When Jesus Wept

Chapter 23



My sister Mary brought Jesus and his disciples to stay with us in Bethany for a time during the season of Omer. Peniel, the boy Jesus healed of blindness, was with us, full of joy and constant wonder.

For seven weeks we marked the days from the escape of the Hebrew slaves from Egypt until the revelation of the law at Mount Sinai. Our hearts commemorated the journey from slaves of Pharaoh to servants of the Lord. Seven times seven days from Passover to Pentecost; it was a holy number. Each of the seven weeks represented a patriarch and the divine attributes of that man:

Abraham —Grace, Love

Isaac—Severity, Respect

Jacob—Beauty, Compassion

Joseph—Foundation, Loyalty

Moses—Victory, Efficiency

Aaron—Glory, Aesthetics

David—Majesty, Surrender

I had witnessed and come to believe that Jesus summed up all these divine attributes of God. But unlike our Fathers, there was no vice or weakness in Jesus to taint the perfect purity of his spirit. He was truly the only one without sin among us.

On this anniversary of Eliza’s passing, the Lord walked with me as the sun set over Faithful Vineyard. “Tell me, my friend, what has changed in your heart since last year?”

I thought a moment, then expressed what I knew but had never put into words. “I’m stronger now. Like Isaac. Even without my beloved. I’ve grown stronger through this long, lonely winter. Efficient like Moses. I have even surrendered to my loss … like David. But still not where I want to be, not altogether filled with the righteous attributes of the Fathers as I wish. Especially not filled with love, like Abraham. No compassion, like Jacob. So very far to go until I become …” I hesitated, feeling his gaze locked on me, listening.

“Until you become … what?”

“Until I am like you. All the positive qualities.”

We walked on together.

In the swale, where it was cooler and less exposed to the sun, the Lord paused beside a leafless vine. “Lazarus, there are no leaves. No sign of life here. Is this vine dead?”

“No, Lord. It’s alive but still sleeping. Its blood is only beginning to stir.”

“But to look at it, it looks dead. To someone who doesn’t know, it looks like something to be uprooted and burned.” He laughed.

“The warmth of the sun will wake it up in a few days. The vine is waiting for the warmth of the sun,” I answered.

“What will happen then?”

“Bud break. The vine will push out new growth.” I pointed to the vines higher on the slope. “You see?”

Jesus strode up the hill to the place where green buds had just emerged. “Well, here. Yes. I see it. Tiny leaves. Knobs of growth no bigger than my thumbnail.”

“The higher we go into the light and warmth, the more advanced the growth,” I said, flattered that Jesus wanted to learn from my experience.

“But how do you know these bits of green will ever become leaves?” he asked.

I motioned toward the top of the hill. “Because. It will happen. I know it will happen. When you’ve lived among the vines … well, the vines always bring forth buds, then leaves, then fruit, then … every year it’s the same. They grow. There … look.”

Jesus set out ahead of me. Near the top of the hill, where the sun shone brightest, the vines had blossomed with new life. “Lazarus.” We paused by a vine whose buds were a few days old. “What do you see?”

“Bud break. Leaves and tendrils. See there …” I pointed. “By the end of summer, if I care for it properly, that will be a cluster of fruit.”

“And by next year you will pour it into my cup,” Jesus said. “What about the dead-looking vines in the valley?”

“A few days in the sun and they will look like this vine. They’ll put out buds, then leaves, then clusters of berries … then wine.”

“Faith.”

“Experience.”

“Yes. Faith … ”

“Ah. Yes. I see what you mean. I believe what’s coming. Bud break. Fruit and harvest. Even though it’s a long way off.”

Jesus clapped me on the back. “That’s faith. Can anything keep the ripening or the harvest or the wine from our cup?” He touched the new leaves as though he could visualize the full, rich berries ready for harvest.

“Yes. Oh, so many things, Lord. A big wind might come along and blow away the buds. Or a late frost could burn them. Or drought. Too many cloudy days. Not enough sun. Or disease. Or insects. Grape growing is full of worries, you see. At every stage. It’s never a sure thing until the wine is in the cup. And the cup is at your lips.”

Jesus studied the infant buds. “So is the human heart in the care of the Father.” He drew a deep breath. “What in your life prevents you from bearing the most excellent fruit? Is there anything that will prevent you from ripening to perfect sweetness … becoming a wine worthy to be drunk at the King’s supper?”

It was an easy question to answer. The image of Bikri beside the pool came to my mind. “Yes. There’s a wicked man, a man who has done great harm to my family.” Tears brimmed as I remembered all the wrongs that had come to my dear ones through the deeds of Bikri.

Jesus did not reply for a moment but waited for me to fully think through what I felt but had never expressed. Then he asked, “Lazarus, why do you weep?”

I continued angrily as tears streamed. “The hand of God’s judgment rightly came upon him. He was struck down … a cripple. And he’s been a beggar, alone and friendless, beside the Pool of Bethesda for many years.”

“What is that to you?” His voice was gentle.

