When Jesus Wept

Chapter 13



Mary had traveled back to Galilee, transformed. With many other women, including Joanna, the wife of Herod’s steward, Mary became a devoted follower and supporter of Jesus.

I was still unsure about the motives and true identity of Jesus. I wanted to know, yet I suspected him.

After Hanukkah the winter months were dark and cold and the vines dormant. This was the time of pruning. I set my workers to the task of cutting off the dead branches, gathering the dead wood, and torching the piles at the ends of the rows. Unless the dead wood was cut back, new growth would be stunted, struggling to compete with the tangle of old growth.

I was supervising in the field when Martha and the women servants came out to feed the laborers.

Martha’s cheeks were ruddy with the cold. Her breath rose in steam as she puffed up the path toward me. “Brother!” she hailed me, but when she came near, she lowered her voice. “There’s a rumor … about our sister Mary.”

I imagined that, in spite of Jesus’ admonition not to sin again, Mary had already fallen and was back to her old ways. “Well?”

“Madness,” Martha whispered. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”

The aroma of stew was in the air. I was hungry and impatient, but I knew Martha had to tell me everything. “So are you surprised?”

“I am surprised. She was such a greedy little thing. Spending money on herself and no one else. But this!”

“Get on with it, Martha!”

“She’s squandering her dead husband’s fortune! That’s what. Squandering! Spending her money on feeding the poor. Opened her villa to house women—unmarried women—and their infants. A one-woman charity house! That’s what she is!” Martha reported the news with such disgust that it took me a moment to understand exactly what she was saying.

“This can’t be … our Mary.” I accepted a bowl of steaming food.

“We’ve got to put a stop to it. She’s gone crazy. One extreme is as bad as the other. Extreme, I say! She will spend all her inheritance and then …” Martha’s mouth turned downward. “Then she will come home begging. As much a beggar as the people she cares for today. And we will have to care for her!”

Spoon poised between the bowl and my mouth, I considered Martha’s report for a moment. “Yes,” I agreed. “Without a man to advise and direct her …”

It seemed to me, Mary’s generosity to the needy had become careless and profligate. She had no kinsman but me to bring order back into her life.

Shortly thereafter, I left the care of my vineyards in the hands of Samson. Martha and I, with our friend Nicodemus, made the journey to Galilee to question Mary face-to-face about the business affairs of her estate.

Pruning had only begun in her vineyards. Observing the swarms of workmen in the fields, I noted that Mary employed too many for the task. I made a note of this as we rode to the wide-open gates of Mary’s villa. In the courtyard beyond, children squealed and played while their mothers boiled laundry in great kettles scattered about the luxurious grounds.

A lanky, red-haired teenage boy named Carta kept us from entering. “Halt here, sir. Women only permitted to pass, except by permission of the Lady.”

“I am brother to widow Mary of Magdala, mistress of this estate.”

“How can I know who you are, sir? Too many angry brutes, husbands of the unfortunates, come prowling for a way to get their women back. They want to make them servants again to wickedness and beat them upon a drunken whim.”

Martha drew herself up in protest. “My brother is none of those things. I am Martha, sister of Mary. And this is our friend, Nicodemus. We have traveled far, from Bethany, and you will tell my sister that her kinfolk have come. And that we are weary and expect at least the hospitality she shows to these … these … this … mob!”

“In that case, wait here. It’s wash day, and the mistress is somewhere about the grounds. It will take a moment.” Carta bobbed his head and sprinted away. Some minutes passed before he came again to the entry. “Names?” he demanded.

I replied, “David ben Lazarus. Martha. And Nicodemus.”

“Correct. You may enter.” Carta stepped aside and swept his hand toward clotheslines and flapping linens.

We entered. Martha’s face became more sour. Nicodemus seemed amused. I was amazed at the clutter and noise that had overcome my sister’s once elegant grounds.

We waited in the private courtyard of the house beside a fountain. Children played tag just beyond the door, but the place was clearly off limits.

Only a minute passed before Mary appeared at the doorway. Dressed for work in a coarse, pale blue dress, her thick dark hair was piled on her head. Brown eyes were shining as she stretched out her arms to welcome us.

“Brother! And Martha! Oh! And you … Nicodemus! To see you all here! It is an answer to my prayer.”

My embrace was reserved, but she held me tighter and laughed. Her welcome was as warm for Martha, though the two women had never been on good terms. If she noticed our hesitation, she did not comment on it.

Leading us into her private quarters, she summoned servants to care for us and ordered food for us.

