When Jesus Wept

Part Two


In the last days …

everyone will sit under their own vine

and under their own fig tree,

and no one will make them afraid,

for the LORD Almighty has spoken.

MICAH 4:1, 4





Chapter 10



I was on my way into Jerusalem to make a fellowship offering at the Temple. Other services were for sin and guilt and forgiveness. These were somber in nature, as befitting their purpose. The fellowship offering was a joyful sacrifice of praise to the Almighty for answered prayers, or just to say thanks to the Lord of heaven and earth for his goodness.

As I strode along I sang:

“Ha’yadeh, l’Yahweh, ke tov, ke l’Olam Chessid

Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good,

for his ‘to forever love and mercy.’ ”1

In this instance I wanted to convey my gratitude for the success of the wine in the oak barrels. It was in my heart to establish the reputation of the House of Lazarus throughout the empire. This new vintage gave me exactly that opportunity.

How could I not be grateful?

In riding toward the Holy City, I passed by Bethphage and thought again of the loss of my grandfather’s property and his life through the treachery of Bikri. The recollection was more bitter in my thoughts than sour wine in my mouth. My grandfather was completely innocent of wrongdoing.

It did not matter that Bikri had already endured decades of suffering to repay his perfidy. As far as I was concerned, it still was not enough.

I had become increasingly convinced that there was much about the world and about my nation in particular that needed to be corrected. Since the days of the Hasmonean kings ended some one hundred years earlier, there had been no Jewish rulers over us. Either Roman puppets like Herod or Roman governors like Pontius Pilate had governed our country.

When would our state be restored? How long would it be before Jews again ruled the Land of Promise as the covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob promised?

When would the Deliverer come?

And could Jesus of Nazareth be the one for whom we prayed? It did not seem possible. Perhaps John the Baptizer could have filled that role, with his angry denunciations and powerful diatribes, but not the pleasant-seeming preacher from the Galil.

How could he ever redress wrongs? I heard he said things like “Turn the other cheek.” This was not the justice for which I, or my people, longed.

All these thoughts mingled with my anger at what had happened to my grandfather and to Judah ben Perez. Though the two men had suffered abuse some forty years apart, they were now forever linked in my mind.

I met Nicodemus the Pharisee outside Nicanor Gate, on the plaza of the Temple Mount. Since the fellowship offering was the lone service after which the meat of the sacrifice was eaten by the participants and not just by the priests, I had invited him to share it with me.

But it was not to be.

“I’m sorry, David,” Nicodemus said, gazing up at the lustrous hues of the Corinthian gold that formed the latticework of the gates towering above our heads. “I am summoned to a meeting of the council that cannot be postponed. It was already too late to catch you, or I would have sent word.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll find someone to whom I can give the food. What’s so urgent, if it’s not a great secret?”

Looking around him as if anticipating the presence of spies, Nicodemus leaned close and whispered, “Lord Caiaphas is concerned about Jesus of Nazareth. He fears he will be blamed if Jesus leads a rebellion against Rome.”

“The Nazarene rabbi?” I scoffed. “Have you heard him speak? There never was a less likely candidate to be a rebel commander.”

“You’ve heard him, then?”

“I’ve met him,” I replied. “He is altogether a gentle soul. Too simple and too genuine for this world. Perhaps Lord Caiaphas expects to find in Jesus a reflection of his own twisted, conniving soul.”

“Shh!” Nicodemus urged. “I agree with you. In fact, I sought Jesus out myself to question him … but I went at night and not openly. The walls have ears, you know.”

A low, chuckling laughter erupted almost at our feet, frightening Nicodemus and startling me.

Tucked in an alcove of the gate was a thin, teenage beggar boy I recognized. His name was Peniel.

“Not only the walls, kind sirs,” Peniel said, “but the floors and the nooks and crannies. I’m sorry to overhear your conversation, but then, I was here first.”

Peniel, blind from birth, was a sweet-natured creature in spite of his disability. The son of a potter, he had a hard life, subsisting by begging for the charity of strangers.

“Don’t look around,” Peniel added, “but here comes Lord Caiaphas now.”

He was correct. The sensitive hearing of the blind man had picked out the strident, pompous tones of the high priest before he and his entourage rounded the corner of the Court of Israel and hove into view. Watching them arrive was like being on the docks at Caesarea Maritima when a fleet of galleys maneuvered into port.

With a nod that barely passed for courtesy toward Nicodemus and a mere curl of the lip toward me, the high priest arrived outside the door to his offices. A swirl of sycophants orbited around him as if they were bits of wood caught in a current and he the drain toward which they were being drawn.

