When Jesus Wept

Chapter 33



We descended the hill of Ephraim and set out toward Jerusalem. Instantly we were surrounded by old friends. The first family I met was that of my cousin Jairus, the cantor from the Capernaum synagogue. With him was his daughter, Deborah, whom Jesus raised from the dead.

The girl spotted Jesus while they were still some distance apart. She ran to him and, casting aside any reserve, threw her arms around him. He hugged her in return, the embrace growing in intensity and participants as Deborah’s father and mother also sealed the reunion.

The gloom that had settled on the disciples over Jesus’ talk of his death was instantly dispelled. Instead, we felt the radiant joy of life restored and families reunited. Just as morning sun over Faithful Vineyard drives away mist, so joy made our anxiety vanish.

The two pilgrim groups mingled. Deborah walked beside me, impulsively seizing my hand. “Dear cousin, how glad I am to see you again,” she gushed. “And I hear we share something few others can speak of.” She confided in me: “I know my death caused great sorrow for my family. But when I am again in olam haba, if it’s up to me, I won’t come back here again.”

My heart was carried back to my precious wife and son. “I know,” I agreed. “What makes it possible for me to remain here now with any happiness is—”

“The presence of Jesus,” she concluded for me.

“Exactly.”

We walked along together. Different knots of old friends met and coalesced like raindrops splashing into puddles and the puddles in turn overflowing to form rivulets.

Jairus brought me to another man whose life had also been transformed by Jesus. “You know Simon. He’s a Pharisee, but he has a good heart!”

Simon owned two estates—one in Galilee and another not far from my own in Bethany—but we had never been close friends.

“My sister Mary told me more of you,” I said, shaking his hand. “It was at your home she anointed Jesus’ feet after he saved her life and set her on a new path.”

A twinge of anguish crossed Simon’s face. “I was still a self-righteous fool in those days.”

“Me too,” I said, breaking into a big grin.

“Then I was known as Simon the Pious; Simon the Pharisee. That was before I became known as Simon the Leper. Jesus took away both my diseases—my skin ailment and my heart trouble! And do you know what meant more to me than anything else?”

“Tell me!”

“His embrace,” Simon said. “I tried to hide my leprosy. I tried every medicine you can imagine, even sorcery.” He shuddered at the recollection. “When my secret came out, everyone abandoned me. My friends turned against me. Not really their fault,” he admitted. “I would have done the same to them. Forced to live away from everyone, to cry, ‘Unclean!’ wherever I went. When I went to Jesus, I was afraid he would not want to heal me, knowing who and what I had been, how I had treated others. I said to him, ‘Lord, I know you can heal me … if you want to.’ And he replied, ‘I want to,’ then hugged me. Me! A leper! He could have stood far off and healed me without coming close. I believe it! But he did the opposite. His touch meant more to me than anything in the world, if you understand me.”

“I do!” I fervently agreed. “With me it’s his voice, calling my name: ‘Lazarus, come forth!’ ”

Halfway between Ephraim and Jerusalem a Roman centurion galloped up on a black horse. The file of pilgrims moved off the road to let him pass. Some spat on his shadow as he went by.

But when he reached me, he reined up and got down to walk beside me. “Shalom, David ben Lazarus,” Marcus Longinus greeted me. Then he added, “So you could not persuade him not to come.”

“I didn’t even try,” I said. “Jesus made it clear he knows the danger but is determined to go anyway.”

Marcus nodded. “He is in danger, you know. Every mile nearer the city increases the risk. Your chief priests would like to arrest him openly and charge him with heresy or sorcery or leading others astray.” The Roman looked around. “They won’t do it, though. Not while he’s in the middle of a crowd. Whatever they do, they will do secretly. If they can, they’ll kill him and blame someone else.”

“I know,” I said, recounting the tale of my own encounter with a would-be assassin on the Temple Mount. “So we keep to big crowds … not a problem during Passover week, eh? But what of Rome, Marcus?”

