by Ray Bentley
Only three days after the shooting on the highway Bette’s forehead displayed a barely noticeable adhesive bandage. She took no notice of it, but Jack scowled whenever he saw it. Jack, Lev, and Bette formed a tight semi-circle off to the side of the group of pastors and their wives Amir addressed. The pilgrims were inside a structure housing the recently excavated Magdala synagogue. They stood in front of the ancient carved block known as the Magdala Stone.
“Now this,” Amir said, “is a reproduction of the artifact actually found on this site in 2009. The original is stored for safe-keeping and for further study by archaeologists. I have seen the original and I can vouch for the accuracy of the carvings.”
While Amir continued lecturing and answering questions from the group, Lev quietly explained to Jack and Bette. “This was made to resemble an altar, but probably was a table or a lectern. You see the arches carved there, and the seven-branched menorah? Experts believe this is an accurate depiction of the Temple in Jerusalem—the way it would be made by someone who had been there in person.”
“Is that why you wanted me to see it?” Jack asked.
“You’re not one who ever doubted the Temple existed,” Lev laughed. “It’s the fate of the next Temple you have questions about. No, I just wanted…wait,” he said, interrupting himself. “Let’s just listen.”
A rail thin member of the group waved to get Amir’s attention. In a voice so hoarse as to be almost inaudible, he croaked, “Jesus? Was…?” The man paused to gulp a breath.
“Reverend Art Stuart. Retired pastor from Phoenix,” Lev whispered. “Heart failure—beyond any medication. He always wanted to come to the Holy Land, so his friends sent him.”
Everyone else in the cluster of listeners got quiet so the gaunt, gray-complexioned figure could be more easily heard. “Was Jesus—here?”
“We cannot say for certain,” Amir replied. “We know this synagogue dates to before 70 AD. Scripture tells us that during Jesus’ ministry in Galilee He taught in all their synagogues, so yes, it’s a fair conclusion.”
His head shaking and his body trembling, the terminally-ill man allowed himself to be assisted to a bench. Jack saw that the elderly minister had used up all his reserves of strength just getting the question out.
Lev stepped away from Bette and Jack and approached Amir. “Why don’t we take a moment and pray for our friend, Art?” he said.
The group closed in around the seated man. Amir and Lev laid their hands on Art’s head while all the others touched his shoulders or held onto his arms. “Lord,” Lev said. “We ask for your healing touch for Art. Here we are, agreeing in prayer as You have said we should. Holy Spirit, please touch Art. Heal him.”
Jack could hardly bear to watch. The old man was shaking from head to toe, and visibly distressed. It seemed wrong to keep him sitting hunched over on a cold, stone bench. He probably needed to lie down, maybe even be taken to the hospital.
“Lord,” Amir continued the prayer, “Your word says You went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the Good News of the Kingdom, and healing every disease and sickness among the people. Here we are, in one of those synagogues, and every means every. We bring you our dear brother, Art, and ask You to do again what You did in this place before. Heal him. Heal him, Lord.”
This was awful. Jack wasn’t sure he could watch anymore. Besides being deathly ill, now Art would be an object of pity, and probably worse off for all the emotion.
There was complete silence for the space of six heartbeats. One of the women in the group gasped and Jack turned.
Art took a deep breath and then exhaled. His shoulders squared, his body grew erect. The trembling in his limbs ceased. He lifted his head and looked around, making eye contact first with Lev, and then with Amir, and then with each of his comrades. Another deep breath and then, “I—feel different,” Art said in a firm, baritone. “Something’s happened. I can breathe. That flutter in my chest—is gone.”
Not possible, Jack thought. Things like this don’t really happen. Not in the twenty-first century.
Even though hands still grasped and patted him on every side, Art stood upright under his own power. To Jack’s utter consternation, the elderly pastor laughed. Laughed! “He healed them all!” Art said. “He healed them all! He’s still healing, praise God! It’s still true today!”
