The Weeping Chamber

by Sigmund Brouwer

  As they rested on the steps in the Court of Women, I saw as He pointed over the hundreds of people milling about.

  I was too far away to hear His words, of course. Much later, after all the bad and good that happened, I learned what had caused Him to stop and draw attention to an elderly woman who walked slowly, apart from the crowds.

  Not one, not even His followers, ever spoke to her then or later, so I admit to speculation in trying to describe the courtyard through her eyes.

  **

  The old woman had inexplicably become uncertain of her name. At times, she wept with frustration, trying to recall it. Other times, especially at night with the chill of the street pressing into her cold bones, she listened for the sound of it, certain that somewhere in her life others had spoken it to her.

  As she strained to hear it, fragmented memories of people once important to her flickered through her awareness like ghosts in a dark chamber. When she clutched at their hems to beg for conversation, the ghosts became smoke in her fingers, leaving behind a sadness and sense of loss all the more overwhelming because she had no memories to structure her grief.

  To the people in the temple court who moved around her slow, unsteady progress like water streaming past a worn boulder, her stricken efforts to find her identity were mumbled incantations from a living skull pasted with thin white hair. To them, she was insignificant—bowed, shrunken, trembling flesh wrapped in filthy rags.

  It was Passover. Despite the disease that had eroded her mind, the old woman understood that. The instinct drew her to the Court of Women and the thirteen trumpet-shaped boxes beneath the roofed pillars. Perhaps deep in the mysteries of her mind, a framework set by her years of dwelling with her husband and children and her faithful devotion to Yahweh still served her. Or perhaps, shorn of every worldly distraction, her spirit had emerged in a triumph of sorts, freely seeking its Creator before her life force left her old body, and in doing so providing the woman the only glow of joy she could carry until her last breath left her chest.

  She did not remember her name.

  But she knew the shards of round metal biting into the flesh of her palm had value. Had any of the passersby forced open her hand, they would have torn from her two perutahs, which added together were only a ninety-sixth of a denarius, all that she could expect to earn in a day of labor, and by law, the least any person could contribute to the temple coffers as sacrifice.

  With her head down, she shuffled, confused, toward the treasury boxes, a solitary figure in the vastness of the temple courts.

  The self-righteous, armed with gold and silver, ready to demand God’s presence, passed by her without a glance. The cheerful, thinking not of the tithes they were about to drop but of families and meals waiting as soon as they finished their temple duty, also passed by her. Children passed by. Women lost in thoughts of love passed by. Priests, afraid to defile themselves with any contact with a female, passed her.

  And slowly, unaware of Yeshua’s presence, she passed Him where He rested against a pillar.

  She remained unaware of Him as she dropped the coins into the treasury, unaware as she prayed before the rising incense of her sacrifice, and unaware as she turned to retrace the long painful journey to the streets where she would sleep the night. She was unaware that He turned to His disciples and told them that her gift, which had reached His Father, was far beyond any wealth on earth.

  As she neared the peasant man again, however, something beckoned her spirit. The woman rarely lifted her head—it was a habit she had developed in the days when she’d had enough comprehension to feel her humiliation, when she’d realized it was easier not to see pity or scorn in the eyes of those who noticed her.

  She heard the call to her soul, however, as strong as the light from the sun. His call overcame her years of habit, and she stopped, balancing on her cane as she peered through her milky white eyes almost completely filmed with cataracts.

  She met the man’s gaze.

  Sunshine flooded the dark sad chambers of her memory.

  With her head lifted, she saw not the man named Yeshua. Rather she saw flashes of images—the tall dark handsomeness of the man she’d married, and their girl-child at her breast, and a reflection of herself in a mirror when her flesh was smooth and her smile not vacant.

  Yeshua did not speak to her. She did not speak to Him. She did not know He was a prophet. Or that many followed Him. Or that, as young and strong as He was, He would find death before she did.

  People stepped between them, and she moved on.

  Only now, joy gave her new strength.

  The light that had returned her memories had given her one more thing.

  She remembered her name.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I did not have another chance to approach the prophet until early evening. He had spent the afternoon teaching, again in parables, denouncing the religious orders, and making prophecies.

  Everything about Him fascinated me. I allowed my hope to grow stronger. I stayed on the fringes of those around Him. Invisible. Quiet. Watching. Waiting.

  And, as many of the pilgrims departed from the temple, I saw my opportunity. Some Greeks had asked Yeshua to explain His teachings, and when He finished, I was able to move close.

  He greeted me with a smile. The evening shadows had begun to fall, and the light was soft on His face.

  Because so many people had been pulling at Him all day, I felt I needed to keep my time with Him short. “I am not here for Passover,” I said quickly. “I have left behind my wife and daughter.”

  His beautiful smile did not waver.

  “My daughter suffers,” I continued. “Everything that I have, I would willingly trade for her to be healed.”

  “Understand who I am,” Yeshua replied. He spoke so softly that no one overheard us. “Then return to Me.”

  “Please,” I said. “She is horribly scarred. There was . . .” I debated with myself, then decided my burden did not matter. Only hers.

