The Master's Quilt (30 page)

When the meetings were finished, both of us
delighted in eating the sweets Mother had prepared for our guests.
Those were some of the best days of my life. I will always cherish
the memories in my heart.

Eventually, however, things started to
change. Gradually at first, and then with increasing fervency,
Father began to receive news of the events unfolding in Judea from
sources I cannot begin to fathom. He would never reveal to me how
he knew what he did. He just said, “There are things better left
unspoken between a father and his daughter. Although the Lord has
forgiven me of my sins, He has left me with a burden in my heart I
cannot ignore.”

I suppose that is what finally drove him to
leave us, and return to Judea, in spite of the great risk to his
own life. Cinncinatus insisted that Father not go alone, and
finally he relented.

I think Mother always knew Father would go
back. After he left, as the days became weeks, and the weeks became
months, she often found solace in prolonged times of prayer and
fasting before our heavenly Father. Sometimes I wouldn’t see her
for days. When she eventually emerged from her room, her face would
be glowing with an extraordinary light. And I knew in those moments
that she had been in the presence of God—in eternity, outside of
time—and that she carried a measure of His Glory back with her.

But I digress from the task my Heavenly
Father has set before me.

I learned well the lessons Mother and Father
taught so long ago. Those who know them both say I have my father’s
heart and my mother’s spirit. I cannot think of a finer accolade,
save one—the most valuable compliment of all that compels me to put
pen to parchment. I fasted and prayed that the Father’s will might
be accomplished and not my own.

Mother died this morning, after a brief
illness. Although I’m deeply grieved, the words she spoke to me
before she went to be with the Lord give me hope. As we Jews are
fond of saying, “I now have an anchor for my soul.”

I’m not sure why I’m writing this—perhaps
because I do not want to forget one jot or tittle of it as I grow
old. No, that’s not entirely true. My real desire is that Flavius
will consent to my bequeathing this letter to our newborn son,
Justus, when he is of age, as a legacy of his true heritage. I pray
that God will soften my husband’s heart and reveal to him the truth
about
His
Son. It’s not that Flavius is an unkind man, far
from it. But he is a scholar, descended of the Hasmoneans and born
to a lineage of priests, and a Pharisee. I am his second wife, and
we have been married seven short years. Even though I know he loves
me, I fear he loves the Law more. It was that deep abiding faith I
saw in him that first drew me to him and, ironically, it is the
newly rediscovered faith within me that may yet draw us apart. I
pray not.

I am taking a great risk speaking of things
which some deem heretical, nevertheless, I feel compelled to write
down what mother shared with me in the early morning hours, just
before the column of dawn. If nothing else, this simple act of
obedience to the voice, God’s voice, my constant companion since I
was a child, makes me feel somehow
restored
.

I cannot, however, confirm the veracity of
what I’m about to pen, for I was not even conceived when the events
took place. But I have heard others, besides mother and father,
talk of the Nazarene and I have seen the indescribable light in
both my parent’s eyes whenever they have spoken His name.

So, my son, if you are reading this, and I am
not alive to explain further, all I ask of you is what your
grandmother, Esther, asked of me—even if you don’t believe, pass it
on to your son or daughter and let them decide for themselves
whether or not they believe it to be true.

I must write quickly, before Flavius returns
from his work at the Great Library, and before my resolve falters.
The historical account I urge you to consider is this:

The heat from the scorching morning sun
pulled the city from its slumberous lethargy, sucking the cool
forgetfulness of night from the belly of Jerusalem. The sky was
cloudless. . .a dispassionate spectator. Its countenance was the
color of a sapphire. The last vestige of the full moon hung low in
the western sky; the nightly brilliance had rapidly given way to a
spectral translucence. There had been no breeze for three days. To
say that the morning was stifling would have been a gross
understatement.

