Aaron shook his head, causing his peyot to bounce lightly. “No, we need to return to the city tomorrow.”
“Aaron has been given a seat on the Great Council,” Hava said proudly.
“Really?” Deborah exclaimed.
“Yes, I am the most junior member,” he said, trying hard not to look too pleased. “But it is a full seat and a great honor to me.”
“That’s wonderful, Aaron,” David said. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you take supper with us?” Ruth asked. “We’d love to have you join us.”
Hava’s sister-in-law was a plump woman about ten years younger than Deborah, with a pleasant smile and a gentle disposition. She had welcomed Deborah and David warmly into their home. Joash seemed a little more withdrawn, but he was still cordial. Huldah, who had said little to this point, was a woman in her late sixties or early seventies. Her eyes were clear and bright, and her face seemed to reflect a deep repose.
“Thank you, but no,” Deborah said. “We ate not long ago at the house of Zacchaeus.”
Joash’s eyes darkened. “That’s what we heard.”
Aaron frowned. “You actually went in and ate with him?”
“We did,” David said easily. “As you may have heard, he became a follower of Jesus today.”
“He’s a publican,” Joash spat. “The chief publican here. First of all, I can’t believe your Jesus wouldn’t know that. Second, once he was told, I can’t believe he didn’t change his mind.”
Deborah was about to make a comment about his use of “your Jesus” and what he had chosen to do, but Huldah spoke first. “Joash!”
He turned, surprised. “Yes, Mother?”
“When I was twisted, deformed, and in constant pain, you sorrowed for me, did you not?”
As Deborah watched the older woman’s face, she suddenly realized she might not be as old as Deborah had first supposed. And then Deborah realized that her physical sufferings had probably added greatly to her aged condition.
Joash instantly nodded. “We did,” he said softly. “We sorrowed greatly for you.”
“And when Jesus commanded me to be healed, to be straightened, you rejoiced greatly with me also.”
There was a tremor in her son-in-law’s voice. “We did, Mother Huldah.”
“More than we ever thought possible,” Ruth agreed.
“They why can you not rejoice over Zacchaeus? He has a reputation for being a fair and honest man, even though he is a publican. But even if he had been twisted and deformed and pained spiritually, could you not rejoice that he has been healed? Jesus laid his hands upon me, and I was loosed from the burden I had carried for eighteen years. Is it not possible that Jesus could speak a word to Zacchaeus and loose him from whatever burdens him down?”
Joash said nothing, but Ruth was nodding. Deborah felt her eyes burning. It had come out with such simplicity and yet had struck them all with such power.
“Well?” Huldah demanded, peering at her son-in-law.
“I suppose,” Joash finally admitted.
“Then rejoice in that as well,” the old woman said. She turned and looked at Deborah and David. “If Aaron and Hava can put up with an old woman, I shall come out and see Jesus too. I would be honored to have a chance to thank him again for what he did for me.”
“I will tell him as soon as we return tonight.”
“Thank you.”
Aaron stood abruptly. “I must speak with you and David,” he said. “There is a matter of some urgency. Let’s step outside.”
David and Deborah glanced at each other quickly, then stood as well. They had been there only a few minutes, but clearly Aaron was suggesting that they leave. Had Huldah’s comments made him uncomfortable?
But once they were outside, Deborah didn’t have time to wonder about it any longer. Aaron turned to face her, his face earnest, his eyes grave. “Deborah, before I say what I am going to say, you need to understand something.”
“All right,” she said slowly.
“When I married Hava, her family, including her brother Joash, lived in Garis, a village about five miles east of Sepphoris.” He was speaking to both of them. “Huldah’s husband was still alive then, and they lived in the same village with Ruth and their other children. After we became part of their family, Huldah was wonderful to me, even though I was only a brother-in-law to her daughter.” He looked at Deborah. “She became like the mother you and I lost.”
“She seems like a wonderful woman,” Deborah acknowledged.