The centurion considered. “Pilate has made too many missteps already. He will take action only if he thinks it’ll be seen favorably by the emperor. Pilate came to Judea headstrong and sure of himself and sure of his support in Rome. Now he’s lost both his backer and his backbone. That’s both good and bad, I suppose. As long as Jesus does not raise a riot or preach treason, Pilate won’t act unless pushed to do so. And he can’t be pushed unless he’s threatened with another bad report to Rome that’s undeniable. Is that clear?”

I shook my head and laughed without mirth. “About as clear as all the rest of the political intrigue in Judea. I know Rome doesn’t care about Jewish religion. You know that Jesus teaches meekness. What about him is any threat to Rome?”

A pair of mockingbirds flitted in and out of the brush ahead, keeping pace with the cavalcade. “I did not see you there, but I hear you witnessed it when he miraculously fed the thousands on the hillside?”

I agreed that I had been present to see that astonishing event.

“Here’s what Rome saw: he had the crowd sit in groups of fifty and one hundred—just as Roman soldiers are fed—only Jesus doesn’t need a quartermaster or a commissary or a supply train. If a Roman soldier is wounded, he must be cared for, and he is a drain on the army’s resources. But one of Jesus’ soldiers can be healed by him. And if one of them should be killed …” He met my gaze directly. “You know, the last time I rode out of Jerusalem to Jesus’ camp it was to carry the news that you were sick enough to die … and then, you did die. Yet here you are, marching again beside him.”

“Oh,” I said. The kind of threat Jesus represented to Roman rule was suddenly very clear. “But he preaches no sedition. Never has.”

“I know,” Marcus said. “That’s why Rome makes no move against him.” He stopped me with a hand on my arm. “I have to ride back now. It’s not good for either of us, or for Jesus, for me to be seen entering the city with you. I probably won’t be able to visit you again until Passover is done, but you can send Peniel to me if you need me. You know I’ll do whatever I can.” With that the centurion remounted the war stallion.

“Shalom, Marcus,” I said.

“Shalom,” he returned. “Keep a crowd around him at all times. No lonely places. No small groups. Understand?”

“I understand. We’re going first to my home in Bethany. After that … we’ll see.”



My home in Bethany was too small to accommodate all those who wanted to see Jesus. I reminded Mary of the healing of a crippled man in Galilee. His friends took apart the roof slates so the paralyzed man could be lowered into the presence of the Lord.

It was not practical to take off our roof, so we accepted an invitation from Simon the Leper to use his home for the feast. Even Simon’s sprawling estate overflowed with guests. My sister Martha was in her element, bustling about. Simon’s wife graciously moved aside to let Martha take charge, assisted by Jesus’ mother.

Martha ebbed and flowed like the ceaseless tides, ordering tables and chairs to be rearranged. She dashed off to the kitchen to supervise Delilah’s cooking, then sent Samson back to our storage shed for beeswax candles. She ordered Carta, Tavita, Patrick, and Adrianna about as if dispatching reserve troops into battle. She was in constant motion but remained entirely unflurried.

Mary and I kept out of her way. Since Jesus was the guest of honor, we stood beside him, welcoming all the rest.

It occurred to me that we two were good representatives of his ministry.

Jesus had said of himself: “I have come that you might have life and have it abundantly.”

In my case he had restored my physical life. After four days in the tomb I was dead, dead, dead. No one argued about that. Many had seen me dead, seen me entombed, and then seen me not only alive again but healed and restored to perfect life.

With Mary I recognized the other side of Jesus’ touch: healing the soul. Mary’s soul had been blighted, like a vine so diseased that it would never produce good fruit. Normally it would be ripped out of the ground and burned before it infected others.

But just as seemingly lifeless vines in the dead of winter await the touch of the sun, so it was with my sister. The touch of the Son had brought her new life and given it to her abundantly. She had always been beautiful; now she was radiant. She was gracious, kind, compassionate. If she had been self-centered before, all those useless canes had been cut away. Now she was entirely other-centered and most gentle to hurting souls.

I noticed a large stone flask protruding from the pocket of Mary’s apron. When I asked her about it, she waved away the query. She turned to greet another arrival, brought forward by Simon to greet the Lord. The house was packed with souls that had been hurt. Many were crushed by life’s winepress until Jesus turned their injuries into a fragrant vintage of hope restored.

