Take This Cup (39 page)

A young man spit and taunted a Roman officer at the turning in the street. “Go back to your barracks and lock the door. Now you’re going to see something!”

The soldier raised his short sword and growled, “I’ll show you something, Jew!”

“Kill us, and he’ll raise us up alive again. You can’t fight that!”

The soldier’s lips pressed tightly as he appeared to consider the miracles Jesus had performed over the last three years.

I saw terror in the eyes of our oppressors as we swept past them. We were two hundred thousand strong that day, and the soldiers were only a few thousand. And no matter how many of us or how few of them, I was convinced Jesus by his power
alone
could defeat every enemy!

I felt my wooden sword press against my leg. The inscription declared COURAGE. How brave I felt that day. The swords of mighty conquerors were nothing compared to the power of Jesus and the fierce love of the common folk who roared for him to be their king!

Red raised his fist and, in the fierce, breaking voice of a boy, proclaimed the thoughts of every Jewish man in the mob. “Hey, you Roman swine! If you kill us, Jesus will bring us back to life.
He will feed us and clothe us, and we will fight you again until you’re all killed!”

We were still together when we reached the Temple Mount. Flocks of priests and Pharisees with scowling faces and crossed arms stood back indignantly as the throng swarmed into the courtyard crammed with booths of merchants and moneychangers.

The roaring of the human horde grew suddenly quiet. Instantly the pushing and shoving became still.

“There he is!”

“Look! It’s him! Jesus!”

“He’s talking to the overseer of the merchants!”

“What’s he saying?”

“His face! Look how angry!”

“He’s angry! Look at Jesus!”

I saw at once that something was wrong. A hush of expectance fell over us. Timothy and Red climbed onto the base of a column, then helped me and Jesse and Obed up.

A semicircle of Pharisees confronted Jesus. His disciples glared back at the Temple authorities. The moneychangers who converted secular currency into Temple shekels cursed and shouted at Jesus, “Who do you think you are?”

“What right do you have to tell us . . .”

“This is the way we’ve always done it!”

Those packed around me buzzed, “Those crooks! Jesus must have told them to get honest scales for a change!”

“What’s Jesus saying?”

“What’s going on?”

“Quiet!”

“Everybody shut up!”

“I can’t hear what he’s saying!”

Clinging to the pillar, we boys heard every angry word. And then, suddenly, Jesus picked up a moneychanger’s table. He held it over his head and sent it crashing to the pavement. Coins flew everywhere!

Jesus roared in a voice that resounded in all the Temple courts, “It is written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer,’ but you have made it a ‘den of thieves’!”
³

People cheered as Jesus ripped into the merchants, overturning their tables, opening the cages of the doves, and driving the crooks out.

I laughed and drew my wooden sword. “Courage! Look—he’s wrecking the place. Look what Jesus is doing!”

A cloud of doves rose up. The air was filled with the flutter of their wings. Once again the vision of the birds rising from the mulberry tree came to my mind. The flock was free! Jesus had told me I would know when he was coming!

Well, he had arrived. The smashing and crashing of stalls and benches flying through the air was a certain sign of his zeal. Like a prophet of old, he was cleaning the scum from the pure waters of righteousness!

The mob surged forward, scrambling for loose coins. Startled guards, terrified that this was the beginning of a dreaded riot, retreated with the moneychangers.

“Come on!” Timothy leapt from the column.

Red shouted, “Let’s go, boys . . . come on! Let’s get something!”

I hesitated for a moment, then thought of my mother. I remembered the cup beneath my pillow. “I’ve got to go back, boys . . . to get my mother!”

I did not know if they heard me. They vanished into the crowd. I scanned the crush for a way out. As everyone moved
forward, I jumped into a clear space, clambered onto a portico, and began to run the opposite direction.

Jesus was taking possession of the Temple Mount. I imagined Romans locking the gates and shutting everyone in . . . or out. I had to find a way to bring my mother to Jesus so she could join the multitude of those who would be healed!

I sprinted toward a broad gate that led to the causeway and the ritual baths. Traffic through that gate was thin, and I had a chance to escape.

Behind me the chanting of the people increased:

“Hosanna to the King!”

“Hail Jesus, Messiah!”

“Hosanna to the Son of David!”