  “There was a fire,” I said. “Started by a lamp. The oil spilled on her legs, and she was trapped in the flames. She lies in bed, unable to move. She cries constantly from the pain. Please, let me pay for Your journey. Come to my town. Or wait until I bring her to You. Heal her. Every possession I have earned I will give to You and Your cause.”

  If only He could see what I had seen every day. When the sound of laughter of children playing in the street reached her, she bowed her head in defeat. The slowly healing skin—mottled and rough like a toad’s back—had tightened, bending her legs like bows, forming a web behind her knees. Some days, even the light pressure of a blanket on her legs raised shrieks of agony. I doubted my once beautiful daughter would ever draw another breath without pain, and there were days when I wondered if she might be better off in the release of death.

  Surely, if Yeshua saw her, He would have compassion on her. Others turned away from my once beautiful daughter in horror at her agony, but this man, I knew, would reach out to her.

  “You would give all your possessions?” He asked. Again, softly.

  “Yes,” I said without hesitation. I could always earn them back again. What did a few years of poverty matter against the possibility of redemption? Hers. Mine.

  “Thus it would be your doing that heals her?”

  The disciples had begun to move close to us. I could see they were ready to send me away from Him.

  “My doing?” I answered in confusion. “I don’t understand. You have the healing touch. I’ve seen it. Other cripples have walked at Your command. Surely You can restore my daughter’s legs. You can take away the pain that prevents her from sleeping. You can—”

  “Understand who I am before you ask. Understand how you have chosen to ask—and why it is wrong. Then return to Me.”

  He rejoined His disciples. In the growing darkness, I could not read the expression on His face. Was it disappointment? sorrow?

  I recognized that I had been dismissed. Many times I,
too, had dismissed others. I knew it would be futile to chase after Him.

  I watched the prophet from Galilee walk away.

  As my hope disappeared, anger began to fill the hole it left behind.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I am told you spent much of the day following the rebel prophet,” Pascal said without any preliminary small talk.   We sat together in a small private courtyard within his mansion. The day’s heat had passed, and evening shadows darkened the flowers on the shrubs that surrounded us. Except for the matters to be discussed, it would have been a pleasant place to idle the time before our meal with Seraphine.

  “You have spies who watch my every movement?” I said it mildly, but we both knew I was angry.

  “No,” he answered. “But you must admit that your scar makes you an easy figure to notice. I am not unknown among the Sadducees at the temple, and many people know you are my guest. In this city, most gossip of any importance reaches me.”

  “I will not deny my presence in the temple,” I said. “I would not, however, call myself a follower.”

  “What you are is much different—and from my viewpoint, less important—than what people perceive you to be.” Pascal also spoke mildly, but I felt his anger. “I warned you last evening of this danger.”

  I shrugged. My pretended indifference was a mistake.

  He leaned forward, no longer concealing his anger. “You and I have arranged to sit here to discuss the purchase of your holdings. But first you must understand that already some of my customers, the wealthy and elite of Jerusalem, have threatened to cancel orders because of my association with you.”

  “What is more important?” I asked, feeling my blood heat too. “Family and friendship? Or customers?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. We carry the same blood, and we have been friends for years. But when I asked you to stay away from a foolish rebel, you chose Him over me.”

  “I have not chosen Him!”

  “That is irrelevant. To all of Jerusalem it appears that—”

  “Hardly all of Jerusalem. You speak of a handful of stiff-necked, arrogant men who think the world should bow to them.”

  Pascal’s voice tightened. “The world does bow to them. At least the world in which we live. If they think you are a follower, then to them you are a follower. And that hurts me. So my point carries: You have chosen Him over me.”

  He glared at me. “In practical terms, it is also an unintelligent decision. This lone peasant of yours has angered the entire spectrum of established religious and political parties.”

  Pascal gestured wide with both hands. “It’s remarkable, actually. He has done the impossible and managed to unite them. Usually when one group wants something, the other will block it, just for spite. This prophet’s success, however, means it serves everyone’s best interests to see Him dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “All you have to do is listen to how you and I have just argued. He provokes severe reactions.”

  “But dead?” If the miracles were truly miracles, if He was truly the Messiah, surely He had the power to save His own life.

  “Simeon, you have lost your hard edge, your ability to assess any new situation. How can you expect to thrive among the other keen businessmen when you fail to read the political winds?”

  Pascal’s chastisement was accurate and deserved, although I wasn’t going to tell him that I no longer cared to thrive in business. I didn’t defend myself but listened as he continued.

  “It’s simple,” Pascal said. “The Herodians see that as Yeshua assumes more earthly authority, Herod has less chance of gaining control of Judea. As for the Pharisees, He not only insults them publicly, but He also outright contradicts them and has gained such a following that people may actually leave the synagogues. Furthermore, with all this talk about losing the lucrative income from the temple markets, it is clear that He is a threat to more than their religious beliefs.”

  “But killing Him,” I protested. “That’s murder.”