Throughout the lavish meal, Mary talked joyfully about Jesus, whom she called Rabboni, and the women and children who had taken refuge in her home. “Carta was a servant to Marcus Longinus. Jesus healed him from a terrible injury. Now he’s helping me here.” There were 136 souls living within the walls of Mary’s villa. Some women escaped abuse from husbands. Others had been prostitutes who had repented, turned to God, and become followers of Jesus. They had no place of refuge but this. Three new babies had been born in the last two weeks. Most important in Mary’s narrative was the news that, from time to time, Jesus of Nazareth and his disciples lodged in Mary’s guest house.

She radiated joy as she spoke of all this. I thought she had never looked so beautiful.

“But why have you come?” she asked at last.

Martha blurted, “We have heard that you are wasting all your estate. Spending your wealth like water! You never could do anything with moderation.”

Mary gazed at Martha for a long moment. Her smile wavered. “Ah. I thought … I was hoping …”

Nicodemus blushed at the confrontation. He stood and escaped to the veranda.

I tried to explain gently to Mary. “You see, sister, we are concerned that perhaps you are being taken advantage of. Giving everything … everything to others.”

She studied me. “Brother, for the first time in my life I am happy. Jesus teaches …”

Martha scoffed. “Jesus! Yes. All or nothing. That’s the problem. No moderation.”

I asked, “But what about the inheritance that your husband left to you? Your estates? I see you’ve hired an army of workers to prune your vines. Half the number would do.”

“Yes. But then half the number would be unemployed. These are hard times, brother. Hunger is at the door here in the Galil. Men and women need work.”

“But what if all you have is gone and the coffer empty because you did not manage wisely? It makes no sense, Mary. If you give all to the poor, then soon you will number yourself among the poor of Israel.”

Mary answered. “I am rich. My orchards and vineyards are blessed. There is plenty to share, brother.”

I explained, “But if you are careless with giving away what you own, no matter what your rabbi teaches … a good man, yes. But impractical.”

Mary did not attempt to answer my charge but simply replied, “Come, brother. Come and meet the Lord.”

She took my arm and led me out of her villa. To the east our view was the Sea of Galilee. It was calm and flat and reflected the enormous clouds that loomed on the horizon. To the west was Mary’s vast vineyard. Workers moved methodically through the rows, pruning wild, leafless canes down to the trunk of the vine. Mary gestured beyond them. “There he is.” I recognized him at once. Jesus and about twenty of his disciples sat beneath a large tree at the top of a hill overlooking the vineyard.

Mary led the way up the path. Nicodemus joined us. I followed, and Martha trailed behind.

At our approach, Jesus raised his eyes, then waved a welcome, looking directly at me.

“Shalom, Mary.” Jesus gestured for us to join the lesson.

“Rabboni! These are my brother, Lazarus, my sister, Martha, and Lord Nicodemus of Jerusalem. They’ve come visiting.”

“Shalom and welcome,” Jesus said. “We are enjoying the day. Will you join us?”

We came into the semicircle of rough-looking Galileans who made up the core of Jesus’ followers. I was between Mary and the disciple called Peter. We three were directly in front of Jesus, close enough to touch the hem of his cloak. An easy grin with straight white teeth. Square jaw. Hands calloused from years of manual labor.

He asked me, “What do you think of all your sister has accomplished in her vineyard?”

“My sister has hired too many laborers. She needs an adviser to help her manage her business.”

Jesus smiled. “Mary gives everything into the care of her Father. Can she trust him?” He held me in his gaze for an instant, long enough for me to know that the lesson I was about to hear concerned me, somehow.

“What do you think?” Jesus asked me. “There was a man who had two sons. He came to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work today in the vineyard.’ And the son answered, ‘I will not.’ But afterward he changed his mind and went. Then the father went to the other son and said the same thing. And the second son replied, ‘I will, sir,’ but he did not go. Which of the two did the will of the father?”1

Peter raised his hand and blurted out the answer, “The first son! That’s the one!”

Jesus smiled and again cast his eyes on Mary. “That’s right. The one who does the will of his father … or in this case … the will of her father.”

My smile froze on my face.

He gave me a look that gently warned me I was about to learn something. Then he directed his attention to the crew of laborers in the field. “Truly, I tell you, the tax collectors and harlots will get into the Kingdom of Heaven before the hypocrites.” He paused. “I saw you by the Jordan the day you came to hear John preach. Our friend John came walking in the way of an upright man in right standing with God, and they did not believe him. But tax collectors and harlots did believe him. And the religious hypocrites, even when they saw that, did not afterward change their minds and believe John’s call to repentance.”2

I felt color climb to my cheeks. Just that quickly I had become the subject of a lesson. And just that quickly I had been humbled.

Jesus asked me, “I saw you then at the wedding at Cana.”