It was the time of the spring equinox. The
barley that had been planted in October and November was being
harvested in the plain of Jericho and in the Jordan valley. Jews
throughout Judea had been diligently preparing during the past
month for the Feast of the Paschal lamb. Bridges and roads had been
repaired for the use of pilgrims, the red heifer was burned as a
sin offering, and holes were bored into the ears of those who
wished to remain in bondage to their masters. Any dead body
discovered in the field was buried where found. To insure that
pilgrims coming to the feast did not contract any uncleanness by
unwittingly touching such graves, the priests ordered that “all
sepulchers should be whitened.”

The first sacred month—the seventh civil
month of the Hebrew calendar was replete with festivals: the fast
for Nadab and Abihu; the fast for Miriam and for the death of
Joshua; and the festival of unleavened bread. But this particular
April was to be very different than any other. The “latter” or
spring rains would arrive sooner than expected and with such force
that when combined with the melting snows of Lebanon would cause
the Jordan channel to fill beyond bursting, inundating the entire
lower plain.

That climatic irregularity was of little
significance however when compared with the events that would
transpire simultaneous with the advent of this, the Passover
celebration.

The noise originating within the walls of
Jerusalem was as stifling as the stillness of the air. From one
particular section a cacophony of voices rose above the hum of the
huge city, like filth overflowing a bursting sewer.

A portable tribunal had been erected on the
Gabbatha
, a tessellated pavement in front of the Herodian
Palace. A throng of angry citizens pummeled the morose Governor of
Judea with abusive rhetoric. Pontius Pilate had failed in his bid
to shuffle his “problem” to Herod Antipas.

The Nazarene some called
Christos
,
stood before him, silent and irreproachable. In an
uncharacteristically poignant moment of compassion, Pilate made a
frantic attempt to sever himself from the blood-guiltiness that
entwined his heart. He magnanimously offered, according to custom,
to free the Jewish prophet, who had been hailed as Messiah just
three short days ago. The maddened crowd had ridiculed his
conciliatory gesture. Caught up in the fevered mindlessness of a
rabid dog, they chose to forgive the murderer Barabbas instead.

The Procurator’s cheeks were now hollow
depressions in a sagging facade of hopefulness. The large, dark
semi-circular stains underneath his sunken eyes were visible even
from a distance. He stared resignedly at the battered man standing
stoically before him.

Jesus had yet to speak.

Pilate, sitting uncomfortably in his
magistrate’s chair, wiped sweat from his brow and marveled at the
endurance of the man. He cast a furtive glance at the
uncompromising morning sun. “It is barely the third hour, he
muttered miserably, and already the day is scorched—and I along
with it.”

Finally Pilate, the Governor of Judea,
realized that he had no choice but to crucify Jesus. He stood up
wearily and turned his back on the madness. As he began to wash his
hands listlessly in the porcelain basin that sat on the inlaid,
marble table he’d imported from Babylon during happier days, his
jaw began to twitch uncontrollably. The human mass of fury,
hovering angrily around the lone figure, surged forward, as if on
cue.

Jesus, although acutely aware of the
multitude’s presence, remained stolid. Gethsemane was now but a
memory. The crisis was passed. Soul and Spirit were united for all
eternity. The cross was a necessity. Reconciliation between God and
man was less than seven hours away, as man reckoned time.

The crowd screamed in unison, the myriad
angry voices crying out for blood: “THE LAW SAYS HE MUST DIE. . .”
“DEATH TO THE BLASPHEMER. . .” “LET HIM BE CRUCIFIED. . .” “HIS
BLOOD BE ON US AND ON OUR CHILDREN. . .”

The clamorous sounds escaping from between
their snarling lips sounded very much like the hungered growling
that came from the packs of wild dogs that roamed Jerusalem
unchecked.

The man from Galilee was barely able to
stand. His skin was like pulp, the bones beneath His disfigured
flesh laid bare by a brutal scourging. The bits and pieces of metal
and glass tied to the end of the Roman whip had viciously scoured
His sun-darkened, olive-colored skin. Thirty-nine times—one shy of
death.

Clumps of hair had been torn from His head
during the beatings and the sweat-stained strands that remained
were knotted together by dried blood. Yet, for all His pain, there
was serenity in His eyes that cried out for recognition.

