“You were inquiring for me?” Jesus asked.
“Yes, I was. I have a question.”
“Say on,” Jesus replied.
“Good Master, what good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life?”
The question startled Miriam. It was simple, and certainly a good question, but . . . Then she realized what had struck her as odd. It was the “good thing.” The man had put the question in the singular. He wanted to know what one single act would earn him life everlasting.
If Jesus had noted the oddity, he said nothing. “Why do you call me good?” he asked kindly. “There is none good but one, and that is God.”
The man squirmed a little at what was clearly a gentle rebuke for his obsequiousness.
Sitting beside Miriam, Simeon’s thoughts were going in a different direction. He was remembering the first time he and his parents had been at the home of Mary and Martha in Bethany. There a lawyer had accosted Jesus with a similar question. That had brought forth the parable of the good Samaritan, and Simeon half expected that Jesus might tell that story again. Good. It would be well to hear how he had expressed it before. But he was wrong. Jesus’ response totally surprised him.
Jesus looked thoughtfully at the young man. Though his eyes never left the other man’s face, Jesus seemed to take in his whole personage in that single look. Then he spoke. “If you would enter into eternal life, keep the commandments.”
The young man seemed disappointed. “Which?” he asked.
Livia was seated next to Leah. “I thought we were expected to keep all of them,” she whispered.
Leah giggled softly. That was an excellent insight. Her mother, hearing the laughter, turned and gave her a warning look.
“Sorry,” Livia mouthed.
“Thou shalt do no murder,” Jesus was saying, quoting from the Ten Commandments. “Thou shalt not commit adultery. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not bear false witness. Honor thy father and thy mother. Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”
The young man threw back his shoulders, clearly disappointed in such a predictable answer. “All these things have I kept from my youth up,” he exclaimed confidently. “What lack I yet?”
“A little humility, I would think,” Leah said out of the side of her mouth. Now it was Livia who had to stifle a laugh. This young man was so arrogant that both women found him irritating.
To Livia’s surprise, Jesus did not. Instead of condemnation or criticism, what Livia saw in the Master’s eyes was more like sorrow and compassion. His face, in the firelight, was infused with love. For a moment, Livia thought he might reach out and put an arm around the young man.
Then in a low voice, Jesus said, “If you would be perfect, go and sell that which you have and give to the poor.”
The reaction was instantaneous. The young man’s jaw sagged, pulling his mouth down. He drew in a long, painful breath, all the time staring at Jesus.
“If you do that,” Jesus said with a sad smile, “you shall have treasure in heaven. Then come and follow me.”
The young man’s face was pale, the only color two spots high on his cheekbones. He searched Jesus’ eyes, as if hoping he might find something there that would let him know Jesus had spoken only in jest, that he didn’t—couldn’t!—really mean what he had just said.
Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the young man, waiting to see what he would say.
Then a second thought struck Miriam with great force. The young man wanted to know what one good thing he could do to inherit eternal life? And Jesus had just told him. He had given him one thing to do. Just one.
For what seemed like a full minute, Jesus and the young man stood there, searching each other’s souls. The richly clad young man opened his mouth, as if he might speak again, but he did not. His hand lifted, and it passed across his eyes before dropping again. After a moment, he turned slowly and, without raising his eyes to look at anyone, walked back the way he had come. In a moment, he disappeared into the darkness.
Not until the sound of his retreating footsteps had completely died away did Jesus turn and let his eyes sweep across the group of upturned faces. The sorrow in him seemed to deepen. He moved over and sat on a stone before the fire. Peter did the same. Again Jesus searched the surrounding faces before he spoke. “Verily I say unto you, how hardly shall they which trust in riches enter into the kingdom of God. I say unto you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.”
Low exclamations of surprise and dismay erupted from the group. Peter jerked around and stared at his leader in astonishment. Could Jesus really mean what he had just said? One had to accumulate some things even to live. That was something everyone did in life. It was, for most, the sole pursuit of mortality. “Who then can be saved, Lord?” he asked.
Jesus looked at his chief apostle, then at his closest brethren. “With men this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”
Peter looked like he had stepped in front of a runaway cart. He examined his hands, hands that had pulled thousands of fish from the sea so that he could sell them in the market and buy food for his family. The income from his fishing had helped him buy the materials and build the comfortable house he and Anna had in Capernaum. He glanced quickly at Andrew, then James and John, his partners in that endeavor. He had so many questions, and yet Jesus had spoken. He had learned, sometimes painfully, not to question what Jesus taught them.
Finally, he turned back to Jesus. “Master, behold, we have forsaken all and followed after thee.” His voice became beseeching, almost pleading. “What shall we have then?”
It was a fair question, Miriam thought. They had forsaken all when Jesus had said to them, “Come, follow me.” For example, tonight was the first time the Twelve had seen their families in almost five months. The apostles sent a little money when they could, but for the most part their wives were coping on their own. The four partners had left a lucrative fishing business. Matthew had been a very well-to-do publican; now he earned nothing.
