When Jesus Wept (12 page)

Curious to know what he was saying, I was drawn toward him. Suddenly there was a commotion at the gate. Temple guards and Pharisees dragged Mary forward. She was weeping and clothed in her nightdress. I did not need to ask why she was being brought to this place of judgment. There was a blush of shame upon her cheeks and her bare shoulders. Her feet were bare and bloody, her hair unbound. They threw her to the pavement at the feet of Jesus.

The rabbi leapt up and, in a posture of protection, stood between her and the men who shamed her and plotted her execution.

With great effort she raised herself to her knees and crouched there. Her hair hung down, almost obscuring her face, but I saw her shoulders heave with sobs.

I felt as though I would choke. My heart ached for the sister I had loved … whom I still loved. In that terrible moment, I remembered Mary as a child. Pretty. Sweet and innocent. Now here she was before a cadre of men with stones in their fists.

Yet I made no move to protect her.

A priest challenged Jesus, “
Rebbe!
This woman was caught in the very act of adultery!”

The crowd gasped. Jesus looked at Mary with compassion. He did not move from his place, physically shielding her from the stones in upraised fists.

A second priest continued, “In our Torah, it is commanded that such a notorious woman be stoned to death so that we will put evil out of the house of Israel. What do you say about it?”

I knew this trap was meant to discredit Jesus. The life or death of my sister was of no concern to the twelve priests who formed a circle around her and Jesus.

If Jesus spoke for mercy, then he would be denounced as a false teacher and a breaker of the laws of Moses. But if he agreed with the sentence of death for Mary, then all his teaching about mercy would come to nothing.

No one moved or spoke as the world hung on the reply that Jesus would give. What would the rabbi do? Would he discredit himself? Or condemn Mary?

I saw Jesus scan the accusers. Who or what did he focus on? I could not tell. It occurred to me this might be the moment
when he called upon his followers to turn on the Temple guards and fight. Perhaps Mary, who had caused so much unhappiness, would spark the beginning of rebellion.

Then Jesus did something extraordinary. He gazed down at Mary for a long moment, then stooped beside her. His head was level with hers. If the judges threw the stones now, Jesus was as vulnerable as Mary. He would share her condemnation, take the stones that were aimed at her. The jagged rocks, meant to tear her to pieces, could not miss him.

“What do you say, Rabbi? How do you answer the laws of Moses?”

Unafraid, Jesus locked eyes with Mary. She studied him with wonder as he calmly smoothed the dust of the ground into an even surface.

The frustrated challengers repeated their demand. “What do you say, Rabbi? Sin should be exposed and punished according to the law!”

Jesus did not reply. Instead, he deliberately began to write Hebrew letters in the dust. The priests leaned forward to read what he wrote. And as the message became clear, they faltered and stepped back.

Slowly, Jesus stood, careful to stand as shelter over Mary. He searched the faces of her accusers. Were they not also his accusers?

“The one of you who is without sin,” Jesus said, “let him cast the first stone at her.”

His words pierced my heart like an arrow. I, who was her own brother, had condemned her. I, who had known her as a child and had married her off to an old man to save our family’s name … was I not guilty of sin?

While his words hung in the air, he stooped again beside
Mary. Her only advocate, her only protector, he stayed close as the stones fell from the fists of the executioners one by one. I was certain, as the crowd drifted away, that Jesus would have died there with her, defending her, rather than allow her to be harmed.

I stayed close enough to hear. All of them walked away. Only Jesus and Mary remained. Then he stood. His shadow fell over her.

Standing beside her, Jesus asked gently, “Where are they? Does no man condemn you?”

“No man … Lord,” she said, amazed. Ashamed before him, she bowed her head and her tears fell into the dust where he had written.

Jesus waited a moment longer. Then he stretched out his hand to help her stand. “Neither do I condemn you. Now go, and don’t sin anymore.”
¹

He did not need her to reply. Her ordeal was over. Jesus turned to go. She started to follow him, but then my sister raised her eyes and saw me standing there.

I did not approach her. We gazed at one another over a gulf. Her shame was great, but his forgiveness was greater.

She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. I saw her lips move. “Forgive me.”

