessons of Jesus about a servant sticking to his task kept me rooted beside the mulberry tree.

  Mary examined my progress on the cup and frowned. “Perhaps it’s more than tarnish. It seems . . . yes . . . as though it may have been in a fire. Scorched. Smoke.” She presented me with a second batch of cleanser. “You’ll conquer it. You wouldn’t have been given the task if it was impossible.”

  With the second application the black crust began to transfer from the cup to the fleece cloth. I held it up to the light. The faint image of a cluster of grapes and leaves on a vine had begun to emerge. I shared the joy of my progress with Mary. She held the object tenderly, in both hands, as if it were a bird with a broken wing. With a tone of awe she remarked, “Look here. Scorch marks. Yes. You can see the scar. The silver passed through the fire. Tish b’Av . . . It must have been.”

  “Tish b’Av?”

  She traced the outline of the vines as though she had seen them before. “You know of it, Nehemiah. The day the Babylonians destroyed Solomon’s Temple.” She kissed the chalice. “Joseph’s cup had a place of honor in Solomon’s Temple. And then, when Jerusalem burned, the cup and all the other treasures disappeared.”

  I answered, knowing the story well. “Our people were exiled and made slaves. And when the captivity ended, many Jews returned with Nehemiah. But my father’s family never returned to Eretz-Israel.”

  Mary touched my forehead. “Until now, this moment. Until you returned, bringing it with you, Nehemiah, cupbearer to the King. Blessed be God forever.” She pressed it into my hands and returned to her preparation.

  The caravansary was filled with the delicious aromas of cooking food. Fresh bread. Lamb roasting in a deep pit. Everything was ready when Jesus and the company returned.

  But still the cup was not finished as the sun sank lower to the horizon. My friends gushed about the events and miracles of the day.

  Avel grimaced. “There were ten of them. Lepers!”

  Emet pantomimed missing limbs and shuffling gaits.

  Ha-or Tov held his nose and said, “We smelled them coming!”

  Yediyd the sparrow riding his shoulder, Avel exclaimed, “And then . . . all ten! Jesus says to them, ‘Go show yourselves to the priests.’ Ten of them at once. And they left and all were healed as they went! But only one bothered to come back and say thank you.”1

  Peniel inquired of me, “So, how was your day?”

  I replaced the cup in its pouch. “Quiet.”

  The boys were still yammering as they went to wash.

  Mary sought me out and asked to examine the result of my labor.

  “Half done,” I mumbled, trying not to think of all I had missed in that glorious day.

  “Come with me.” She brought me to a clay pot in the stable. “Water and new wine,” she said, removing the lid and dropping the paste-covered cup into the liquid. “This will be our last work until Shabbat ends. Now we rest and let God finish what he began.”

  “If you say so.” I felt like a failure.

  She stooped until her face was inches from mine. “Truly, Nehemiah. It is Shabbat. You have not failed. Only . . . rest and rejoice now. Great things await us as you bring the Cup of Joseph back to Jerusalem, and it is revealed at last.”

  Our Shabbat supper was served in the open courtyard of the inn. Low tables were spread with heaping platters for our feast and crowned with wildflowers gathered from green velvet hills.

  The departing sun, shimmering like molten silver, set the sky on fire as it dropped into the western horizon. Even in my homeland I had never seen such colors in a sundown. Clouds like the orange and red banners of an angelic army unfurled above our heads. I thought of the two angels I was taught accompany every Jew to Sabbath supper.

  Jesus wrapped himself in his prayer shawl and sang “Shalom Aleichem,” welcoming the Sabbath. “Peace upon you, O ministering angels, angels of the Exalted One—from the King who reigns over kings, the Holy One, blessed is he.” His voice was a clear, bright baritone, rivaling that of the finest cantor, and seemed to color the air around us. “May your coming be for peace, O angels of peace, angels of the Exalted One—from the King who reigns over kings, the Holy One, blessed is he.”

  I wondered if Jesus had commanded the beauty of this evening into existence just for the joy of those whom he loved. I had not seen such glory before. Nor have I seen any sunset like it since.

  “Bless me for peace, O angels of peace, angels of the Exalted One—from the King who reigns over kings.”

  We sang the next lines with him. “The Holy One, blessed is he. May your departure be to peace, O angels of peace, angels of the Exalted One, from the King who reigns over kings, the Holy One, blessed is he.”