“Lord Caiaphas,” one of the acolytes said in a fawning manner, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” He waved a perfumed hand toward Peniel and spoke as if the boy were one of the gilded railings and not living at all. “Tell me your opinion. Who sinned—this man or his parents—that he would be so cursed as to be born blind and live such a wretched life?”

In sonorous syllables reeking of boredom, the high priest replied, “Probably all of them. Many generations of sinners, no doubt. He was utterly conceived in sin and born in sin and no doubt lives that way as well. Still, it’s an uninteresting question, since one thing is absolutely certain.”

“And that is?”

“He will never be healed. Never, since time began, has it been recorded that anyone ever opened the eyes of one born blind. See for yourselves that I’m right. All the authorities agree that it is hopeless—the ultimate in divine retribution and an example to us all.”

With that the high priest and his flotilla swept on into the building. Over his shoulder he addressed Nicodemus: “Nicodemus, don’t be late to the council meeting, or we’ll have to start without you.”

The door of his chambers banged shut behind him.

Nicodemus was seething. “Doesn’t he just hope I’ll be late. Because he knows my uncle and I are two of only a handful on the Sanhedrin who don’t automatically support him in all he says and does.” Turning toward the blind boy and stooping low, he said, “That was disgraceful and cruel, Peniel. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

Smiling, Peniel replied, “I’ve heard much worse, really. And I am an object lesson, you know. I like to think that when folk come to the Temple to pray, and they see me, that they are reminded of all they have to be thankful for. Besides, once a year Lord Caiaphas sends each of the Nicanor beggars a silver coin.”

“Once a year …,” Nicodemus sputtered. “Here, boy, are five silver coins, and I regret I have no more with me.”

“I am going to make a fellowship offering,” I said. “Would you like a haunch of mutton when I come back this way?”

Peniel’s face beamed. “Very much! Thank you both, very much, kind sirs.”

“I must leave you,” Nicodemus said to me. “Perhaps I’ll ride out to visit with you one day next week. You should be on the council yourself, you know.”

“Not me,” I protested. “I have no desire to get involved with politics. It never leads to anything good.”

“Amen to that,” Peniel concurred. “That’s why I keep my ears open and my mouth shut.”



I selected the ram for my fellowship offering from the preapproved flocks available for purchase on the Temple Mount. Because I shamelessly used Nicodemus’s name, I was not seriously overcharged, as were all the unsuspecting pilgrims from the Galil and elsewhere.

The eastern expanse of the Temple plaza was entirely given over to the noise and smell of commerce. Entire herds of bleating goats and sheep competed with lowing bullocks. Flocks of twittering doves responded to the cries of vendors hawking their wares. All these noises mingled with the chants of the psalms. The air was punctuated by the sharp, metallic odor of blood and the aroma of the meat charring on the altar.

I gathered with a group of other men who all had a todah—a thank offering—to perform. One had been in a shipwreck and survived. Another had received word his only son had been killed while on a journey to Ecbatana, but the rumor was proven false when the son returned unharmed. Still another had recently seen the birth of his firstborn son and was celebrating with his friends. I swallowed a flood of returning grief and offered my congratulations.

A chorus of Levite singers began the hymn: “Give thanks to the Lord and call upon his name.”

“Give thanks to the LORD, proclaim his name

make known among the nations what he has done.”

At which point those of us gathered around the altar of sacrifice joined in:

“Sing to him, sing praise to him;

Tell of all his wonderful acts.”2

A todah is a celebration of thanksgiving, but it is also a commemoration of past blessings and triumphs. It was a way to remind ourselves and others of God’s faithfulness.

Even in the midst of being grateful, there was an undercurrent of longing because things still weren’t all they should be:

“Cry out, ‘Save us, O God our Savior;

gather us and deliver us from the nations,

that we may give thanks to your holy name,

and glory in your praise.’ “3

All the people standing around the altar and all the witnesses to the sacrifice or awaiting their turn to approach the altar, shouted, “Omaine! Hallelujah!”

Once the ram was slaughtered and roasted, half the meat became the property of the priests who performed the sacrifice. The rest, two quarters of roast mutton, was returned to me, wrapped for carrying home.

One parcel I immediately took to Peniel.

“Thank you, sir,” he said as I approached.

“I hadn’t even spoken yet. How did you know it was me?”

“I heard the Hallelujah sounding. When I smelled the delicious aroma coming directly toward me, I knew it was you … or at least I hoped!” He stood, begging bowl under one arm, and I placed one of the parcels in his hands.

“Will you stay until they close the gates?” I asked.