“Then her husband died and, a short time after that, Ruth and Joash moved to Jericho. They took Huldah with them. When they wrote to tell us of her growing infirmity, we were much saddened, as you can imagine. But the first time we were here and I saw her, many years ago, it nearly broke my heart. She was suffering so.”
Neither Deborah nor David spoke. Aaron had not asked for a response, and it was clear he was searching for words. Finally, he went on, more slowly and obviously struggling to express himself. “So when we learned that Jesus had healed her, I couldn’t believe it. When she came up to Jerusalem for the Feast of Tabernacles, it was the Huldah I had once known. I wept for joy just to watch her.”
Deborah had to swallow quickly. The emotion on her brother’s face touched her deeply.
“Why does he have to be so maddening?” he suddenly exploded.
“Who?” Deborah exclaimed in dismay.
“Jesus! He performs an incredible miracle, one that blesses the life of an old woman who has endured far more than her share of sorrow. That’s wonderful! But he does it on the Sabbath. He violates the very laws he claims to uphold.”
“Aaron, I—”
He rode over her. “As you remember, I was there that day in Capernaum, in the synagogue, when Jesus healed the man with the withered hand. That was another marvelous demonstration of power. But again, it was on the Sabbath. There are six days in the week. Why can’t he work his miracles on those days? He claims to honor the Law, but he criticizes the Pharisees, the very ones who most carefully guard and protect that Law. He condemns our practices, calling us hypocrites. He treats sinners as if they were righteous and holy saints. He has, this very night, shared the table of a publican.” He spat out the term with complete disgust.
“You heard what Huldah said,” Deborah said, fighting to keep the tartness out of her voice. “Why can you not rejoice in the fact that Zacchaeus had his heart changed today?”
Aaron hooted aloud. “His heart was changed?” he scoffed. “From what I was told, the man was so flabbergasted that Jesus would condescend to speak to one such as him that he blurted out that nonsense about giving half of his goods to the poor and recompensing those he’d wronged. Give him a week, and all of that will be forgotten, I can promise you that.”
“Aaron,” David cut in, “for someone who claims to be a man of faith, you are very cynical about human nature.”
The Pharisee in Aaron flared, and he swung on his brother-in-law. But as quickly as it came, it left again. He waved a hand. “I didn’t come to debate or argue with you, David. Nor you, Deborah.”
“Why did you come?” Deborah asked. “You said it was a matter of some urgency.”
“It is,” he nodded, reaching up to pull at his beard. He paused, again apparently searching for words. “Every time I look at Huldah, I realize that our family owes Jesus a great debt. Whether I agree with him or not, whether he drives me to exasperation every time I see him or not, that doesn’t change.”
“Go on,” Deborah said.
“You have to tell Jesus not to come up to Jerusalem for Passover,” he said.
Deborah’s eyes widened.
“He’s in great danger,” Aaron went on, lowering his voice and looking around. “I run the risk of being banned from the council for telling you all of this, but the Sanhedrin is determined to arrest Jesus and try him. They are in an uproar. Even Azariah says he’s never seen them so determined.”
> “What do they plan to do?” That was from David, who was very grave.
“I’m not sure,” Aaron answered. He shook his head. “I’m not sure they are sure. But Caiaphas and Mordechai and the other Sadducees are livid. They’re afraid that if there is another demonstration like the one on the Temple Mount during Sukkot, the Romans will move in again. And this time it won’t just be against the Galileans.”
“This is insane,” David said. “Jesus is not fomenting rebellion. Just the opposite is true.”
“Like I said, David, I didn’t come to debate this with you. I’m not saying what is right or wrong. I am just telling you what is. Hava and I owe Jesus that much.”
Deborah reached out and touched her brother’s arm. “Aaron, will you come and listen to Jesus? Stay with us when we get to Jerusalem. Watch him for yourself.” As Aaron started squirming, she knew she had lost. “Just find out for yourself,” she pleaded. When he didn’t answer, she said, “We will tell Jesus what you have told us. Thank you, Aaron.”
“It probably won’t make any difference,” David said.