When I emerged into the city, the flight of doves circled above my head. I laughed out loud and sprinted for home.

Chapter 32

A
t my back, the voices of thousands acclaimed the arrival of Messiah. The Temple courts resounded like a giant coliseum filled with spectators, and still more pilgrims came.

I ran down the sloping street, pushing through the human tide that flowed inexorably up to enter the gates in hopes of seeing Jesus. Stretcher bearers carried the sick and the lame through the crush.

Panic seized me. What if my mother could not reach Jesus? Suppose I came too late and the way into the Temple was blocked? And what if the crowd gathered around him was too large for us to make it through?

Breathless, I came to the turning leading to the narrow Street of Weavers. The lane ahead was deserted.

“Mama!” I shouted. “Papa! Rabbi Kagba! Come—come quickly!”

Tools lay scattered in front of the new shop where the workers had dropped them. The door of the rented house was wide open.

“Papa, where are you? We must take Mama to the Temple! Jesus—it’s him! He’s here!” I flung myself into the house and stood panting as I scanned the empty room. “Mama!”

I dashed up the stairs, knowing they had gone without me.
Had I passed them in the crowds as I had hurried down to fetch them?

Disappointment turned to hope. What if they were already there? I stood at the top of the stairs for a long moment, then scrambled back to the ground floor and out onto the street.

All was silent except for a single blind boy, about my age, tapping the paving stones with his stick. He groped vacant air. His path was like a jagged crack in a clay cup—going nowhere. “Who’s there?” the blind boy called. “Is someone there?”

I was still and silent, not wanting to be asked for help. I had to get away. Had to get back.

“I know you’re there. I hear your breathing. Please, answer me.”

I replied with an inward groan, “I’m Nehemiah. I’ve come back to find my mother. And my father and the rabbi too. To take them to Jesus, the Messiah, so my mother’s lameness will be healed.”

The boy cried, “Yes, the Healer! Oh, please, please, boy! They’ve all gone. Everyone gone but me. I can’t find my way. They all ran past me, and now I’m lost. Please, take me to him!”

Impatience and panic gripped me. “Where do you live? Where is your family?” I stared up toward the Temple walls. A squad of soldiers tramped by at the head of the street.

“I live with the Sparrows in the cavern. I can’t carry a torch, but they let me stay because my brother is there. They’ve gone, and I am lost. Please, Nehemiah, have pity on a poor, blind beggar. Lead me to Jesus, that I may be healed. Oh! What it will mean to me to see the color of the sky!” He leaned heavily against his stick. His free arm was stretched out as far as he could reach, the hand palm up like a beggar. His feet were pointed in the wrong direction. “If you don’t lead me to Jesus, I’ll never
be healed. I have heard of him all these months. Though I have tried to find him, I always arrive too late. If you don’t help me, guide me, I will be lost in darkness forever!”

I shook myself awake. I wondered if a blind boy could run. “Yes. Yes. Of course, I will. My family has already gone.” I gazed at the boy’s blue marbled eyes. “What is your name?”

“Hallelujah is my name.”

From the Temple Mount I heard the crowds cheering for Jesus: “Hallelujah!”

“It’s a good name! A great name for this day.” Grasping his hand, I placed it on my shoulder. “Come on then, Hallelujah. We’ll be the very last to enter the gates, I’m sure. Everyone is already there. I pray the gates are still open. I bet my mother is with Jesus even now. Even now he is healing the blind and the lame. She is among those who will dance today! And you will be among those who see.”

And so, the blind Hallelujah gripping my shoulder, I turned back, forgetting to bring the chalice. Our progress was slow as every uneven flagstone caught the toe of the blind boy’s sandal. We picked our way carefully up the steep street, coming at last to the broad steps.

He tested the ground with his stick, tapping, tapping as we walked.

I wanted to cry, “Hurry,” but instead made myself speak his name in encouragement again and again:

“Hallelujah! Jesus is in Jerusalem!

“Hallelujah, Jesus will see you. And you will see his face today!

“Hallelujah, don’t be afraid.

“Hallelujah! Jesus will heal you if only you have faith in him.

“Hallelujah! We will not be too late.”

At last we came to the entrance of the Temple. The crowd seemed impenetrable. Ahead of us, as Jesus healed someone, we heard the repeated shouts of “Hallelujah! Blessed is the Son of David!”