When the beaming pilgrims had their fill of taking pictures beside Art and the Magdala Stone, Amir led them back to the tour bus. On the way they continued laughing and praising and exclaiming, with Art’s voice the loudest of any.
“What just happened here?” Jack directed to Lev.
“Yes,” Bette agreed, wide-eyed. “What was that?”
“I have to say it this way,” Lev explained. “I’m amazed—but not surprised. God still works miracles. Now you’ve seen one with your own eyes. You and Bette.”
“Before that—before what just happened, happened—I asked why you brought me here. You couldn’t have planned this?”
“Not in a million years,” Lev agreed. “No, I brought you here because of the same reason thousands of visitors come to Israel every year. Jesus was really here, Jack. He really taught—here. He really performed miracles—here. And He said He was the Son of God—here. Now. What are you going to do about it? This is bigger than land or politics or even prophecy, Jack,” Lev said seriously. “This is about eternity.”
Back in Jerusalem again after the miracle in Magdala, the air was very still. The morning sun warmed the pale, honey-colored walls. Shadows taller than their owners gestured and pointed, raised cameras or waved.
The broad expanse of steps leading up to the southern wall of the Temple Mount was formed of wide but shallow treads. Jack imagined the design caused the flood of pilgrims arriving for the feasts to make slow, dignified progress upward. The staircase ended in a pair of sealed archways, which were once the portals for worshippers to reach their holy destination.
Closing his eyes, Jack saw it as it was 2,000 years before: a Passover throng, their songs being echoed by those already there.
I rejoice with those who said to me, “Let us go to the house of the Lord.” Our feet are standing in your gates, Jerusalem—pray for the peace of Jerusalem: “May those who love you be secure. May there be peace within your walls…”
Where did that quotation come from? Jack remembered reading the Psalms of Ascent, but he had no recollection of memorizing that one. Was this another vision?
His eyes flicked open, but did not see Jesus climbing the steps surrounded by pious, bearded worshippers in prayer shawls and phylacteries. Instead he witnessed a tight knot of modern believers in jeans and hiking boots gathered around Amir and Lev. Pray for the peace of Jerusalem, he thought.
Amir instructed his charges, “As large as this set of steps appears, it was much greater before the Romans and the devastation of 70 AD. As you can see, there were actually five gates at the head of the stairs, but the stairs below the Triple Gate are in ruins. This was the main entrance to the Temple area for the masses of pilgrims who came on Passover and Pentecost and Tabernacles. Jesus entered here with his parents as a child. He came here when He expelled the moneychangers. Perhaps He walked here during the days before His last Passover meal, just before His Passion.”
Jack saw Art’s lips moving but no sound came out. Had he lost his breath again? Had the healing in Magdala been temporary? But no, the man’s color was ruddy, like a youthful King David, and he clambered up the steps ahead of the others.
“But it’s not Passover I want to focus on just now,” Amir said. “Let’s talk about Pentecost instead. Jews came here to celebrate fifty days after Passover. If Passover recounts the escape from Egypt, then Pentecost recalls the giving of the Law on Mount Sinai. And you remember the riot in the camp while Moses was up on the mountain? Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments, eh? Book of Exodus says 3,000 people died.
“But you’ve heard me say, ‘Everything means something?’ After Resur
rection Sunday—after Jesus freed us all from the bondage of sin on that best of all Passovers, what came next?”
“The Holy Spirit,” Art called out. “The sound of rushing wind and tongues of flame!”
“Just so,” Amir agreed. “If these steps were where the pilgrims were, each hearing in his own language—Parthians, Medes, Egyptians, and Romans and Arabs—then doesn’t it make sense this is where Peter preached?
“ ‘Fellow Jews,’ Peter said, ‘and all you who live in Jerusalem…. these men are not drunk as you suppose. It’s only nine in the morning!’ Just like now.”
