When Jesus Wept (34 page)
“
Shalom
, Marcus,” I said.
“Shalom,”
he returned. “Keep a crowd around him at all times. No lonely places. No small groups. Understand?”
“I understand. We’re going first to my home in Bethany. After that … we’ll see.”
My home in Bethany was too small to accommodate all those who wanted to see Jesus. I reminded Mary of the healing of a crippled man in Galilee. His friends took apart the roof slates so the paralyzed man could be lowered into the presence of the Lord.
It was not practical to take off our roof, so we accepted an invitation from Simon the Leper to use his home for the feast. Even Simon’s sprawling estate overflowed with guests. My sister Martha was in her element, bustling about. Simon’s wife graciously moved aside to let Martha take charge, assisted by Jesus’ mother.
Martha ebbed and flowed like the ceaseless tides, ordering tables and chairs to be rearranged. She dashed off to the kitchen to supervise Delilah’s cooking, then sent Samson back to our storage shed for beeswax candles. She ordered Carta, Tavita, Patrick, and Adrianna about as if dispatching reserve troops into battle. She was in constant motion but remained entirely unflurried.
Mary and I kept out of her way. Since Jesus was the guest of honor, we stood beside him, welcoming all the rest.
It occurred to me that we two were good representatives of his ministry.
Jesus had said of himself: “I have come that you might have life and have it abundantly.”
In my case he had restored my physical life. After four days in the tomb I was dead, dead, dead. No one argued about that. Many had seen me dead, seen me entombed, and then seen me not only alive again but healed and restored to perfect life.
With Mary I recognized the other side of Jesus’ touch: healing the soul. Mary’s soul had been blighted, like a vine so diseased that it would never produce good fruit. Normally it would be ripped out of the ground and burned before it infected others.
But just as seemingly lifeless vines in the dead of winter await the touch of the sun, so it was with my sister. The touch of the Son had brought her new life and given it to her abundantly. She had always been beautiful; now she was radiant. She was gracious, kind, compassionate. If she had been self-centered before, all those useless canes had been cut away. Now she was entirely other-centered and most gentle to hurting souls.
I noticed a large stone flask protruding from the pocket of Mary’s apron. When I asked her about it, she waved away the query. She turned to greet another arrival, brought forward by Simon to greet the Lord. The house was packed with souls that had been hurt. Many were crushed by life’s winepress until Jesus turned their injuries into a fragrant vintage of hope restored.
Zadok, the muscular former chief shepherd of Israel who had been present in Bethlehem at Jesus’ birth, was also there. With Zadok were his three adopted sons, Avel, Ha-or Tov, and Emet, who had once been one of the Jerusalem Sparrows.
Zacchaeus the tax collector was there, the much-maligned businessman from Jericho. He was part of the newest vintage from the Lord’s winery since he had only met Jesus two days earlier.
At the Lord’s elbow stood Peniel, beaming at everyone, recording names on a wax tablet and listening attentively to every remembrance. His bright, shining eyes reminded me of one who was missing at this gathering: Centurion Marcus Longinus. The Roman had warned me that he could not seem to be too friendly with Jesus. “If I can serve the Lord and remain a soldier, it’s better if I keep some distance,” he had said. “The Lord knows I love and honor him. He will understand my absence.”
Martha summoned us all to the meal.
As was the custom, the men reclined around a large, horseshoe-shaped table. We lay on our sides on couches, with our heads toward the center and our feet toward the walls. The women and children ate in a separate room, but they moved among us, pouring wine and handing around the serving trays.
I had brought all that remained of an oak-barreled vintage from Faithful Vineyard. As I had noticed on other occasions, some imbibers stopped to savor and sense the nuances of the wine. Others drank, raised their glasses, and called for more. Judas Iscariot was one who acted in that way.
The Lord was very complimentary of my work.
“Thank you, Lord,” I replied. “Coming from you, a master winemaker yourself, that’s high praise.”
Because not all who were at this dinner had witnessed the miracle at the wedding in Cana, those of us who saw it happen recounted the event.
There was some confusion at the meaning of the miracle.
Even those who had absorbed the Lord’s teaching for years were still puzzled. It was not a miracle of healing a cripple or curing the blind or raising the dead. The closest link was to the times when Jesus miraculously fed multitudes from a handful of provisions. Even those comparisons failed to explain the significance of turning water into wine.
I said, “I think it’s far more than just a kindness to keep a family from embarrassment. Part of the importance is because of the words that were spoken. Remember the
b’rakhah
at a wedding? ‘Blessed art Thou, O Lord God, King of the universe, who gives us the fruit of the vine?’ There was a message there, but we didn’t understand it until later. Am I right, Lord?”
Jesus did not reply but motioned for me to continue.
Now that supper was ending the women came to retrieve the platters. Not wanting to interrupt the discussion, they stood around the sides of the room, listening. Mary stood near the Lord’s feet.
Apart from Judas, who whispered to the man on his right, the rest of the room listened as I said, “As a winemaker myself, I’ve thought about how much greater that sign was, even if I didn’t comprehend it at the time. Each winter I prune the dead canes. Each spring I wait to see that a new birth will occur. I water between the rows, to make the roots stretch for the liquid and so grow stronger. I thin the leaves and the bunches so that all the energy of the sun and the vine will concentrate in making the finest fruit.”