Aaron swung on him. “Well, tell him!” he cried. “Tell him what I said. This isn’t just talk, David. If he comes to Jerusalem, they’re going to kill him. Not try to kill him. They will kill him! Make him understand that.”
Deborah felt a great sense of desolation. “I think he already does.”
Aaron looked furtively around once more. “This is all I can do,” he said mournfully. “We owe him that much.” With that he went back in the house, leaving them to look at each other in wonder and concern.
III
North of Jericho 18–19 March, a.d. 33
By the time they reached the house of Zacchaeus, Jesus and the others were gone. Deborah and David hurried on, arriving in the camp and seeking out Peter immediately. They reported what Aaron had said and asked what they could do. Peter said he would share the report with Jesus, but it was obvious he was not very hopeful it would make a difference.
The next morning, shortly after arising, Peter came to where they were camped with the family. Deborah was up in an instant. “What did he say?” she asked.
Peter looked very tired. “He said he would like you to convey to your brother his appreciation for his concern and the risk he took in sending word to us.”
“That’s all?” Livia cried. “Is he going to change his mind about going up for Passover?”
Peter shook his head slowly. “I doubt it.” Then he brightened a little. “But he is talking about staying on in Jericho for a time. There is much work to be done here, and Jesus has said nothing more about going up to Jerusalem.”
David wasn’t quite so optimistic. “Passover is still two weeks away. And we’re just a day away from Jerusalem.”
“I know,” he sighed. “But at least every day we’re here is a day he’s not there.”
With that he again expressed his thanks and returned to his own camp.
About half an hour later, as the camp was starting their cooking fires, a cart rolled into camp; it was pulled by two bullocks and driven by a man and his son. Two other sons followed behind—one led four goats on a tether, and the other drove three yearling sheep before him. It was a gift for Jesus from the house of Zacchaeus, the man explained.
It was amazing. The goats would provide milk, butter, and cheese for as long as they stayed in Jericho. The sheep would provide fresh meat. In the cart was enough food to meet the camp’s needs for the next several days. There were more than two dozen large round loaves of bread, several bricks of cheese, crate after crate of the latest crop of dates, dried figs, and jars of honey. Eight live chickens squawked from pens. Two boxes filled with straw protected several dozen eggs. There were boxes of dried apples and a cask of olives. Half a dozen smaller sacks contained various spices: salt, cummin, anise, cassia or cinnamon, dried berries from the bay tree, and coriander seeds. In the front of the cart were two large jars of wine and a smaller jar of fresh olive oil. And just in case something had been forgotten—an unlikely possibility—there was a small pouch filled with gold coins.
The camp watched in amazement as the man and his sons unloaded the cart and then left the way they had come. The travelers had planned to have a breakfast of hard bread, olives, and water from the nearby spring, but now they were going to have a veritable feast. The gifts put the entire camp in a festive mood. This only lifted higher when Jesus announced that they would be staying at least two more days. That meant no folding up of tents, no packing of bedding, no spending a hot, dusty day on the move again.
Immediately several men set about digging a small pit. It would be filled with hot coals and a spit erected over it. The population of sheep in the camp dropped from three to two within an hour after the man and his sons left. Two hours later, the skinned and washed carcass was turning slowly over the coals. By sundown it would be dripping juices and filling the air with the most delicious of aromas. It would be their first fresh meat since leaving Capernaum.
It was decided that even though Jesus would go into Jericho with the Twelve, most of the group would stay behind. The food needed to be distributed and cared for. And, if they were staying in the same camp for a couple of days, there were things that needed to be tended to, things that couldn’t be done while they were on the move: fixing harnessing, mending blankets, doing laundry at the Springs of Elisha.
As Peter, Thomas, Bartholomew, and Andrew were putting a few things in the bags they carried slung over their shoulders, a rider on horseback appeared, and for a time it looked as if all of their plans might change.
The man pulled his horse to a halt in a spray of dust and pebbles and flung himself down. “Master,” he cried, running directly up to Jesus. Jesus had been speaking quietly to Zebedee, his wife, and their two sons, James and John. He immediately got to his feet and turned to face the man.