The pastors and spouses chuckled appreciatively. Amir said, “No! But they were drunk! They were drunk on the new wine of the Spirit of God!”
Now the vision came.
Jack stood exactly where he was, but a feeling like wind where there was no wind swept him across centuries. Where he heard only English, now he heard a babble of voices: Greek and Aramaic and others he did not recognize. Yet the thundering voice of the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man who was speaking came through clearly to Jack’s ears. “This is what was spoken by the prophet Joel: ‘In the last days, God says, I will pour out my spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions, your old men will dream dreams.’ ”
That’s me! Jack thought. Visions and dreams. And we’re much closer to the Last Days—whatever that means—than when Peter first preached here.
“You’re right,” Eliyahu agreed, standing beside Jack on the third step up from the pavement. “Listen.”
Together they heard the Apostle Peter remind his listeners that King David prophesied about the coming Messiah. Jack heard Peter confidently assert that Jesus of Nazareth was the embodiment of David’s prophecy. That Jesus, though put to death on a cross, was raised to life again.
Peter swept his arms to encompass the group of Jesus’ followers standing alongside him. “And we are all witnesses of it—God has made this Jesus, whom you crucified, both Lord and Messiah.”
Jack heard shouts of “I believe it. What do I do? What?” then recognized it was his own voice mingling with a thousand more who heard Peter’s words.
“Repent and be baptized,” Peter said, “every one of you, in the Name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.”
“Me!” Jack called. “I want that for me.”
Peter and Eliyahu and the world of the first century disappeared.
Bette looked at him curiously while Lev nodded understanding and approval.
“And know this,” Amir said. “When the law came on Pentecost at Sinai, 3,000 died for their sins. When the Pentecost of the Spirit came right here, 3,000 entered new life in the Kingdom of God.”
“Help me, Lev,” Jack said. “You’ve got to help me. I never understood what this was all about. Now I know Jesus is real and He is Lord. What do I do now?”
Just east of the Temple Mount, across the Kidron Valley at the foot of the Mount of Olives, was a small olive grove. The evening breeze sighed through the silver-green leaves and whistled around the gnarled trunks of the venerable, thick-waisted trees. “This space has been known since Jesus’ day as the Garden of Gethsemane—the garden of the oil press,” Amir said to his pilgrims.
“Jesus came here after his last supper with his disciples,” Lev added. “I want to take you back to that night. Remember, the story concludes with, ‘after they sang a hymn, they went out…’ What were they singing—the disciples, still blissfully confused, and Jesus, knowing full well what He was facing? What was it?”
Amir took up the story. “In Jesus’ day, and continuing down to today, at Passover Jews sing Psalms 113 to 118, called the Hallel—like Hallelujah.
“Since the meal was ended, they must have been singing 118. Listen to some of the words.”
Jack closed his eyes, expecting to be transported to another evening in another century. No vision came this time, but from somewhere a chorus sang along as Lev recited, “Out of my distress I called on the Lord; the Lord answered me and set me free. . .”
How had he never known that before? Jesus went straight from singing these very words to praying in the garden for release—but His release did not come until after His torture and death.
“The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone,” Lev continued quoting. “This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes.”
Where were all those other voices coming from, Jack wondered? Everyone in the travel group was quietly listening. No one was singing aloud.
Lev offered, “This is the place where the Lord felt the rejection, not only of the Jewish leaders, but of His sleepy friends; where He suffered the agony of bearing the burden of His mission all alone. Where He prayed, ‘Not my will, but thine be done.’ ”
Jack felt the wind caress his face and a shiver prickled the back of his neck. The vision he saw of the tragic end to the Garden of Eden returned, crashing into his thoughts. A grieving departure from contentment and joy—the path of return barred. Now another garden of suffering provided the way back to paradise reopened.
He shivered again.
Amir said, “The burden Jesus carried—the cup from which He had to drink—could not be taken away, even though He sweat drops of blood with the agony of it. But He went through it all—for us.”