A multitude blocked our way in through the gate. “Come on,” I urged. “Hold tight. Hallelujah! We’ll hug the wall and inch our way through the gate.”

Slowly, our faces against the rough stone, we slid past the mob and emerged in the sunlight of the outer court.

Another loud shout of acclamation swept over us, echoing against the walls and pillars. I aimed for a column, thinking I could climb up and have a look. Using the boy’s stick, I pried a path through the pilgrims and came to the base of a pillar at last.

“Here—put your hands on the column. Don’t let go. I’ll climb up and have a look.” His unseeing eyes gazed upward as I clambered onto the base and searched the human sea.

“Hallelujah! There he is!” I cried. Jesus, wearing the prayer shawl my mother had made, sat at the top of the steps of the treasury where the offerings for the poor were given. He was surrounded by perhaps two hundred sick and lame and blind, who all waited their turn to be touched and healed. I spotted my mother in the very front of the supplicants. A circle of hundreds of observers fanned out, filling every space in the court.

Jesus placed his hands over the ears of a deaf-mute girl and, raising his eyes to heaven, proclaimed that her ears be opened and her tongue loosed.

With a cry of joy, the girl began to speak: “Mama! Oh, Mama! I can hear! I can hear!”

The cheers of the people drowned out the girl’s voice. Her mother fell at the feet of Jesus and wept for joy.

“Hallelujah!”

“Praise God!”

“Blessed is our Messiah, who comes in the name of the Lord!”

I spotted the scowling Herodians mingling with sour-faced priests in the back of the porch.

“What happened?” Hallelujah grasped my leg.

I answered, “He is healing people! One after another.”

He pleaded, “I must go to him. Please, find a way!”

But the crowd between the column and Jesus was so dense I could not see any way through.

And then I spotted Red and Timothy and the brothers standing on the base of a column near Jesus. I shouted, “Red!”

I saw him look up as he heard my voice. His head turned as he searched for me.

“Here! On the pillar! Red!”

He saw me, and his face broke into a broad grin. He waved and nudged Timothy, Jesse, and Obed. I saw his lips form the words, “There’s Nehemiah.”

Others turned to glance at me. I waved broadly and cupped my hands around my mouth. “I’ve got Hallelujah!” I called.

We were all participants in a great drama unfolding before our eyes.

“I . . . NEED . . . HELP!” I shouted.

Then I reached down and grasped the fabric of Hallelujah’s ragged tunic. “Come on!” I commanded as, with all my strength, I pulled and hefted him up beside me.

“Hold on!” I positioned his arms, then indicated to Red and the boys the situation. How to get one blind boy through the human sea and near enough for Jesus to touch and heal?

My friends grasped the situation instantly. Timothy pantomimed a boat sailing over the sea.

“Yes!” I agreed.

Red shouted to the crowd, “People, help us! We must pass our friend Hallelujah over your heads. He is blind and must be healed this very day!”

Hands reached out to receive the blind boy. Hallelujah fell into their arms, sailed over the human sea, bobbed like a little ship headed toward the far shore, where Jesus waited to receive him. Jesus stood and waded down among the sick to take him.

My mother sat on the steps at Jesus’ feet. Taking Hallelujah onto his shoulder, Jesus smiled and waved at me. Then he placed his hand on my mother’s head and spoke quietly to her. She grasped the fringe of the prayer shawl that she had made so many months before.

Jesus swung Hallelujah down to the ground beside him, then spoke to my mother once more.

I saw her lips move. “Yes! Yes! Thank you, Lord!”

What had happened? Something was instantly changed. She wiped away tears and tested her lame leg. Then she took one step and another, climbing the stairs with ease.

The crowd roared, “Hallelujah!”

Jesus’ lips were curved in a smile as he pointed toward me.

I saw her look up. She squinted, trying to find me, and nodded slowly. She laughed as she spotted me hanging from the pillar like a monkey.

“Nehemiah!” she cried and then turned to descend the steps without fear. “That’s my boy!” That’s when I knew for certain something miraculous had transpired. Her gait was strong and steady. There was no trace of pain in her expression.

And then, Jesus, Son of David, took the face of the blind Sparrow in his hands. His eyes searched the eyes of the boy, and then he kissed each eye with the tenderness of a father saying good night to his son.