Take This Cup (35 page)

Thunder boomed and echoed hollowly, rolling around the hills outside.

I thought I fully understood the vessel’s significance. In Abraham’s case, it was a symbol of worship and reverence for the Almighty. With Joseph the Dreamer, the cup represented how God’s plan may permit suffering, but never suffering without purpose. For David, it was an emblem of kingship and divine appointment and recognizing that loyalty and faithfulness might bring danger and sacrifice.

But if nothing was left to be revealed, why had the cup been so tarnished? Why couldn’t I polish it before now? It had possessed no form or comeliness to make it desirable. In its former state it was a very poor gift for anyone, let alone for Messiah.

While still puzzling over the chalice, I returned to our bed of straw and fell asleep . . .

“
Shalom,
Nehemiah.”

“
Shalom,
Joseph. I was expecting you,” I replied to the Dreamer.

“You have been thinking about the cup, yes? Here is a psalm for you: ‘For in the hand of the LORD there is a cup of his wrath . . . and all the wicked of the earth drink it down to its dregs.’ ”
⁵

I shivered. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Cupping my face in his hands, Joseph said, “Have no fear, Nehemiah. Would you like to meet someone?”

“Where are we going this time?”

“We’re already there. See?”

In a tiny room, no larger than the pantry in my home in Amadiya, sat an elderly man with a furrowed brow. His flowing hair and equally long beard were both snow white, like the hart’s hide.
A
prophet, surely,
I thought. At first I did not recognize the repeated scratching noise I heard. By the smoking light of a single oil lamp I saw a pen in the prophet’s hand. He was intently inscribing line after line on a roll of parchment.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Look over his shoulder,” Joseph encouraged. “See if you can read what he’s written there.”

I read, “ ‘Behold, I have taken from your hand the cup of . . . my wrath.’ ”
⁶

“This is Isaiah,” I said. “He writes of the time when God’s judgment against Judah will be complete and the exiles will return to the land.”

“Very good!” Joseph applauded. “The rabbi has taught you well. And answer me this: Why was the nation judged?”

“Because we were stubborn and rebellious and arrogant. Because we did not listen to the prophets who warned us not to worship other gods.”

“Again, well said. And is such a judgment only leveled against nations? What does the Almighty expect of each man?”

“The same?”

“Now, Nehemiah, answer me this: How is the cup of wrath emptied? Can it just be poured out? Or must someone drink it?”

“This is a riddle and not a lesson,” I objected.

Joseph smiled. “A fair objection. Look to see what Isaiah has now written.”

“ ‘He has no form or comeliness . . . that we should desire him.’
⁷
That’s what I said about the cup,” I noted. “But I still don’t understand.”

In response Joseph pointed at the parchment, urging me to bend closer to the scratching pen.

The prophet read aloud what his pen had recorded. “ ‘But he was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities.’ ”
⁸
Laying aside the quill Isaiah raised his face and his hands to the ceiling and groaned aloud. “Ah, but no, Lord,” he said. Then, as if weights pressed on his arms, his shoulders sagged. The pen was inexorably reapplied to the scroll. The writing resumed.

A peal of thunder rattled the shutters of the prophet’s chamber.

I’m sure I wore an expression of horror to match Isaiah’s.
“No wonder Isaiah looks so miserable,” I said. “He is writing this about the Messiah? About our coming king? But how can it be?”

Joseph’s index finger remained outstretched, forcing my eyes back to the inscription.

“ ‘The LORD has laid on Him the iniquity of us all. . . . You make His soul an offering for sin.’ ”
⁹

“Like a drink offering,” Joseph commented.

Isaiah wrote, “Because He poured out His soul unto death . . . He bore the sin of many, and made intercession for the transgressors.”
¹⁰

“Please, no more,” I pleaded. “Messiah is going to die? Why? How can it be?”

Joseph spoke gently to me. “For the cup of God’s wrath to be removed once and for all, it is necessary for someone to drink it. Every last drop. Every consequence of sin and rebellion from our Father Adam to the last man on earth—every debt, yours and mine—must be paid. Either we must drink it, or someone who is both willing and able to drain the cup must do it for us. Do you see?”

Thunder grumbled and muttered outside as it drifted off to the east.

“No,” I protested, “I don’t see and I don’t want to. Please take me home. This is a bad dream. I want to wake up.”

The lip of the cup had pressed a groove into my cheek. The outside of the bowl was damp with my tears.

It was not yet light. The boys of the camp slept in fresh straw. We were sprawled this way and that, like a pile of puppies. Our wooden swords were planted in the soft ground of the stable. The tiny sparrow perched on a hilt, its head beneath its wing.
Avel’s arm lay across my face. Emet’s feet were too close to my head. Ha-or Tov was mostly buried in our bedding. Peniel had long ago climbed into the loft and snored contentedly apart from our disheveled sleeping quarters.

Dawn was only beginning to creep up the eastern rim of the sky when Joseph came to the barn door. My eyes opened at the groaning of hinges.

“Nehemiah!” he called in a loud whisper.

I was already awake but exhausted. Long hours I had wrestled with what Jesus said about being killed and rising again. I did not know what he meant, did not like it, but was afraid to ask him to explain further. In all that I was not alone. Whispered conversations, some angry, some fearful, had circled round the disciples the way the stars pivoted overhead in a single night.

“Here I am,” I replied.

“Get up, Nehemiah,” Joseph urged. “Dress quickly. I’ve had a message. We must set out for Jerusalem at once.”