“Some of you are bearing burdens here tonight,” Lev said. “The Lord has shown me someone is weary from that load. You have been asking the Lord to let you put it down, amen?”
A young woman named Ann who came on the tour with her friend, Vicki, timidly raised her hand. “I was raised in a cult. My mom and dad are still caught in it. My heart breaks for them! I can’t be with them and I can’t help them get free. It’s crushing me. I need Jesus to be real for me!”
Vicki put her arms around Ann and hugged her. Two more women stepped up to enclose Ann in an embrace of love and prayer.
Ann wept, then sobbed. “Let it go,” Vicki urged. “It’s not yours to carry anymore. Give it to Jesus.”
It was as if years of pent-up stress and fear came out with each tear; nightmares of hurt and rejection fell away with each gasping cry.
Heaving a great sigh, Ann’s eyes brightened. “Something’s happened,” she said at last. “I haven’t felt this free in—forever!”
To Jack’s surprise, his own hand was aloft. “My wife. . .” he said. “My son—I still miss them so much. . .” Tears overflowed from his eyes and scored furrows on his cheeks. “I’ve been so angry at God. I can’t stop blaming Him. Even though I know it’s killing me, I haven’t been able to set it down.”
Amir on one side and Lev on the other, surrounded him. But it was Art who laid his hand on Jack’s forehead. “A man of sorrows, acquainted with grief,” he quoted about Jesus. “He already knows everything you’re feeling. God’s not shocked that you’re angry and hurting and grieving and bitter. He’s not mad at you or trying to teach you a lesson. But He doesn’t want you to hurt anymore, either. Can you put it down, Jack? Wouldn’t you like to give it to Jesus now, tonight?”
“Yes. I’ve had enough. Enough bitterness. Enough anger. I want it all out of my life. God help me. Jesus, I trust in You. Be real for me.”
Closing his eyes, Jack recognized the triumphant chorus of an invisible choir proclaiming: “I will not die but live, and proclaim what the Lord has done—This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it—Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good. His love endures forever.”
Jack slid open the desk drawer and gazed at the crisp sheets of hotel stationery. The heading was embossed with gold lettering: “The King David.”
On his iPhone, James Taylor sang, “You Are My Only One.”
Striving to make his handwriting legible, Jack crafted two notes to slip into the stones of the Western Wall. The first was to God, and the second was a message to Debbie. His tears dropped onto the paper, blurring the ink.
And as for his message to Debbie, though she was in heaven, she was among the few who could decipher his scrawl. His note to her was also a confession. How he wished he had been better to her. She knew so much more about life than he ever knew. And also she knew about death. And grief. How often had he quoted the lines from As You Like It?
All the world’s a stage
and all the men and women merely players…
they have their entrances and their exits…
Jack did not expect her to make her final exit so early in the play. How could he survive life on his own? If he tried to play his part as a solo act, his heart would break and he would die.
As she lay broken, suffering, and fighting to survive in the ICU, Jack played her the James Taylor song flowing now from his phone.
In conflict with the plea from Taylor’s voice. She left him.
All of it was in Debbie’s letter. He folded the sheets, which contained his heart, down to tiny rectangles. He caught the early morning bus and carried the weight of all his grief to the Western Wall. Donning a kippa and a borrowed prayer shawl, he strode across the stone plaza like a small, broken-hearted boy coming home to tell his daddy he was beat up pretty bad by the school bully.
Jack found a crevice between the ancient stones and placed his deepest longings there. Pressing his cheek against the rough, tear-stained surface, he wept hard on his daddy’s shoulder. He moaned and no one around him seemed to notice. Deep sobs wracked him. “Oh, God! Oh, Deb!”
He couldn’t tell how long he leaned against God. Had he been there an hour? A day? Forever? After a time the trembling ceased. His tears ran out. For the first time he felt peace; an embrace of comfort for what was inconsolable loss, and forgiveness for a thousand failures.