I rattled off, “I rejoice in his misery. I celebrate his suffering. It comes to me sometimes when I go to the Temple to bring my offerings and I go to look at him. Just to look at him—loath-some, flies buzzing around his head, shriveled legs, unable to move.”

“Surely he deserves his punishment? Not like Peniel, the cheerful blind boy you brought me to last year.”

“Yes. Yes. Lord, this fellow deserves … every calamity.” Tears of rage continued to spill over.

Jesus asked, “Then what is it?”

“I hate him so deeply! And … it’s a blight on my leaves. I can’t seem to let go of the wrong he did to us. The betrayal.”

“So his sin continues to hurt you.”

“Yes. I have no compassion for him. I can’t forget—can’t let go, let alone forgive. You say to love my enemy. To pray for those who despitefully use me. You command it, but I can’t. Hating this man is a dark cloud that keeps the sun from ripening the fruit. I rejoice, you see, in his unhappiness. And so my fruit is unripe and bitter, setting my teeth on edge.”

“What can be done, Lazarus? To end your suffering? So only sunlight shines on your heart?”

I inhaled deeply, knowing the answer. “Look. The sun is setting. Shabbat Shalom, Lord. Will you be going to the Temple in the morning to teach?”



As the sun rose the next morning, I walked to Jerusalem with Jesus and his disciples. The city was quiet, the marketplace empty because of the Sabbath.

Jesus took my arm and directed his disciples to leave us and go ahead of him into the Temple. We watched them retreat. Peniel looked over his shoulder and grinned broadly. Perhaps he was remembering this was the anniversary of his healing. He waved cheerfully and matched Peter’s gait stride for stride.

Sunlight beamed on the parapets of the vast sanctuary. A flock of mourning doves rose above us in a spiral, like the smoke of living incense.

“I love this time of day,” Jesus said quietly.

“Yes. At rest.”

“Except for the poor and the sick. The beggars at the gates. They can’t rest.”

“No.” My reply was curt. My heart was pounding in anticipation of what was to come.

“So. Where are you taking me, my dear friend?” Jesus inclined his head.

Wordlessly I led him through the streets to the pool at the Sheep Gate, where the animals of sacrifice entered the city. Outside the entrance I halted, hardly able to enter.

“My enemy is inside. Beneath the third portico.” I managed to choke the words out.

“And why did you bring me to your enemy?”

“He has no one to help him.”

“What is that to you?”

My mouth opened. Emotion constricted my throat. “I want to forget about him. I want to let go of my joy at his anguish.”

“Why have you brought me here?” Jesus asked again, more earnestly.

“I … I don’t … I can’t hold on to the past anymore. My anger. My heart filled with bitterness.”

“What is that to me?”

“Help me, Jesus. Help me let go of the sins of Bikri the thief. The liar. The man who betrayed my grandfather for money.”

“How can I do what you ask? Tell me. Say it aloud.”

“I ask you to … heal my enemy. Let him walk again.”

Jesus nodded. “You will have to enter this place of suffering with me.”

“I … can’t. I have never confronted him. Only watched him from a distance.”

“You must show me the man, Lazarus, my friend. Take me to his place.”

I knew Jesus meant for me to take an active part in this. I could not hide myself and simply hope Jesus would find Bikri out of all those who camped beside the pool.

I linked my arm with his, and together we waded in among the multitude of sick and lame who lay beneath the porticoes of Bethesda. I covered my nose against the stench.

Jesus scanned the sea of human misery displayed before us. Every space on the pavement was filled.

“He’s over there.” I lowered my voice.

“Lead on,” Jesus instructed.

I picked my way carefully through the filth and rubbish of those who waited for a healing angel to descend and stir the waters. The beggars seemed not to notice us as we wound our way toward my enemy.

And then we came upon him. He lay at our feet. He looked up at me. A vague flicker of recognition crossed his face. Did he see my grandfather reflected in my eyes? Did memory of his sin flash through his mind? He smiled slightly with decayed teeth. Then he raised his bony hand, palm up, in supplication.

His voice cracked. “Mercy, young sir. Have mercy on a poor cripple. A blessing from heaven upon you in exchange for a coin. A mite will do. Anything.”

He was an old man. Pathetic. It occurred to me that he had begged here for thirty-eight years. What would become of him if he could suddenly walk?

Jesus stepped between me and my enemy. A shaft of light beamed down on the Lord. Jesus gazed at him with pity. Studying the cripple, he then asked, “Do you want to be made well?”

The sick man seemed befuddled by the question. He gave the answer of one who had stopped hoping. “Sir, I have no man to put me into the pool when the angel stirs the water.

When it is stirred up, while I am coming, another steps down before me.”

Jesus took in his explanation and said to him, “Rise, take up your bed and walk.”

Immediately, Bikri was made well. He sat up, picked up his mat, and walked.

My eyes widened. I gasped and stood back as Bikri raised his mat above his head and roared to his fellow inmates, “Look! Look at me! Look! I am standing! Healed. Walking!”1

Jesus put his arm on my shoulder, and we quickly escaped the uproar of astonishment that followed.