Slipping out from the blanket atop the straw, I tugged my robe over my tunic. After donning my sandals, I secured the cup around my waist.

Stepping outside, I glanced at the sky. The thunderstorm had passed, leaving chilly, sparkling air in its wake. Clearly visible in the south, the constellation of the Snake Handler prepared to crush the head of the serpent. And the serpent was still poised to strike the hero’s heel.

Beside the entry was a half barrel set in the ground as a watering trough. Plunging my head into the chilly water did little to make me more alert.

“Trouble?” I asked.

“Matters I must attend to,” he replied. “But also, there is something waiting for you in the Holy City.”

“For me?” I said doubtfully, plucking a bit of straw from my hair.

Joseph did not explain but turned to greet Lazarus as he strode across the courtyard.

No one slept well after Jesus made his strange, ominous prophecy. Lazarus bore a pained expression.

“Nehi?” I heard Avel’s voice call from inside the stable.

“Make your good-byes,” Joseph instructed. “We’re leaving right away.”

“You’re leaving?” Ha-or Tov asked.

I shielded my eyes as sunlight beamed over the rooftop. “Master Joseph says something is waiting for me.”

My trio of friends gathered around me.

Peniel joined us.

“It must be something good,” Peniel observed.

We stood in sleepy silence, hugging ourselves awake. We were not trying, yet could not help overhearing the conversation between Joseph and his friend Lazarus.

“I have many sources,” Joseph said. “In both palaces—Herod’s and Lord Caiaphas’s. I even know a few of the servants in the governor’s household. Whatever they are plotting, I’ll find it out. I’ll be able to warn you before you come to Jerusalem.”

“We will come,” Lazarus responded. “You don’t know him as I do. He’ll not draw back. His face is set like flint on Jerusalem. This is why he came. And as for me, I’ll never be afraid of death again.”

Birds in the mulberry tree awakened, and the air resounded with chatter. There was a hint of sage and lavender on a gentle breeze.

Behind us Jesus called out, “
Shalom
, Joseph. Lazarus . . . and my boys.”

I stepped into view so Joseph would know I was ready to leave and also because I wanted to speak to Jesus before we departed.

“Rabbi,” Joseph said, “I have something I want to give you.” Summoning me to his side, Joseph sent me to get the dark blue cloth pouch embroidered with David’s harp and the Lion of Judah.

When I retrieved it from Joseph’s saddlebag and presented it to him, he looked at me with a question in his eyes.

I nodded my approval.

Opening it, Joseph withdrew the specially ordered prayer shawl my mother had made. “I want you to have this,” Joseph said, presenting it to Jesus. “It was woven by Nehemiah’s mother for me. But the boy agrees . . . we want you to have it.”

Jesus accepted the prayer shawl. “In time for morning prayers. Also in time for Passover.” He seemed pleased. Putting it around his shoulders, he embraced Joseph and thanked him. “It is beautiful.” He directed his praise to me. “I am a carpenter by trade, but I know fine workmanship in cloth. Your mother is an artist.”

“She is . . .” I took some comfort that Jesus spoke of her as if she was still among the living. Of course, he could not know everything because I had not given him all the details. Then, I thought, perhaps Jesus did know about the battle and the bandits. After all, he knew that I would be there, bringing Joseph’s cup. “Yes,” I concluded. “My mother is the best weaver in the world, some say.”

Jesus ran his fingers along the hem of the cloth. “Yes. Of course she is.”

“And,” I blurted, “I’m almost done polishing the cup. I worked all night off and on. I’m afraid that, if we are leaving, something might happen to it. Please, sir, I want you to take the
cup.” I stepped forward and tugged the bundle to the front of my waist. “Before anything . . . before you go to Jerusalem.”

Jesus shook his head. “No. You are the cupbearer, are you not?”

Emet shoved my wooden sword into my hand. “And other things. The other Nehemiah slept with a sword, they say.”

Jesus nodded. “So he did. Cupbearer. Builder. Soldier. So I have a special assignment for you. Before Passover I will come to Jerusalem.”

An excitement stirred in me at his words. The King was coming! Maybe he had not meant what he said last night about being tortured and killed. Maybe the one he referred to was not himself?

I asked, “When will you come, Lord?”

“You will know when I approach.” The flock of birds rose from the mulberry tree and flew as one toward the sunrise. Jesus put his hand on my head. “Cupbearer, you will meet me there. Bring the cup to me then as you were instructed. Yes? There is only one right time to give it to me.”

Chapter 30

O
n the way back to the Holy City, I made one attempt to ask my master, Joseph, what could possibly be waiting for me. Rousing himself from a deep reverie, he offered a wry smile. “I’m sorry, Nehemiah. I am thinking about a great many things right now. I will not let Lazarus or Jesus be assassinated when they come to Jerusalem. But right now I have to ponder who I can trust . . . and who I can’t.” Giving a cautionary gesture, he concluded, “You won’t be disappointed. I promise.”

With that, I reined my donkey to a halt until Joseph’s horse was half a dozen paces in advance. Then I resumed following. I made no further attempt to unravel the mystery before the heights of the Temple loomed ahead.

After the storm the sky was fiercely blue, the air severely clean. A pale yellow sun still struggled to warm the landscape, but that day there was no wind competing against it.

We traveled the main highway running north to the Galil. Every half mile or so another converging stream of humanity poured in alongside us. Rivulets of tramping pilgrims coalesced into a river going to David’s City. The Passover pilgrimage was already fully in motion. Those who had come from farthest away were the earliest en route—pious travelers from all corners of the world, seeking the Temple of the Almighty.