Jesus smiled, a soft and gentle smile that was once again filled with love. “Truly I say unto you, my brethren who have followed me, in the regeneration, when the Son of man shall sit in the throne of his glory, you also shall sit upon twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel.”
It was an astonishing declaration. These men would become judges of the house of Israel in the life after this! Miriam looked at her husband, seeing if he had heard it the same way she did. He was as speechless as she was.
Jesus lifted his eyes from the men who were seated immediately around him and spoke to the larger group. “Every one of you that has forsaken houses or brethren or sisters—” his eyes fell on Miriam and she felt a thrill of exultation—“or father or mother or wife or children or lands, for my name’s sake, you shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life.”
Jesus sat back and looked into the fire. No one spoke. Their minds were swirling. Why hadn’t the rich young man stayed long enough to hear the promise? He wanted everlasting life; now Jesus had just told them how to get it.
Suddenly Jesus got to his feet. He looked down at Peter. “I am weary,” he said.
Peter scrambled to his feet. The rest of the Twelve quickly did the same. “It has been a long day, Master.”
Jesus said nothing. The sorrow that Miriam had seen on his face when the young man had earlier turned away was back, only even more than before. He seemed weighted down with a tremendous burden.
“Soon we shall go up to Jerusalem,” he said quietly. “Then all things that are written by the prophets concerning the Son of man shall be accomplished.” His head turned, and he stared out into the night. “He shall be delivered unto the Gentiles. He shall be mocked and spitefully entreated and spit upon.” There was a long, painful silence; then, his voice dropping even lower, he finished. “And they shall scourge him and put him to death.”
Amidst the gasps of shock
and the soft exclamation of protests, one face drew Miriam’s gaze. Mary, mother of Jesus, had sat quietly through all of it, as she usually did. She was always content to watch her son, but rarely spoke out lest she interrupt him or draw attention to herself. Now she stared at her son, her mouth twisting in horror.
Jesus turned, looked deeply into her eyes, then moved away, stopping only for a moment to lay a hand on her shoulder. He smiled down at her and squeezed her shoulder. “But he shall rise again the third day,” he said. Then, without another word, Jesus gathered his robes about him, as though suddenly cold, and walked away.
“Master, I—” Peter had one hand up to call him back, but Jesus didn’t stop.
As the shadowy figure receded into the darkness, the Twelve erupted. “Peter,” Andrew said sharply, “we can’t let him go up to Jerusalem. They’re waiting for him.”
“Who is this Son of man he keeps talking about?” someone farther back in the circle asked.
Peter turned for a moment. “It is a title he often uses for himself,” he said gloomily.
“What did he mean about being delivered up to the Gentiles? Did he mean the Romans?” That was from Bartholomew.
“But how can that be?” That sounded like John, but Miriam couldn’t be sure. “He’s the Messiah. We are eyewitnesses to his power. What Roman—which ten thousand Romans—has more power than that?”
Thomas stepped forward, his hand on his sword. “I don’t know what all of this means, but if that is what he wishes, then we shall go up with him.” His lips pursed together. “And if necessary, we shall die with him.”
III
When the group coming down to meet Jesus had left Capernaum, there had been a light rain and a cold wind, so each night they had erected their tents for shelter and warmth. This day had dawned clear, and in the lower elevations of the Jordan Valley, the air quickly warmed. Once they reached the highlands around Jerusalem, it would be cool again, but tonight the air was pleasant, and the family had decided to forgo setting up the tents and to sleep under the stars.
Most of the camp, including the rest of their family, were asleep, but not David and Deborah. “I saw you talking to Mary afterwards,” Deborah finally said in a hushed voice. “How is she? That must have been terrible for her to hear those words tonight.”
“Yes,” David replied. “But it didn’t surprise her.”
That brought Deborah over on her side so she could look at him. “You mean she knows?”
“She’s heard Jesus talk about it before, just as we have, though never quite so directly.”
“Poor Mary. How does she bear it?”
“She told me something I didn’t know before, something that happened when Jesus was born.”
“What?”
“After the shepherds came that night, she said she and Joseph had a lot of time to think about what all of this meant: Gabriel coming to each of them, the star, the angel appearing to the shepherds, and the singing of the heavenly chorus. But then, as life continued, things settled back to a more normal pace. On the eighth day, they took him up to be circumcised, of course. Then . . .” He stopped, trying to remember all of her words. “After the days of her purification were completed, she and Joseph took him to the temple to present him to the Lord, as the law requires for a firstborn son.”
Deborah nodded. She and David had done exactly the same thing with Ephraim.
“They went to the temple and offered their sacrifices as required. As they were finishing, an old man came up to them. They learned later that his name was Simeon. He was of great age, and he had been promised by the Lord that he should not see death before he was allowed to see the Messiah.”
Deborah’s eyes were wide with wonder. “And he came just then? How did he know?”
“Evidently by the Spirit,” David answered. “They had just finished their sacrifices when Simeon stepped forward, holding out his arms. Surprised, but somehow instantly trusting him, Mary handed Jesus to him.”
“And what did he do?”