I nodded. “The wine. I never tasted anything so rich. So full of character. I’ve wanted to ask you how … from what vines? What soil? I’ve pondered the wine I tasted that night and have never come up with a logical answer.”

Jesus replied, “Mary tells me you own vineyards near Jerusalem.”

“I do. Not so many acres as Mary.”

“Have you finished your pruning?” he asked.

“The work of pruning is never really finished. To come here I left the care of my vineyard in the good hands of my vinedresser. He will do the job.”

Jesus nodded. “We’re mostly fishermen here … and one carpenter,” he added in an aside that made several chuckle. “We have no real knowledge of grapes and vineyards, or how the grapes become good wine or … bad wine. Teach us. And why must vines be pruned, my friend?”

I considered his question. Surely there was a trap set for me. “First, the dead canes must be cut off in this season when the vine is sleeping. This season … you see the workers there … the pruning is severe. Down to the trunk of the vine. Dead canes will not bear fruit and so must be cut off first. In another month or so, depending on the weather, there will be bud break. The vine will produce new, healthy shoots. New growth will bear fruit.”

Jesus asked, as though he did not know, “Is the job of the vinedresser finished when he cuts away these dead branches?”

“Well … no. Through the growing season, we train the branches. Set them in the best position to expose fruit to the sun. Thin the leaves that block the sun from the berries; break off clusters that will never ripen evenly. They only steal the life of the vine from the good clusters. The vinedresser cuts away excess foliage to concentrate the life of the vine into the best berries that will make the finest quality wine. The vine can’t nourish the new growth properly … the quality of the grapes is not as good … if the vine must also support the weight of dead wood or wild tendrils that don’t bear fruit or only produce showy foliage. So, to answer your question, pruning goes on all through the life of the vine.”

“Exactly.” Jesus nodded and leaned forward to gaze directly into my eyes. More than that, he looked into my heart.

Then he spoke to us all: “I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Any branch that doesn’t bear fruit, he cuts away. And he cleanses and repeatedly prunes every branch that continues to bear fruit, to make it bear more and richer and more excellent fruit. Just as no branch can bear fruit of itself without abiding in the vine, neither can you bear fruit unless you abide in me. I am the Vine; you are the branches. Whoever lives in me and I in him bears only the best fruit. However, if you are cut off from me, you can do nothing. If a person doesn’t dwell in me, he is thrown out like a broken-off branch. He withers, and such branches are gathered up and thrown into the fire and burned.” He gestured to a tribe of little boys gathering the broken sticks and heaping them into a pile for burning.

Jesus continued, “If you live in me, abide vitally united with my life, and my words remain in your hearts, ask whatever you will and it shall be done for you. When you bear much fruit, my Father is honored and glorified, and you show and prove yourselves to be true followers of mine.”3

From that time, though I doubted at first, I came to admire and love Jesus of Nazareth. And I knew he loved me. He connected my heart to his. Like the morning of bud break, when the first new green foliage breaks forth from the vine, I was far from bearing fruit. My faith was small, about the size of my thumbnail, like the tiny clusters in early spring. All the promise of fullness and quality exists within the cluster from its beginning. But everything depends on the branch remaining united to the nourishment of the vine. I could not say if I would be among the few who matured to the full richness of life in Jesus. Yet I clung to every word he spoke. I was thirsty for his truth, drinking it in.

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.’ “4

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.

“Row harder!” James shouted as the gale increased.

Peter, James, John, and Philip leaned their backs into the oars, but we were tossed like a toy on the violent waves.

Four miles out I scanned the horizon, hoping to see some friendly light close to shore. A wave splashed my face. Judas raised his head and shouted in terror!

Were we about to capsize?

“Look! Look!”

“It’s a ghost!”

“God have mercy!”

“A spirit has come to take us away!”

I squinted at the moonlit surface of the roiling water. There, before our eyes, an apparition like a man walked toward us.

I opened my mouth to cry out like the others.

Then the familiar voice of Jesus shouted out to us, “It is I! Don’t be afraid!”

Not a vision! Not an apparition! Not an evil spirit come to drown us! No! It was the Lord himself, walking on the troubled seas that threatened us.

“It’s Jesus!”

“Jesus on the water!”

“Lord! Save us!”

Jesus approached the vessel at the bow. I reached out my hands and helped him into the boat. He sat down calmly between me and Matthew. The sea grew still as we blinked at him in astonishment. We were afraid to speak. Peter and the others silently set to the oars again.

Within moments we came to shore. The wind had fallen away. The moon reflected on the silver surface of the sea.

I remember someone drawing the boat onto the sand. Exhausted from terror and exertion, we fell asleep.