  “All they need to do is get Him before the Sanhedrin. The trial won’t be fair, but that doesn’t matter. The powerful elite want Him dead. And so He will die. You of all people should know that is the way of the world.”

  Pascal softened, opening his arms to welcome me as he had upon my arrival. “Simeon, let us not argue over this man.”

  I let him believe my silence was agreement.

  “I think I understand why you want me to purchase your ships and warehouses and shops,” he said quietly. “And I will if you insist because in the long run, it will make me a considerably richer man. But I am begging you to reconsider and go home. If in six months you still feel the same, return to Jerusalem and we will discuss it seriously.”

  “You mean in six months your friends will have forgotten that I listened to a rebel’s words and your reputation will be intact.” I was bitter.

  “You are unkind. I am concerned about you.” He hesitated, searched his mind for a way to continue, drew a deep breath, pushed on. “If you can forgive me for saying this, as one friend who cares for another, I am afraid grief is pushing you to a rash decision.”

  “Yes,” I said, careful not to reject his sympathy despite my irritation with him. “I do grieve.”

  Again it flashed through my mind. The screams, the flames, the blackened walls falling in, the confusion of the smoke, the searing heat, the agony of my face, my daughter’s burned flesh. Pascal could never understand.

  “Listen to me, cousin,” I said. “Nothing will change my mind. I intend to give you a list of what I believe my estate is worth. I request you pay me only half the value. Once you agree, I will leave you instructions on how to make payment.”

  “Leave me instructions? Are you going somewhere?”

  “I am sorry,” I said. “What I meant to say was that I will give you instructions.”

  He stared at me. I returned his stare.

  I needed to become a better liar.

  **

  The evening meal I shared with Pascal and Seraphine was muted by my low mood. All I had ahead of me was a long, sleepless night, an ordeal whose difficulty would in no way be diminished because of my familiarity with the dark hours of remorse and sorrow.

  In another part of the city, a small drama was about to begin. I later learned of it from the servant girl who stood outside the door and listened to every word.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Oil lamps set every few paces gave uneven light to the long corridor in the palace of the high priest. An elderly man robed in purple walked vigorously behind a maidservant, highly aware and desirous of her youth and freshness. When she reached a door at the end of the corridor, she stopped and bowed.

  The elderly man smiled a snake’s smile above his neatly trimmed beard. He smoothed back thick gray hair, showing off the wide gold bands on his fingers.

  “He awaits you here,” the maid said, hiding her instinctive revulsion behind cold politeness.

  “Go then,” he said, not the least disappointed. For every maid put off by his advanced years, there were two others who saw past his wrinkled skin and understood the warmth and vigor of gold and jewels.

  She stepped away, and he pushed the door open.

  Inside, more oil lamps flickered, illuminating the tile floor covered with luxurious carpet, the furniture made of oiled cedar, and bronze statues brought from Greece. A man stood at the far end of the room looking through a window that offered a magnificent view of the darkened buildings of the lower city.

  The old man shut the door. “Yes, my son, you sent for me?” he asked.

  Caiaphas turned from his thoughts at the window. He frowned at the amused solicitous tone of the elder man’s voice.

  “Don’t posture with me,” Caiaphas said sourly. “This is far from a public gathering where the great and hallowed Annas must preserve the pious sanctimony of a former high priest.”

  “A son-in-law must show more respect,” Annas said. His laughter s
ounded like wind shaking dry husks. “Regardless of the irritations of office.”

  “That is easy for you to say. With respect and wealth and connections, you have all the advantages of holding office and none of the grief.”

  Annas reached for a jug of wine and poured some. He took a long drink before answering. “Why do you think I appointed one son after the other and finally turned to you? It is far better to have been a high priest than to be one. Especially with the current situation at the temple.”

  He took more wine, then smiled his snake smile at Caiaphas. “Which, I presume, is why I am here.”

  Caiaphas began to pace. “Without the temple market, have you any idea how much revenue we have lost in the last two days?”

  “Of course,” Annas said, still amused. He set the wine goblet down. “Years ago I supervised the delicate negotiations for the ‘commissions’ to our family coffers.”

  “If the prophet is not dealt with soon,” Caiaphas hissed, “your delicate structure will never rise again. If the people see that the temple can exist without the market, they’ll never let us begin again.”

  “Well, well. The prophet has destroyed your profit.” Annas chuckled at his play on words. “And you led us to believe that it was for the safety of our country He must die, not because of money.” Annas tapped his chin theatrically as he mused.

  “Ah yes,” he said moments later, “wasn’t it in front of the entire Sanhedrin that you declared it better for one man to die than for a whole nation to perish?”

  “Politics and convenience do not lessen a truth,” Caiaphas answered. “Even Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus remain silent, understanding that the peasant must not be allowed to bring this country to rebellion.”

  “More wine? From the heat in your voice it sounds like you have already indulged—despite the ritual purification necessary for an acting high priest.”

  “You are attempting to provoke me further. I know your nature. You stir with a stick and see what rises. Some day you will uncover a nest of bees, and then I shall laugh at you the way you laugh at me.”