“Ordinarily, sir, but not today. Between the generosity of Lord Nicodemus and yourself, I want to go home right away and share my good fortune with my family.”

“Would you like me to guide you?”

Peniel smiled. “Not necessary, sir. I know every twist and turn between here and home.”

“Then go and be well,” I said. “We’ll see each other again …” I stopped in consternation at my ill-chosen words. “I mean, I’ll see you …” That was even worse.

The blind beggar laughed. “Not to worry, sir. People are always getting their tongues tangled around me, it seems. Perhaps it means the message of my life is getting through to them.”

“Shalom, Peniel,” I replied. “And yes, it does mean that.”

As I exited the Temple Mount and made my way back toward the Bethany road, I pondered Peniel’s cheerful good nature. What a bright, shining soul to live in constant darkness! If my sight were taken from me, would I still be grateful for my life, or would I be swallowed up in bitterness?

How many varieties of blindness were there in the world?

How blind were the Temple authorities, who had less regard for the beggars of Jerusalem than for their own comfort?

How blind were the people around me, so immersed in the struggles of each day that they could not thank God for anything?

How blind were those who listened to the words of John the Baptizer, or Jesus of Nazareth, and felt only curiosity, or nothing at all?

How blind was I if I let grief or worry or bitterness or anger overwhelm me?

So deep was I in these musings I did not notice where my steps took me. I had already passed out the Sheep Gate, beneath the frowning shadow of the Antonia, the Roman fortress, and reached the edge of the Pool of Bethesda.

The twin reservoirs together known as Beth Chesed, the House of Mercy, were also called, by some, the House of Shame. So far had the more extreme sect of Pharisees prevailed that to be crippled, blind, ill, or debilitated in any way meant that there was sin in the life of the afflicted. God punished sin, they said. They concluded that the more severe the punishment, the more flagrant the sin. Since the House of Mercy was a place where invalids gathered, hoping for a cure, it represented a collection of the worst sinners, unsurpassed in all of Jerusalem.

When I thought of Herod Antipas and the cronies of Lord Caiaphas, I had to disagree with the Pharisees, with one exception.

Surrounding the pools were white limestone colonnades supporting red tile roofs. These four porticoes, together with a fifth that divided the body of water into two parts, were another reason the structure was linked with Mercy. For cripples who had no ability to move from blistering sun or chilling rain, these covered spaces represented the only shelter many would find.

Reaching the terrace along the east side of the columns, I could not help myself. I turned in, expecting to see exactly what my eyes beheld.

Across the pool from me, crouching against one of the pillars, was Bikri ben Zimri—traitor and wretched talebearer—who had caused my grandfather’s death.

His skull-like head lolled forward on his thin, sunken chest. Dank, faded yellow hair hung across his face like discarded scraps of tattered cloth. His legs, useless and twisted, coiled beneath him like the snake he was. Only his arms showed any evidence of the hale and strong young companion he had once been to my grandfather. His shoulders still displayed some muscles near his neck. His hands were bound in leather strips, since they were Bikri’s only means of transport into shelter, or out to beg along the highway.

I was glad he was still there. I was not ready for him to die yet. He had not suffered enough.

Besides shelter from the elements there was yet another reason why the ill and infirm congregated at Bethesda: the possibility of a miracle. Every now and then, without warning, the water bubbled and roiled in the pool. It was said that an angel troubled the waters. In that instant, whoever was the first to enter the water would be healed … instantly cured.

I do not know if it was true or not. I had never met anyone who had been healed by the waters of Bethesda, but I hoped it was true. It gave me great satisfaction to know that Bikri, crippled as he was, would never, ever, be the first into the water. I wanted him to witness others being cured, being restored to their friends and family, while he lived on, alone, unloved, and hopeless.

If he lived to be a hundred, instead of the sixty that he now was, he would do so as a miserable lame man, despised by many, pitied by few.

In his case I truly believed the Pharisees had it right.

Shifting the remaining haunch of meat to my other arm gave me an idea. The amount and quality of the meat was more and better than a beggar could hope for from one year to the next.

I could walk up to Bikri, announce my name and identity, and offer it to him … only to take it away and give it to someone else. Remembering Peniel’s keen sense of smell, I knew I could add another layer of torment to Bikri’s existence.

Suddenly my stomach was sour, and I tasted bile in my mouth. Enough!

Approaching the nearest beggars at random, I handed over the mutton. “Share this,” I said.

“God bless you,” they chorused. “God keep your worship. What a good and kind man you are.”

The sickness did not leave me until I passed the crest of the Mount of Olives and tasted the sweet air of home.