“You are Micah of Bethany, neighbor to Martha, Mary, and their brother, Lazarus.”
“Aye, Lord,” the man said between breaths, grateful that he had been recognized. “I bring a message from them.”
“You came here from Bethany alone?” Andrew asked, moving to stand beside Jesus.
The man nodded.
There were murmurs at that. The road from Jerusalem to Jericho—Bethany was just on the eastern outskirts of the larger city—was only about sixteen or seventeen Roman miles, but it was one of the most dangerous roads in all of the province. Dropping steeply from the heights of Jerusalem to the shores of the Dead Sea, the road was narrow and dangerous. It wound its way through narrow canyons, skirting precipitous cliffs. It was also infamous for another kind of danger. It was infested with thieves and robbers, and anyone traveling in groups of less than ten risked being set upon. This very stretch of highway had been the setting for the parable of the good Samaritan that Jesus had given some time before.
“The matter is urgent, Master,” Micah said. “Lazarus, whom you love, is very ill.”
Jesus straightened slowly.
“Yea, Lord. Both Martha and Mary are very concerned. Their brother has a raging fever, and it has left him completely without strength. He has been confined to his bed for several days. He grows weaker with every hour.”
He paused, but Jesus said nothing. He was looking away to the southwest, in the direction of Jerusalem. There was a distant look in his eyes.
“Word had come to us that you were in Jericho. Martha asks if you will come as quickly as possible.”
“Thank you, Micah,” Jesus said. “Return to our dear friends and tell them all will be well. I shall come.”
The man’s head bobbed, and he started to turn toward his horse again. Jesus stepped to where Peter and the others had been working and picked up one of the sacks of food they were preparing. “Take this, and ride with care.”
“Thank you, Master. They will be greatly relieved.”
He hung the sack over the saddle horn, then swung up. In a moment he was gone, leaving only a thin trail of dust behind him.
No one moved. Every eye was on Jesus. What would they do with the sheep now roasting over the fire? What about the women who had already left for the springs with their clothing to wash?
To everyone’s surprise, however, Jesus did not begin giving orders. Nor did he turn to the Twelve to give them direction. He sat back down again, perfectly calm, and motioned for Peter and the other three to finish what they had been doing. “We shouldn’t need a lot,” he called out to his chief apostle. “We shall return in time to eat supper here.”
Peter came slowly forward. “But Lord . . . ?”
Jesus looked up at the burly fisherman who stood before him.
“Are we not leaving to go to Lazarus’s side?”
Jesus shook his head. “This sickness is not unto death.”
Peter’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
Jesus shook his head again. “It is for the glory of God, that the Son of God might be glorified.”
Peter just stood there, not sure what that meant. He glanced quickly at Andrew, who gave him a puzzled shrug. Then he asked, “So you do not wish to leave for Bethany immediately?”
Jesus cocked his head and gazed at him steadily for a long moment. Peter immediately grew flustered and started to back away. “Yes, Master, I understand. The food for today is almost ready.” He swung around to the others. “That’s enough,” he called. “The Master is ready to go into Jericho.”
IV
21 March, a.d. 33
Miriam was really quite surprised that nothing more was said of Lazarus—not that day, nor the next. On the morning of the third day, there was still no talk of the sick man. Miriam knew full well how much Jesus loved this family. Almost always when he went to Jerusalem, he would stay at the home of Martha and her younger sister and brother.
If Miriam had been Micah, the neighbor sent to let Jesus know of the crisis, she would have gone back to Martha and told her that Jesus was on his way to Bethany that very day. That was what Jesus seemed to have told him. Yet here it was two full days later, and Jesus acted like he had forgotten all about the visit and his promise. She knew that wasn’t the case. Jesus didn’t forget things. Perhaps he knew, through his keen sense of discernment, that Lazarus had recovered. At that thought, she felt herself relax somewhat. That was the most logical explanation for his lack of haste. Jesus had said the sickness was not unto death. If Lazarus was better, there was no need for haste.
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