  The voices of men, women, and children were charged with expectation as we sang, “May your departure be to peace, O angels of peace. He will charge his angels for you, to protect you in all your ways . . . your going and returning, from this time and forever more.”2

  Natural light faded to lavender and bright pink; then Mary lit the candles at the table of her son and his favored disciples. She stood above where he was seated. As she gazed down at him, her eyes contained the same deep sorrow I had seen when she looked into Joseph’s cup for the first time. She briefly patt
ed his shoulder. It was a gesture of pride and encouragement. But there was something else. I heard a whisper in my heart and knew that this was the last ordinary Shabbat mother and son would share together. I think that good woman sensed the end of all things familiar as well.

  Jesus placed his hand over Mary’s finger, raised his face to her, and sang “Lecha Dodi”:

  “Wake up, wake up, for your light has come!

  Rise up and shine; awaken, awaken, utter a song.

  The glory of the Lord is revealed on you.

  Why are you downcast? Why are you disconsolate?

  In you will my peoples afflicted find shelter

  as the city is built upon its hilltop.”

  We all joined in the song as holiness descended and filled the place.

  “O Sanctuary of the King, royal City—

  arise and depart from the unheaval.

  Too long have you dwelt in the valley of weeping.

  He will have compassion upon you.”

  The voices of Jesus and Mary blended in perfect harmony as they must have over a lifetime of Sabbaths.

  “Shake off the dust—arise!

  Don your splendid clothes, my people.

  Through the son of Jesse, the Bethlehemite,

  draw near to my soul, redeem it!”

  Lazarus sat at his right hand, John at his left. Others, including Peter and Zadok, shared the head table. A handful of Pharisees was among the guests, but mostly it was a family gathering.

  Martha and the other Mary, the two sisters of Lazarus, sang the blessing at my table. But I missed my mother. I longed to see my father’s face. I remembered the wonderful discussions of Torah that seasoned every morsel of my family’s Shabbat meals.

  And then stars winked on above our heads. The music and prayers turned to questions.

  A Pharisee seated opposite Peter lifted his hand and asked Jesus, “Rabbi! Rabbi? When will the Kingdom of God come? We all look for it, as the song says.”

  Jesus answered, “The Kingdom of God does not come with observation, nor will they say, ‘Here it is,’ or ‘There it is.’ Because the Kingdom of God is within you.”3

  Everyone understood the question, and I think there was a little disappointment at the answer. Everyone, including me, longed for the moment when the King, the Son of David, would accept the crown of David, son of Jesse. When would he take his rightful place in Jerusalem and establish the kingdom of righteousness on earth forever?

  Jesus did not expand on his answer until the meal was ended and the last song was sung. The strangers and doubters among us drank their last cup of wine, recited their prayers with perfect memorization, and toddled off to bed.

  The embers of the fire burned low, and one by one the candles burned out. The other boys went to sleep in the stable. Though I was tired, I took my place behind the mulberry tree and listened as Jesus spoke to a few disciples who remained.

  “The time is coming when you will long to see one of the days you have spent with the Son of Man, but you will not see it. People will tell you, ‘There he is!’ or, ‘Here he is!’ Do not go running off after them. For the Son of Man in his day will be like the lightning, which flashes and lights up the sky from one end to the other.

  “But first I must suffer many things and be rejected by this generation. Just as it was in the days of Noah, so also it will be in the days of the Son of Man.” He swept his hand over the remains of our feast. “People were eating and drinking, marrying and being given in marriage, up to the day Noah entered the ark. Then the Flood came and destroyed them all.

  “It was the same in the days of Lot. People were eating and drinking, buying and selling, planting and building. But the day Lot left Sodom, fire and sulfur rained down from heaven and destroyed them all.

  “It will be just like this on the day the Son of Man is revealed. On that day no one who is on the housetop, with possessions inside, should go down to get them. Likewise, no one in the field should go back for anything. Remember Lot’s wife! Whoever tries to keep their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life will preserve it. I tell you, on that night two people will be in one bed; one will be taken and the other left. Two women will be grinding grain together; one will be taken and the other left.”

  “Where, Lord?” Peter asked.

  I heard Jesus reply, “Where tzion is, there the eagles will gather together.”4

  I was the son of a shepherd, and I had learned the meaning of Jesus’ parable from experience. Was it not the psalm my mother prayed over me every night of my life?

