When Jesus Wept (14 page)

My understanding of who Jesus was became clearer as the weeks passed. The light of his life among us was like sun shining on the new berries. His teachings were the water, nourishing thirsty clusters, making my faith grow and ripen.

I came to understand why Jesus, the True Vine, turned plain water into the most extraordinary wine that has ever been made. As a vineyard owner and winemaker, I could comprehend the powerful significance of Jesus’ first miracle at the wedding in Cana. In the wine that Jesus created, I had tasted for myself the glory of what a life could become if it remained connected to the True Vine.

Later I witnessed with my own eyes the miracles, signs, and wonders that are written about by many others. Lepers healed. The lame dancing. Deaf mutes singing. The blind rejoicing in the sunrise and counting the stars. The greatest miracle of all was the day the twelve-year-old daughter of Jairus of Capernaum died. Jesus, with a word, raised the little girl from the dead and returned her to her joyful parents.

I once heard Jesus ask before he cured a paralyzed man, “Is it easier to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or ‘Rise up and walk’?”

My heart echoed the question as I looked at the crippled man on the mat before Jesus and listened to the Pharisees object to forgiveness. I said to myself, “How very difficult it is to say to anyone, your sins are forgiven. Go and sin no more. Jesus must prune away the dead wood, the showy green leaves that produce nothing. He must break off the excess, expose the fruit to the light!”

I remembered how Jesus stooped in the dust beside my sister
on the day of her condemnation. Jesus had no sin in his life, yet the men who condemned my sister also condemned Jesus for his righteousness. He had placed himself in danger to save her from the consequences of her sin. And after all the stones had dropped from angry fists and Mary’s accusers had slunk away, Jesus told her she was forgiven, not condemned. The only Son of God had bridged the gap between the penalty of the law and the true love and mercy of the heavenly Father. Forgiveness! Bud break! Jesus called it being “born again”!

The great miracle for me was the reconciliation and restoration of Mary to me and to my sister Martha. I asked Mary’s forgiveness for my sins of omission. I had not loved her. Had not forgiven her. Had not protected her. I had rejected her utterly in my own self-right eousness. Yet my right eousness had been nothing but showy green foliage that blocked the sun and was incapable of bearing fruit.

When at last we embraced and all things were made new by love, Mary’s eyes were clear and bright. Her words were without fear and bitterness when she spoke to me and Martha.

The healing of a broken heart, I thought, was very much like raising someone from the dead. Jesus summed it all up for me in the parable of the pruning: “I am the True Vine and my Father is the Vinedresser.”

It is enough to say the accounts of miracles are all true, and I bore witness to them. It is enough to know that I, like many thousands of others, believed that Jesus of Nazareth was indeed the long-awaited Messiah, Son of David, King of Israel.

But the vast numbers did not follow Jesus because of his teaching about the Kingdom of God. They waited and watched as he made a blind man see or cured a rotting leper of disease. Yes, they were entertained and amazed by such happenings. But
most of the mob followed Jesus for a different reason—they wanted bread.

The last miracle I witnessed in Galilee was just before a Passover. Jesus and his inner core of disciples had withdrawn to the wilderness for a time.

Would he come to Jerusalem for the holy days? No one knew for certain.

Mary had decided she would come home with us to Bethany. Martha and I set out ahead of Mary. We determined we would wait at an inn, and Mary would join us after she conferred with Centurion Marcus Longinus.

This centurion was a God-fearer. He now also believed in Jesus. Marcus told Mary that he was taking a Roman official to hear Jesus teach, knowing that Jesus only spoke to the people of peace. He promised Mary he would dedicate his life to warning Jesus of the plots hatched against him and help protect him from opposition.

After Mary parted from the centurion, she and her servants joined us at the inn for the journey to Bethany. We heard from a group of travelers that Jesus was teaching and healing nearby. I longed to hear the message of hope he would preach to those who were making pilgrimage to Jerusalem. I sent Mary and Martha ahead to Bethany with the servants.

The same morning at sunrise, I joined throngs of pilgrims flowing like a river uphill through Galilee—thousands followed thousands seeking Jesus. I walked quickly, passing carts laden with sick and crippled people. The story of Jairus’s daughter was passed from group to group.

“Jesus is near Capernaum!”

“No, he is closer to Tiberias!”

“What if he’s already gone to Jerusalem for Passover?”

“No! He won’t go now. The Herodians and the Pharisees want him dead.”

Zealots and rebels traveled with us. These men had dreams of crowning Jesus king of the Jews and rousing the multitude to arm themselves and fight for our freedom. I had heard enough of Jesus’ teaching by then to be sure that he was not interested in supplanting Herod Antipas. Jesus had said many times, “My kingdom is not of this world.”

None of us knew exactly what Jesus meant. Where exactly was his kingdom if not here on earth? Our existence was only in this world. Like everyone who followed him, I longed for Jesus to declare himself king in Jerusalem and restore Israel to the glory of Solomon. It was clear that the political leaders feared him. Soldiers and Temple officials walked the same road as we did, only for different reasons. I wondered who was at the front of our procession and if, indeed, anyone really knew where Jesus was.

If Jesus was from a different world, how could we be citizens of his kingdom? How could Jesus call on us to fight for a kingdom not of this world?

I was too far back to approach Jesus, but I heard his voice as I came to the edge of the great gathering. “What’s the Kingdom of God like? It’s like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his garden. It grew and became a tree, and the birds of the air perched in its branches.”

