The Making of the Lamb (4 page)

Joseph nodded, said his good-bye, and left.

Pilate smiled, smoothed his toga, and stood straight. His decision to release the body to Joseph could appear as a simple matter of discharging the law, but Jesus was supposedly a dangerous heretic with followers. Pilate could have delayed matters and manipulated things so Jesus’s body would be thrown anonymously into a common pit for criminals, as Caiaphas would have wished.
Better yet, Caiaphas will surely know that. Best of all, Caiaphas will come to know that I know. Let the place become a shrine. It will serve Caiaphas right. He will think twice before threatening me with a mob again.

One by one, once they realized that the vengeance of Caiaphas and the mob had been spent, most of the Twelve had returned from hiding and gathered at Joseph’s house. Judas was dead, and Thomas was still missing. Peter was the most distraught, still berating himself for denying Jesus three times—just as Jesus had foretold.

Joseph lowered his creaking bones onto a cushion as he once again relived the evening of Jesus’s death in his mind.

Upon returning to the Hill of the Skull, he had found Mary cradling the body of Jesus against her bosom. The soldiers on the execution detail were happy to let Joseph deal with the body, in accordance with Pilate’s command. Fortunately, Joseph’s friend Nicodemus, a secret follower of Jesus, was skilled in the art of burial. Together with Mary and some of the other women, they had carried Jesus’s body to the tomb Joseph had set aside for himself. Working quickly, they had prepared Jesus for burial, barely finishing the job as the sun set, signaling the commencement of the Sabbath and the cessation of all work. A group of Roman soldiers had arrived to guard the tomb; they rolled a boulder over the entrance. The resounding thud as it dropped into place still weighed on Joseph’s heart.

They were all now sitting so quietly. That was a good thing, as Joseph had no desire to talk to anyone. Eager for a distraction, he fiddled with his thorn-wood walking stick. The smooth, spherical handle comfortably fit his palm. A small bronze ferrule protected the bottom. Vine-like swirls in the wood grain evoked the Celtic patterns in the wares he had encountered during his career as a traveling merchant. Joseph liked how the stick bent when he put his weight on it; that flex had always energized his gait.
It feels alive, as if it might take root and grow if I plant it in the ground—but not in these parched Judean hills.

Joseph had been unable to sleep. He ate and drank little.

Finally, on this morning of the third day, he ordered a servant to bring him a cup of wine. He heard a few whisperings among the others as he lifted his cup.
Why should an old man not be allowed the relief of a cup of wine?
Then they all went silent.

He did not care. He was thirsty. He was in a world of his own as he sipped the sweet wine from that old wooden cup. It was the first simple pleasure he had allowed himself.

He began to shake. Throbbing pain wrenched his body.
Is this death? Oh, rapture! Sweet death will bring me with Jesus once again.
But the pain quickly ceased.

Everyone in the room stared at him.

“The spasms are ended. What are you all babbling for?”

James, hands trembling, tipped the fruit from a polished platter and handed it to Joseph. Puzzled, Joseph peered at his own reflection.
What? I have become younger!
His hair was dark brown again, his skin smooth. The ravages of several decades—erased.

John pointed to the cup. “Jesus said that anyone who drank from his cup would live forever.”

Andrew and Matthew grabbed for the cup, fighting over it.

The tumult shocked Joseph from his reverie. “You fools!” He leaped to his feet, his bones and muscles no longer protesting. He snatched the cup back and hurled it to the floor. “Why do you wish to abide in this world of sorrows longer than necessary? Don’t you wish to be with the Lord as soon as you can?”

Peter bent down and picked up the cup. He handed it to Joseph, saying, “The Lord appointed this cup to you, Joseph. Keep it secret, for there is too much power in it. Keep it safe.”

Suddenly, the door of the upper chamber burst open. Mary the Magdalene stood in the doorway, gasping for breath. All attention in the room turned to her. “He’s alive!”

Over the next forty days, the risen Jesus remained with his disciples, preparing them for their task of spreading the Word to distant lands.

One morning, on a hillside near Emmaus, Jesus appeared to Joseph alone. “Uncle, soon I will give my followers their commission. But for you, I have a more specific mission.”

Joseph nodded.

Even before Jesus spoke, he had known he must return to the island of Britain to fulfill a promise on Jesus’s behalf.

It was a promise Jesus had made many years before.

St. Hilary’s Parish, Cornwall, A.D. 1997, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth II of England

D
ad grimaced at Ned’s flip-flops. Ned thought they were quite sensible, but Dad thought them too casual, even for the family’s summer holiday in the peaceful Cornish village.

“Look, Mum,” said Ned. He had crouched for a closer look at a plaque at the base of a headstone. “Dad, I’ve found the strangest thing!”

“Not so loud, Ned, we’re in a churchyard,” said Mum. “People won’t appreciate your disrespect.”

Ned held himself back from saying the first thing that came to mind—that most of the folk in the churchyard were in no state to mind. “But Mum, this old headstone is so odd,” he said instead. “And it’s got a boy on it!”

“Now Ned, what on earth are you fussing about?” said Dad. “And do control your voice. Your mother is right, we’re on consecrated ground.”