  “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare . . . He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.”5

  I had always loved the eagles of my high mountain home. Eagles mated for life and tenderly fed, protected, and raised their young together. The behavior of eagles marked the seasons for us shepherds. In the spring, Mama and I had observed as eagles spread their wings over giant nests and protected their vulnerable chicks. In the summer they taught the fledglings to fly by carrying them on their wings. In the autumn, sensing the onset of fierce winter storms, the great eagles gathered and circled in the heavens before they took their young and flew away to a safe haven. Those of us who were shepherds on earth knew the significance of eagles gathering in the heavens. When we saw this sign, it was time to move the flock to safety.

  Some may say that night they heard Jesus use the Hebrew word ah-tzam, which means “body.”

  “Where the body is, the eagles will be gathered.”

  But my ears, long accustomed to the ancient Hebrew pronunciation still used in my mountains, heard him utter the word tzion.

  On that Shabbat night beneath the stars, Jesus told us that, when the time was right, we would recognize the signs, and he would gather his flock from Zion into a refuge where they would be safe from storms that were coming upon the earth.

  These were my thoughts when I finally could not hold my eyes open. Shabbat rest overcame my ability to take in even one more word. I fell asleep with my back against the trunk of the mulberry tree.

  Chapter 29

  All day I sensed the profound holiness of this Sabbath and did not want it to end.

  Outside, the clouds broke briefly. Three stars hung in the sky as the Havdalah service began, separating Sabbath holiness from the six ordinary days of the week. It was the end of the seventh day. I had marked my journey across the vast wilderness by counting Sabbath rests.

  Havdalah means “separation.” That evening we could not have known that Jesus would soon be separate from us. Jesus’ friend, Lazarus, was given the honor of leading us in the ritual.

  Everyone knew that Lazarus, the owner of sacred vineyards, had died and been called back to life by Jesus. Lazarus had experienced separation from this world and knew from experience that after death comes life. He poured Havdalah wine made from grapes of his own vineyard.

  Lazarus lifted the cup to recite the first blessing of the Havdalah. “Baruch atah Adonai. Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine.”

  I answered with the guests, “Amen.”

  Every Jew could recite by heart this blessing. These very words had been spoken by Melchizedek to Abraham.

  Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, and Moses had recited the ancient blessing from the beginning of our nation. King David had blessed the waters of Bethlehem as he offered the cup to the Lord. “Blessed are you, who made all things exist by your word. By whose will all things come to be.”

  On this night, seeing Lazarus and Jesus together, Havdalah took on new meaning.

  Jesus, by his word, had turned water into wine. He had called forth from the grave a man who had been dead four days. I was only a child, yet as I watched, I understood. Lazarus spoke, and I knew that Jesus was the fulfillment of everything proclaimed in the first blessing and those blessings yet to come.

  The second
Havdalah blessing was recited over the fragrant spices. It was Mary, the beautiful sister of Lazarus, who came forward to present the spice box to Jesus.

  Rabbi Kagba had taught me that the spices represent a compensation for mankind’s loss of the Shekinah spirit. My rabbi, along with other wise men from the East, had offered Havdalah spices to the infant King of Israel.

  Shekinah had departed from the Temple, but Jesus was the embodiment of all Shekinah’s glory and peace.

  Jesus thanked Mary for her gift, then opened the spice box. Intense fragrance swirled into the room. He breathed it in, then passed the box, first to his mother.

  Lazarus proclaimed, “Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who creates . . .”

  Jesus’ mother inhaled deeply of the scent. Perhaps the memory of the first box of spices given to her baby boy made her smile. She passed the spice box on to Lazarus. He closed his eyes, breathed in, and nodded. His brow furrowed. I wondered if he recalled the smell of the burial spices that had covered his body when he came out of his tomb?

  The reality of seeing Lazarus alive filled me with awe. I considered, for the first time, that perhaps Jesus would raise my parents from death. I would ask him when I presented him with Joseph’s cup. All things would be made new now that the King was coming to Jerusalem!

  The third blessing was recited over a candle with three wicks. Jesus lit the candle from a few remaining embers. It was unlawful to kindle a fire during Sabbath, so this ritual marked the end of the day of rest.

  I was not mistaken. Lazarus looked directly at Jesus when he proclaimed these words: “Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe, who creates the light.”

  Three wicks, but one flame—impossible to distinguish one from another. The candle was passed from hand to hand, finally coming to me. I was the last to hold the light.

  With a nod, Lazarus signaled me to bring the candle forward to the head table. Lazarus took it from me, and I resumed my seat.

  We raised our cups and sipped the last wine of Sabbath, leaving a few drops in the bottom.