Wildflowers and new grass were trampled on either side of the highway. I climbed the hill overlooking the natural amphitheater. The site was remote, an equal distance between Capernaum and Bethsaida. I guessed that the swale was carpeted
with about twenty-five thousand men, women, and children. I reckoned there were at least five thousand civilian males of military age. More were gathered here in this wilderness than the population of any Judean city except for Jerusalem and Caesarea. Clearly the mustard seed had bloomed and grown into a tree. And the Kingdom tree was filled with flocks of birds.

Jesus’ deep voice echoed in the hollow and reached the ears of all. “A certain man was preparing a great banquet for his friends. At the time of the banquet he sent his servant to tell those who had been invited, ‘Come on. Everything is ready!’ But they all made excuses …

“Then the owner of the house became angry and ordered his servant: ‘Go out into the streets and alleys in the town and bring in the poor, the crippled, the blind and the lame.’ The servant replied, ‘Sir, what you have ordered has been done, but there is still room.’

“Then the master told the servant, ‘Go out to the roads and country lanes and make them come in, so my house will be full. I tell you, not one of those men who were invited will get a taste of my banquet.’ “
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Though my countrymen were untrained in the art of war, I was also aware that our citizens vastly outnumbered the foreign troops who occupied our land. There were, in all, only about three thousand Roman legionaries in the entire territory. Their leaders were only men. With Jesus at the head of our army, certainly Pilate and Herod and Caiaphas knew we could overwhelm them.

I was certain our overlords considered Jesus’ popularity as dangerous. It was nearly noon, and the hungry pilgrims were stirring when I spotted Marcus Longinus and a Roman tribune.

Both men were listening intently to the teaching of Jesus. The tribune’s expression was grim as he surveyed the pilgrims. Perhaps it occurred to him that a Roman tribune would be among the first to die if this crowd rioted.

There was no place close enough to buy bread for such a mob. Jesus’ disciples approached him. I could not hear the discussion, but suddenly a command was given.

“Sit down! Sit down! Groups of fifty and one hundred! Sit down!”

“But where’s our food?”

“What will we eat?”

“There’s nothing to feed our children!”

A small boy in a striped tunic was brought forward to Jesus. The child offered his meager bundle of food: five loaves and two fish. Jesus placed his hand on the boy’s head and thanked him. Then he held up a pitiful barley loaf and broke it, raising his voice in a
b’rakhah:
“Blessed are you, O Lord, King of the universe, who gives us bread from the earth!”

The boy’s loaves and fishes became a banquet. Jesus broke one loaf, and always there was more in his hands. As one lights a single candle and the flame is spread to others, so the five loaves in the hands of Jesus multiplied to fifty and five hundred and five thousand, spreading across the field.

I received my ration within minutes. The bread was warm and fragrant, as though it had just come from the oven. I tasted. Like the wine at the wedding, the taste of the bread Jesus provided was beyond comparison.

It was the final proof of Jesus’ identity. The prophet Moses fed our ancestors in the wilderness for forty years, and here Jesus was doing the same. There was enough for everyone. From so little, there was so much remaining that twelve disciples with
baskets were sent out to gather the excess. The baskets returned to Jesus, filled to the brim and overflowing with bread.

At the base of the hill, people began to chant, “Hail, Jesus! Our King!”

Others joined in until the mountains rang with the shouts that Jesus must be crowned.

I finished my meal and turned to go, hoping like the rest that Jesus would enter Jerusalem at the head of an army.

I made my way toward Jesus through the thousands. Some clutched remnants of bread. In every circle I heard voices exclaim:

“There is no doubt he is the prophet we have been waiting for!”

“This Jesus can feed us as Moses gave bread to our fathers in the wilderness!”

“We will never go hungry again.”

“Declare him King! The Romans and Herod have no power over such a man!”

“Isn’t it written in Torah?”

“Moses said plainly, ‘The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet from the midst of your brethren like me! To him you shall listen!’ ”

“Moses fed our fathers bread for forty years in the wilderness! Now Jesus will do the same!”

By the time I reached the knoll of the hill where Jesus had been teaching, the Lord had slipped away. I asked Peter, “Where did the Lord go?”

Peter stood beside the heaping baskets. “Gone. Off by himself. He knows they meant to seize him and crown him by force. He won’t have it, so now he’s gone.”

The pilgrims dispersed and drifted away when they saw the Lord had gone. I stayed with the Twelve until evening. We waited until dark, and still Jesus did not return.

“Come on,” Peter said to us. “My boat’s there, on the shore. Let’s sail home to Capernaum. There are the lights of the village across the water. An easy trip.”

I believed that men who made their living fishing at night could easily navigate our craft across the lake. I followed the fishermen and climbed into Peter’s boat.

I sat in the bow silently contemplating Moses’ prophecy about the coming Messiah. Today’s miracle of feeding the thousands was confirmation that Jesus was the Deliverer promised to Israel in ages past. I felt the first stirring of the wind. The sea slapped against the boat. My stomach began to churn with the rocking.

“Take down the sail!” Peter ordered. “The wind will tear it to shreds!”

Two others helped him lower the sail. I was violently seasick, vomiting over the side. I thought we might die. I was sick enough that I would not have minded being put out of my misery. Matthew, a former tax collector with a fear of the sea, crawled toward me. Side by side, we retched into the water.