Nodding toward Patrick and Samson, I said, “Sometimes I fight pests that would devour the crop. If I succeed in keeping the grapes safe until harvest, they must be gathered at the peak of ripeness … not too green, nor too sweet … and then they must be crushed to release their juice. Think about that! We
tend the vines all year long, defend them, fight for them, so that we can take their fruit and utterly crush the lifeblood out of it! Even then, it is a combination of skill,” I pointed out Patrick and Samson again, “and faith that what emerges from the barrels in another year’s time will be drinkable and not vinegar!”
The audience laughed.
“So here’s what I know about Jesus of Nazareth, winemaker: He is able to take the water that comes from heaven as rain or from the springs as a gift of almighty God and bypass all those steps! He alone is able to go from water to the finest wine that ever was!”
Suddenly I was embarrassed that I had been lecturing, and everyone was hanging on my words.
It was my sister Mary who redirected the attention of the group.
Drawing an alabaster bottle from her pocket she uncorked it and poured the contents over Jesus’ outstretched feet. It was the same gesture she had performed at Simon’s house in the Galil some years before. I had not been there on that occasion, but I knew that after Jesus had saved her life, telling her to “go and sin no more,” she had been transformed. In gratitude she anointed his feet with expensive perfumed lotion.
She did the same again now.
The powerful aroma of costly spikenard filled the chamber, easily overpowering the remaining scents of the dinner. The air was charged with inexpressible sweetness.
Mary allowed her hair to fall across his feet, and I saw her embrace them, scrubbing Jesus’ feet with her reddish locks and mingling her tears with the ointment.
I heard Judas mutter, “Such a waste. Terrible expense!”
When Jesus sat up to thank Mary for her kindness, she
wanted to anoint his head as well, but the remaining spikenard would not come out of the flask. Without hesitation, Mary shattered the vial on the flagstones. Scooping the remaining lotion up with her hands she applied it to Jesus’ hair.
Judas raised his chin and said with utter contempt, “Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? Why has this woman been keeping this back from us? It’s worth a year’s wages!”
Jesus addressed Judas, but he kept his gaze fixed on Mary. When he gestured, she raised her downturned face, and he looked into her eyes. “Leave her alone. It was intended she should save this perfume for the day of my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”
1
I couldn’t keep my thoughts from returning then to my vineyard. The grapes, so carefully tended, had to be crushed before they became wine. Even then the juice had to undergo a transformation before being released from the tomb of the barrels.
What in Jesus’ words put all that in my mind?
What did it all mean, and when would I fully understand?
L
ike the spokes of a celestial wheel, radiant beams jutted up from the far eastern horizon before the coming of the sun. Pink and orange banners streaked the sky. The first day of the week that ushered in Passover began with a coronet of golden light, as if heralding the advent of a king.
Somehow the word had gone out overnight that Jesus of Nazareth had returned to my home in Bethany. When I awoke early on that morning, entire villages of pilgrims were camped all around my property. Orchards and vineyards were planted thick with thousands of travelers. My fields offered a rich harvest of eager souls awaiting the touch of the Master Vinedresser.
The question on everyone’s lips was whether Jesus would enter the city or not. Everyone knew there were threats on his life. He had come this far, returning from exile in Ephraim, but would he challenge the authorities and go to the Temple?
What would the Romans do? If they suspected the least chance of a riot, they might disperse the assembly with clubs.
Jesus did not leave the crowds waiting in suspense for long. Gathering his disciples around him, he summoned me to his side. “Take Peniel with you,” he said. “Go into the village up ahead. There you will find a donkey tied, together with its colt, which has never been ridden. Bring them to me. And if anyone
asks you why you’re untying them, tell them, ‘The Master has need of them.’ “
1
As we approached Bethphage, I saw a curl of smoke drifting up from the chimney of Patrick’s cottage. When we rounded the hillside, Patrick’s vineyard came into view. Derelict the year before, now the black and twisted ancient trunks were bursting with new life. Covered in leafy green canopies, the rows saluted the morning.
Tied to the thickest, oldest trunk of the ancestor vine, like a brace of giant ripe grapes, were a pair of dark, wine-red donkeys. “Happiness and her colt Joyful,” I remarked to Peniel. “I should have known.”
As Peniel and I began to untie the mare and her colt, Patrick emerged from his home. Shielding his eyes against the glare of the morning sun, he demanded, “What are you doing there?”
“Ho, Patrick,” I returned. “The Master has need of them.”
The words Jacob prophesied over his son Judah more than two thousand years earlier struck me like a thunderbolt:
The scepter will not depart from Judah,
nor the ruler’s staff from between his feet,
until he to whom it belongs shall come
and the obedience of the nations shall be his.
He will tether his donkey to a vine,
his colt to the choicest branch;
he will wash his garments in wine,
his robes in the blood of grapes.
2
Jacob’s words were about Jesus! About this very moment! Jesus was the heir of Judah, the king predicted centuries before! The prophetic fulfillment was his; the time was now!
“Lazarus?” Patrick said, puzzled by my reverie.
“Sorry! What?”
“Jesus is going into the city, then?”
I shook my head to clear it. “On his way even now. Peniel and I will meet him on the road.”
“And we will join you,” Patrick returned. “Adrianna and I wouldn’t miss this!”
By the time we led the pair of donkeys halfway back to Bethany, a swirling cyclone of worshipers reached and engulfed us. At the center of the storm was Jesus. With him were my sisters and his disciples and his mother.
Sweeping my cloak from around my shoulders, I flung it across Joyful’s back. Peniel did the same. Peter and Andrew tied these makeshift saddles in place with knots known more to ships and sailors than to beasts of burden, yet they served the purpose.
The crowd began to chant a hymn of ascent:
“Those who trust in the L
ORD
are like Mount Zion,