“How?”

“What happened?”

“Did the angel stir the waters?”

As we retreated up the street toward the Temple Mount, the quiet Sabbath morning was shattered as their cries pursued us up the incline.

At the top of the hill Jesus stopped beside the potter’s shop and turned to see what would happen next.

Carrying his mat, Bikri emerged from the entrance to the pool and was almost instantly accosted by two Pharisees on their way to the Temple.

“It’s the Sabbath! It’s not lawful for you to carry your bed.”

I plainly heard Bikri’s reply. “The man who made me well said to me, ‘Take up your bed and walk.’ I didn’t want to argue … after all—”

The Pharisees demanded, “Who made you well?”

“Who did this?”

“Who commanded you to break the Sabbath?”

“Tell us!”

Bikri shrugged and deposited his mat at the base of a pillar.

“I don’t know his name. No idea.”2 He squinted at his bed and muttered to himself. “No one will steal it. It’s Sabbath after all. Who would pick up a beggar’s mat and walk away with it?” He laughed. “Who would want it?”

“So! He healed you on the Sabbath. Commanded you to break the Sabbath.” The Pharisee pointed his finger in the old man’s face. “If you find him, report his identity to us.” Bikri shrugged. “How much will you pay me?” Jesus and I turned away from the scene as more Pharisees joined the crowd.

When we entered the Temple courts, the disciples of Jesus waited for him on the steps near the Treasury.

“And now, my friend?” Jesus asked me as we walked.

“The leaves that blocked the sun are stripped away.”

“Yes. The sin he committed against you and your family will no longer burden you. You have chosen the better part, and now the path to eternal life is his to choose or reject.”

“I understand.” I felt an enormous weight had been lifted. “Thank you. I suppose he’ll pick up where he left off. Continue in his ways. Do just as he did when he was young.”

“And what’s that to you? What’s important is that you’ve done the right thing. In bringing me to him, you’ve let go of him. Maybe he will repent and do good, or maybe he’ll cling to his sin and do evil. If he does right, you’ve saved him from hell. If an evil man is warned and doesn’t repent, then his blood isn’t on your hands.” Jesus raised his chin and fixed his gaze inside the Temple gate.

Bikri entered, looking frantically around the place. Spotting Jesus, the old man ran to him. Bikri grinned at Jesus with broken teeth. “Lord! Please tell me your name! They asked me why I carried my mat on the Sabbath, and I told them you commanded me to walk and carry my bed away. They want to know who you are … a Sabbath-breaker, they say.”

Jesus considered the man before him, then gave the warning, “See, you’ve been made well. Don’t sin again, or a worse thing will come upon you.”

I knew in the instant of hearing that Jesus was telling Bikri there would be no more chances for him to get it right. What could be worse than living as a cripple for thirty-eight years? Only one thing could be more terrifying: death and judgment.

Bikri insisted, “But what should I say to them that question me? About breaking the Sabbath and all?”

Jesus answered, “Tell them it was Jesus of Nazareth who told you to rise and walk and carry your bed on the Sabbath.”

“Ah. Jesus of Nazareth. All right, then.” Bikri did not stay to hear Jesus teach. He scuttled off to find the Pharisees who had questioned him.

I heard later that Bikri told them it was indeed Jesus of Nazareth who had broken the Sabbath by healing him. Jesus, who had commanded him to break the law when he picked up his mat.3

I heard also that they paid him to inform on Jesus.

But what was that to me?

Because Jesus had done good for a man on the Sabbath, the religious leaders dedicated themselves to persecuting him. But the truth Jesus lived out before us was undeniable. I wanted only to grow and ripen and become more like him.

My heart was at peace that day as I listened to Jesus teach.

“… The Son can do nothing of himself, but what he sees the Father do. For whatever the Father does, the Son does … and he will show greater works than these that you may marvel. For as the Father raises the dead and gives life to them, even so the Son gives life to whoever he will. He who does not honor the Son, doesn’t honor the Father. I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes in him who sent me has everlasting life and will not come into judgment, but has passed from death into life. The hour is coming, and now is, when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God; and those who hear it shall live. Don’t marvel at this; for the hour is coming in which all who are in the graves will hear his voice and come forth—those who have done good, to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil, to the resurrection of condemnation.”4

He aimed his message fiercely at the Pharisees who stood with arms crossed and fists clenched.

“I don’t receive honor from men. But I know you, that you do not have the love of God in you. I’ve come in my Father’s name, and you don’t receive me … There is one who accuses you—Moses, whom you say you trust. But if you really believed Moses, you would believe in me, because Moses wrote about me. If you don’t believe his writings, how will you believe my words?”5

There was much more he taught that day that has been written down by other witnesses. These words of Jesus were guaranteed to offend the Pharisees even more than a beggar healed on the Sabbath.

After that, the religious leaders plotted all the more to kill Jesus because he said that God was his Father, making himself equal with God.

Jesus was serene in his purpose and in the truth. He saw clearly into the hearts of all people. The battle lines were drawn, but Jesus knew the end of the story.