As Mum and Dad approached, Ned read the words aloud: “F. T. O’Donoghue, Priest, died March, 18, 1881.” Although more than a century old, the polished plaque was relatively easy to read, in stark contrast to the more timeworn features of the headstone itself. “There’s a priest buried here, under a carving of a boy. Why would a priest have a headstone with a boy on it?”

“Here, Ned, let’s be sensible,” said Ned’s father, with his usual knowing air. “This old thing is only a Celtic cross. Certainly they’ve told you about the Celtic church at that horribly expensive school we’re sending you to. Really, now, it is not a boy at all. It’s Jesus being crucified—simply a very old crucifix.” He turned to Mum. “Where does he get that insensible curiosity? I’m sure it’s not from my side of the family.”

For his part, Ned thought he was being sensible. He might be only thirteen years old, but why shouldn’t he be curious? Such an odd old headstone presented a mystery that wanted solving. “It looks like a boy,” said Ned, “and he seems to be alive and happy. He’s fully dressed, too. Jesus on the cross is always mostly naked.”

“That’s just because it’s so primitive,” said Mum. She always agreed with Dad.

As his parents started to drag him away, an old priest rounded the corner and addressed them warmly. “So, I see you’ve found St. Hilary’s finest treasure.” The cleric’s face was timeworn and wrinkled, but he seemed to be getting around well enough.

“Vicar, how do you do?” said Mum. “We’re so sorry to be such noisy tourists trampling around your peaceful churchyard.”

“Yes, do forgive us,” Dad said, giving the priest a smile and a sensible handshake.

“I am sure the dead love the noise of the living.” The priest winked at Ned. “I’m Father Michael Walters, vicar here at St. Hilary’s. I welcome you to our parish, and I hope you will join us for Mass tomorrow morning at 9:30.”

“Oh, yes, Father, we do adore the simple ordered worship of these country parishes. We would be delighted,” Mum said.

“We are actually somewhat high church in this parish. I hope you don’t mind a few smells and bells, as they say. Though we are still Church of England.”

Following a bit of small talk, they settled into a silence. Ned took the silence as his chance. Looking from the headstone to the old vicar, he posed his question slowly, as if a show of deliberation might ease his parents’ annoyance. “Father Walters, is this a boy on this cross?”

“Oh, hang it all,” muttered Dad.

“Yes, it is our Lord as a young man,” said the vicar. “Right about your age, I would say. Such headstones are found all around this county.” Father Walters paused. Perhaps he had noted Dad’s displeasure. Nonetheless, he continued. “These tunic crosses, as they are called, date from around the tenth century. They remind us of a story many have forgotten.”

Ned glanced his father’s way. “What story?”

“Some people believe that our Lord’s great-uncle, St. Joseph of Arimathea, brought young Jesus to this land. These crosses are considered to be reminders of that visit.”

“But, Vicar, that must be just a fanciful legend,” Dad blustered. “Invented in the Middle Ages by the church, to attract pilgrims and make a little money. Surely you’ll agree, it is important for us to differentiate between established belief and fanciful, as well as insensible, legend.”

The vicar kept his silence, though Ned detected a hint of a smile on the vicar’s visage. Ned wanted to hear more, but he knew when his parents were through with a subject—and the vicar seemed to sense it, too.

Saying something about a bread pudding in the refrigerator at the bed and breakfast, Mum walked away.

Dad followed after, reminding her to douse the pudding with a bit of treacle.

The vicar and Ned were left alone for a moment. “It must have been quite an adventure,” Ned said, “for Jesus to be here in this strange land with his uncle.”

“It might have been life changing—or maybe even life making—for the young Jesus,” said Father Walters. “Scripture tells us nothing about Jesus’s life from the age of twelve to the onset of his ministry. Most people assume he spent those missing years in Nazareth, learning Saint Joseph’s carpentry trade and studying. Your father is right that it would have been an improbable journey to take in those days, but remember that nothing is impossible for God.” The vicar gave Ned a warm smile. “Never be afraid to ask questions, my son.”

“C’mon, Ned,” Dad hailed from the gateway. “We mustn’t bother the kind vicar any longer. So nice to have met you, Father Walters. We look forward to seeing you tomorrow!”

Father Walters walked back into the church.

Ned paused, still examining the stone. He had more questions yet. He knew from school that the Romans did not invade Britain until well after Jesus’s death. If Jesus had traveled to Britain any time during his life, he would have encountered primitive Celts and pagan druids.

Back then, no one would have made such a journey—all the way from the Holy Land to Britain, and back again—just for a holiday. What might have drawn young Jesus so far from his home, to travel among people who would have been so strange to him? And what is going on with this cross? If it was made in the tenth century as the vicar said, why is there a plaque marking it as a headstone for a priest who died in 1881?

Ned turned to rejoin his parents.
Yes, Dad is right. The vicar’s story really is quite insensible.

But that boy in the cross puzzled him. He contemplated the carving again.
The boy has his arms spread, just like Jesus on the Cross, but he does not seem to be suffering. He wants something. He yearns for it. What can it be?
Ned thought about how he and his friends at school often conspired together.
That’s it!
The carving reminded him of how they liked to share secrets.
What secret is this carved Jesus trying to tell me? I can ask the vicar to tell me more tomorrow.