“He blessed him. Mary can’t remember all of it, but one thing she does remember is that he said, ‘Lord, now you can let your servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation which thou hast prepared, a light to the Gentiles and a glory to thy people Israel.’ It was definitely a prophecy of the Messiah.
“Mary said he handed Jesus back to her and then spoke to her and Joseph. At that point, he said something like this: ‘This child is destined to make many fall and many rise in Israel and to set up a standard which many will attack, for he will expose the secret thoughts of their hearts.’”
David paused, then went on. “Then he said something that she
remembers very clearly, because he spoke directly to her and his voice was so serious that it sent chills through her.”
“What?” Deborah whispered.
“He said, ‘Yea, and a sword shall pierce through thine own soul also.’” He took a deep breath. “She said that for all these years, she hasn’t been sure what that meant. Now she’s afraid she does.”
For a long time they lay there together, their thoughts keeping sleep far away. Deborah wondered if her husband had finally drifted off, but then he stirred.
“David?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about Aaron.”
“Oh?”
“If Jesus . . .” She couldn’t say it. “Suppose something is going to happen, even while we’re in Jerusalem for Passover, then . . .” She shuddered and pulled the blanket up around her to ward it off.
“Go on.”
She decided to say it a different way. “While we are in Jericho tomorrow, I want to try to find someone.”
He turned in surprise. “In Jericho?” He and Simeon and Ephraim had business relationships in the city, but as far as he knew, Deborah didn’t know anyone there.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Hava’s brother’s mother-in-law.”
There was a long silence.
“If something is going to happen to Jesus, we’ve got to convince Aaron to come with us, David. He’s got to be with him, listen to him, see for himself what Jesus is. Before it’s too late.”
David reached out and took her hand. “Of course. We’ll ask around first thing tomorrow.”
IV
Jericho 18 March, a.d. 33
Being the center of three lucrative industries—dates, the aromatic resin made from the dried gum of the balsam trees, and salt from the Dead Sea—Jericho was a prosperous city. Between its own goods and the caravans that passed through it, Jericho moved a lot of valuable products. Thus, from the Roman point of view, there was another primary industry: taxation. Where most cities had only one or two, Jericho had a cadre of six publicani, or publicans, rivaling such major commercial centers as Caesarea, Ptolemais, Antioch, and Damascus.
And the chief of those publicans in Jericho was Zacchaeus.
It was a warm day. Even though spring was just arriving in the highlands on either side of the Jordan Valley, down in Jericho, near the lowest spot on the face of the earth, summer was already flexing its muscles. And even though it was not yet midday, Zacchaeus was already starting to sweat. He was a short, round man, with chubby cheeks and a thin beard. Some joked—never to his face, of course—that if one measured the length of the sash that girded his ample waist, it would nearly equal his height. That was not completely accurate, but neither was it too much of an exaggeration. Therefore, it didn’t take much to get him perspiring.
“Chronicus!”
His chief bookkeeper, a native Greek who had once been a Roman slave, appeared at his doorway. “Yes, sire?”
“Open all the windows and prop open the doors.”
“But, sire—”
“I don’t care about the flies. We’ll live with them. It’s getting hot in here.”
“Yes, sire.” Chronicus backed out. He never won this argument, though he never failed to lodge at least a protest.
The customs house Zacchaeus oversaw was one of three in the city, but it was the largest and busiest of them all. Like Zacchaeus, the other publicans in Jericho were independent contractors hired by the governor. Technically, they did not answer to him, but Pilate, within a year of his appointment as governor, had come to realize that Jericho was a major source of revenue for the province. He also learned that the man named Zacchaeus was primarily responsible for maintaining the smooth flow of funds. He pronounced him to be the “chief publican.” The others didn’t have to work with him—or better, under him—but they quickly learned that not only did Zacchaeus have the procurator’s ear if something went wrong but also that under his management all were prospering.
Except for the owners of the largest of the merchant houses, and the remnants of the royal family that owned the vast date palm plantations, the publicans were Jericho’s richest citizens. And Zacchaeus was the wealthiest of them all.
He felt a slight breeze stir the room and heard the sound of shutters banging. He reached for a small towel he kept hanging beneath his table and mopped at his brow. As Chronicus passed the door, headed for the other end of the building, Zacchaeus called out to him again. “No word yet?”
This time Chronicus didn’t stop. “No, sire.”
Zacchaeus rose and walked to the door. He stepped out into the hall and watched as his servant pushed open the shutters and propped them. “You’re sure he’s coming?”
The Greek shrugged, pretending boredom. In actuality, he also was curious about this man from the Galilee, and he planned to accompany his master when word came. “He crossed the river from Perea late yesterday afternoon and is camped with a group from the Galilee just north of town.”
“And you’ve—”
Chronicus cut in quickly. “Yes, sire. I’ve got three men who will let us know immediately as soon as Jesus comes to town.”
Zacchaeus grunted and went back into the room, half smiling to himself. Chronicus was like that. They had worked together for so many years that it was like the man was an extension of Zacchaeus’s own mind. He typically anticipated what Zacchaeus wanted before he could express it, and sometimes he even finished his sentences for him.
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