The rabid crowd never saw the silent,
sagacious plea in Jesus’ serene eyes. Their mouths shouted
caustically for vindication. Their hearts were hardened to
truth.

Large red drops of liquid life trickled from
the man who fed the hungry, healed the sick, made the blind to see,
and raised the dead. His undefiled blood mingled with the stale,
dry earth, foreshadowing the outcome of His unselfish sacrifice.
The rising hum of anger enveloping the seething mass of people
sounded like a hive of highly agitated bees. The air was filled
with the scent of death. No one would speak in favor of the Son of
God.

Pilate’s soldiers took Jesus into the common
hall. There, they stripped Him naked and put a scarlet robe upon
His torn and bleeding back, a reed in His right hand and a crown of
thorns upon His head. They laughed viciously, mocking Him, saying,
“Hail, King of the Jews.” One of them slapped His face. Another
spit on Him.

Time slowed . . .

The crowd lining the
Via Dolorosa
was
a gauntlet of screaming spectators. Jesus stoically carried the
iron-like weight of His own cross towards the outskirts of the
city, staggering under the painful burden of the rough-hewn wood,
until Simon of Cyrene was compelled by an impatient centurion to
intercede.

The procession arrived at Golgotha. . .the
place of the skull. . .the mound of death outside the Holy City. To
the south was a deep, narrow glen. There, in times past, the Jews
offered up their children in sacrifice to Moloch, the fire god.
Now, it served as a receptacle for all sorts of putrefying matter
from the city. Small fires smoldered constantly in the ravine’s
belly, and the heat from the fires combined with the heat from the
blazing sun released foul smelling gases that defiled the otherwise
fresh air around Jerusalem.

A slight breeze began to blow, carrying with
it the nauseous smells from the Valley of Hinnmon:
Gehenna
.
. .
Hades
. . .
Sheol
.

Hell.

The day seemed to buckle under the weight of
the atrocity about to occur, its shudder felt in the wails of those
who knew innocence. Jesus groaned three times as each of the
two-pound iron spikes securing Him to the cross pierced His body.
Miraculously missing bone, they settled with muffled
thuds!
into their wooden cradles.

Several women wailed loudly.

In the distance, just outside the city gate,
a lone Praetorian watched the savage proceedings. Bewildered, he
wondered why tears kept welling up in his eyes like fat drops of
rain, overflowing them, and running down the parched dryness of his
sunburned face. He stared unblinking at the cloudless, brilliant
blue sky, ignoring the ache in his belly.

How long will it be?

Shortly after the sun reached its zenith, the
sky above Jerusalem and Golgotha suddenly turned black and ominous.
It remained that way for three hours. At about the ninth hour of
the day, Jesus cried out from where He hung with a loud voice,
“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani!”

Without warning, a howling wind arose.

The four soldiers guarding the cross looked
at one another fearfully.

From the cross, Jesus spoke for the last
time.
“It is finished . . .”

The dry, dusty earth began to quake
violently, throwing two of the soldiers to the ground. Rain fell
from the blackened, cloudless sky. Propelled by a howling wind, it
pummeled the earth for several minutes, and then stopped as
abruptly as it had started. Suddenly there was a total absence of
sound. All eternity stood still for a heartbeat. The unnatural
silence was unnerving.

One of the Roman Centurions stared at the
cross and said in a hushed voice, “Truly this man was the Son of
God.” Another, the Praetorian, pierced the Nazarene’s side with the
hardened point of his spear. He watched with glazed, weary
blue-grey eyes as blood and water gushed from the wound,
splattering his tunic.

Earth and blood blended together into a
copper-colored mud, staining his sandals.

Later, inside the city, Joseph Caiaphas
gasped and clutched at his chest in pain when he heard the news
that the veil of the Temple had been rent in half. That night he
cried out in agony from the midst of a nightmare, saying,
“Ecce
homo. . .”

Behold the man
.