I mouthed, “Mary, come home.”

She did not reply but turned away, following after Jesus.

I did not pursue her.

At that instant, sudden lightning split the sky in the east. A raindrop struck my cheek. And then the rain began to fall in earnest. I saw my sister Mary holding out her hands, receiving it as if it were a blessing, a cleansing.

Chapter 12

I
t was Patrick, my barrelmaker, who suggested I again go hear John the Baptizer speak.

Samson and I were in my wine caverns, tasting from the barrels of the latest vintage. He and I sampled the wine from Faithful Vineyard on the first day of every week. The oak had contributed much to the flavor and aroma of the new wine, but there would come a time when I needed to move the contents to clay jars. I did not want to let even an extra Sabbath pass untested, lest perfection be lost.

Since the barrels were his creation, Patrick was equally interested in following the progress of the wine.

As Samson drew out a sample from yet another barrel, I remarked, “I met Nicodemus the Pharisee at the Street of the Coppersmiths yesterday.”

“A good customer and a worthy gentleman, if I may say so, sir,” my winemaker suggested. “Not at all like most Pharisees, if you’ll excuse my bluntness.”

Patrick chuckled as he sipped a mouthful of wine.

“Will he be ordering his usual allotment?” Samson continued.

“I let him sample this,” I returned, then paused.

“And?” Samson and Patrick simultaneously urged, though Samson added, “If you please, sir.”

“Double last year’s purchase!” I concluded triumphantly. “A great success.”

“Congratulations, sir,” Samson praised.

“Congratulations, indeed, but it goes to you and Patrick here. In fact, the only question remaining is how soon we will run out.”

“Very true, sir,” Samson concurred. “Especially after Lord Nicodemus lets his friends try it as well. I believe he is among the leaders in Jerusalem, isn’t he?”

“A member of the Sanhedrin,” I replied. “You are right that he is around the most wealthy and powerful men in the Holy City.” I rubbed my forehead as I reconstructed the conversation. “In fact, I just remembered something he said that I wish I knew more about.”

Samson and Patrick waited patiently for me to continue, as it would be impolite to ask the master to share his thoughts unless he volunteered them.

“Now I recall: it’s said there is a rift between the Baptizer and Jesus of Nazareth. Some other Pharisees say John is envious of Jesus’ success.”

“And do you think that’s true?” Patrick inquired.

Samson shushed him, as being out of line, but I waved my hand to show I was not offended by the inquiry. Slowly, thinking aloud, I responded, “Only if John was wrong about who he proclaimed Jesus to be.”

“Why not …,” Patrick began, then continued over Samson’s protests, “why not go hear for yourself?”

And so it was arranged. Patrick accompanied me, while Samson continued to tend the wine.

John was baptizing at Aenon, near Salim, on the east bank of the Jordan. It took us a day to journey there, with me on the white mare and Patrick riding another of Samson’s donkeys.

Aenon was a village located on a tributary of the Jordan.

Our route lay along the stream, which chuckled and laughed as it ran down from Mount Ebal. As the water reached the level of the valley floor, the rivulet slowed and spread out, forming a series of pools and ponds, perfect for John’s purposes.

“Is the Baptizer safe here?” Patrick inquired.

I considered the matter. “I think so. More importantly, he must think so.” Reining to a halt on a knobby hill, I raised my free hand to draw an imaginary half circle from west to east. “We are near the border of four provinces: Galilee and Samaria on this side of the river, Perea and the Decapolis on the other. Over there is Wadi Cherith, where the Lord sent Elijah the prophet to hide from wicked King Ahab.”

“So he would be safer over there?”

I shrugged. “But on this bank he is near Salim … ancient Salem … where Melchizedek was both ruler and priest. Even Father Abraham honored the King of Peace and Righteousness.”

Shading his eyes against the sun, Patrick said, “I think I see a group of people by that pond, there. And the man standing up to his waist in the water …”

“… is the Baptizer,” I confirmed.

His beard and hair wiry and unkempt, he seemed leaner than when I had last seen him.

At opposite ends of the pond, their backs to us, were two knots of men. A handful, dressed much as John was, appeared to be his remaining disciples.

The group at the other extreme was better clad, with colorful robes and clean turbans: Pharisees, by the look of them.

Between the two opposing forces, twenty-five onlookers jostled with each other as they listened to the exchange.

Patrick called my attention to a figure at the edge of the audience. “Isn’t that Master Porthos?”

It was the Greek, listening attentively to the dialogue.

“Where are your crowds now?” one of the Pharisees taunted. “The whole world is running after the Nazarene. What do you say to that?”

I could not imagine that rich men would come into this wilderness merely to mock someone they despised. What was their motive?

Another jibed, “He keeps company with tax collectors and drunkards and all manner of sinners. What do you say to that?”

“I say that you are a brood of vipers,” John snapped back at them. “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? I tell you, he is already separating the wheat from the chaff.” Leveling a bony index finger, John shook it in their faces. “Soon enough the chaff will be heaped up and burned!”

The Pharisee jeered, “Where have the rest of your own disciples gone? Maybe they prefer wine and feasting to eating locusts and drinking cold water!”

I was surprised that John’s reply, though forcefully stated, was not shouted in anger. Shaking his head firmly, he responded: “He must increase, while I must decrease.”

“And what about Herod Antipas?” another man in a brocade robe shouted.

Now John threw his head back and the old fire roared to life in his response: “That snake? The tetrarch knows full well all the sins he is guilty of! Does he merely add adultery to murder, or is it the other way around? The sword of judgment hangs over his head as surely as it fell on King Ahab of old and his Jezebel!”

What happened next was sudden and violent, and the reason for the taunting became clear. In the crowd were a half dozen Herodian soldiers, their uniforms hidden beneath nondescript robes.

As John was goaded into his rash comments, they threw off their disguises. Three of them rushed at the prophet in a body. Another three drew short swords and flung themselves at the crowd.

The audience and John’s followers scattered … except for Porthos. The Grecian Jew stood his ground, even as a stocky mercenary bore down on him, stabbing blade lifted high and glinting in the sunlight.

Then Porthos did the bravest thing I had ever seen: he ran toward the soldier, ducking beneath the descending dagger so that it missed his shoulder by a whisker.

Seizing the Herodian guard with both hands, he lifted the man fully off the ground and flung him into the other pair of attackers. They tumbled together in a heap of short swords and curses.

Still Porthos did not flee. Instead, he roared at the men surrounding the Baptizer and charged them as well.

The latter trio had not even drawn their weapons, believing no one would resist them. Startled by Porthos’s sudden onslaught, one tripped on a rock in the pond and disappeared beneath the surface in unwilling submission to the Baptizer’s message.

With Patrick at my side, I darted forward. The three guardsmen overthrown by Porthos blocked our intervention with whirling blades. “Back off,” one of them snarled.

Porthos managed to land a fist on the jaw of one of the soldiers, then stopped fighting suddenly when the captain of the squad put the point of his dagger against the Baptizer’s throat. “Stop now, or he dies,” the man bellowed.

Porthos dropped his clenched fists and stood helplessly, shaking with barely suppressed rage.

That was the moment when the soldier who had been ducked in the pool emerged sputtering … and stabbed Porthos in the back. The Greek dropped face forward into the water and lay unmoving.

Two of Herod’s assassins kept us at bay while the rest quickly bound John’s arms behind his back. Dragging him bodily out of the creek, they soon disappeared in the direction of Aenon.

Even before they were out of sight, Patrick and I hauled Porthos, streaming blood from a gash in his back, out of the stream. We laid him on a mossy bank and turned him over. As the sunlight hit his face, he coughed weakly and his eyelids fluttered. He was not dead, then!

Patting his face, I said, “Porthos, brother, I’ll get you some help. Don’t worry.”

His eyes opened, and he struggled to focus on my features. “Ah, David,” he said, then was racked by a cough that brought scarlet foam to his lips. “Did you think … you had to repay me? I told you … I’m not … not a brave …”

And he died.

We located Pleasant the donkey tied in a grove of trees near what had been the Baptizer’s camp. I used her to take Porthos’s body home with me and buried him in my family cemetery, near the tomb that held my wife and child.