Zadok, the muscular former chief shepherd of Israel who had been present in Bethlehem at Jesus’ birth, was also there. With Zadok were his three adopted sons, Avel, Ha-or Tov, and Emet, who had once been one of the Jerusalem Sparrows.

Zacchaeus the tax collector was there, the much-maligned businessman from Jericho. He was part of the newest vintage from the Lord’s winery since he had only met Jesus two days earlier.

At the Lord’s elbow stood Peniel, beaming at everyone, recording names on a wax tablet and listening attentively to every remembrance. His bright, shining eyes reminded me of one who was missing at this gathering: Centurion Marcus Longinus. The Roman had warned me that he could not seem to be too friendly with Jesus. “If I can serve the Lord and remain a soldier, it’s better if I keep some distance,” he had said. “The Lord knows I love and honor him. He will understand my absence.”

Martha summoned us all to the meal.

As was the custom, the men reclined around a large, horseshoe-shaped table. We lay on our sides on couches, with our heads toward the center and our feet toward the walls. The women and children ate in a separate room, but they moved among us, pouring wine and handing around the serving trays.

I had brought all that remained of an oak-barreled vintage from Faithful Vineyard. As I had noticed on other occasions, some imbibers stopped to savor and sense the nuances of the wine. Others drank, raised their glasses, and called for more. Judas Iscariot was one who acted in that way.

The Lord was very complimentary of my work.

“Thank you, Lord,” I replied. “Coming from you, a master winemaker yourself, that’s high praise.”

Because not all who were at this dinner had witnessed the miracle at the wedding in Cana, those of us who saw it happen recounted the event.

There was some confusion at the meaning of the miracle.

Even those who had absorbed the Lord’s teaching for years were still puzzled. It was not a miracle of healing a cripple or curing the blind or raising the dead. The closest link was to the times when Jesus miraculously fed multitudes from a handful of provisions. Even those comparisons failed to explain the significance of turning water into wine.

I said, “I think it’s far more than just a kindness to keep a family from embarrassment. Part of the importance is because of the words that were spoken. Remember the b’rakhah at a wedding? ‘Blessed art Thou, O Lord God, King of the universe, who gives us the fruit of the vine?’ There was a message there, but we didn’t understand it until later. Am I right, Lord?”

Jesus did not reply but motioned for me to continue.

Now that supper was ending the women came to retrieve the platters. Not wanting to interrupt the discussion, they stood around the sides of the room, listening. Mary stood near the Lord’s feet.

Apart from Judas, who whispered to the man on his right, the rest of the room listened as I said, “As a winemaker myself, I’ve thought about how much greater that sign was, even if I didn’t comprehend it at the time. Each winter I prune the dead canes. Each spring I wait to see that a new birth will occur. I water between the rows, to make the roots stretch for the liquid and so grow stronger. I thin the leaves and the bunches so that all the energy of the sun and the vine will concentrate in making the finest fruit.”

Nodding toward Patrick and Samson, I said, “Sometimes I fight pests that would devour the crop. If I succeed in keeping the grapes safe until harvest, they must be gathered at the peak of ripeness … not too green, nor too sweet … and then they must be crushed to release their juice. Think about that! We tend the vines all year long, defend them, fight for them, so that we can take their fruit and utterly crush the lifeblood out of it! Even then, it is a combination of skill,” I pointed out Patrick and Samson again, “and faith that what emerges from the barrels in another year’s time will be drinkable and not vinegar!”

The audience laughed.

“So here’s what I know about Jesus of Nazareth, winemaker: He is able to take the water that comes from heaven as rain or from the springs as a gift of almighty God and bypass all those steps! He alone is able to go from water to the finest wine that ever was!”

Suddenly I was embarrassed that I had been lecturing, and everyone was hanging on my words.

It was my sister Mary who redirected the attention of the group.

Drawing an alabaster bottle from her pocket she uncorked it and poured the contents over Jesus’ outstretched feet. It was the same gesture she had performed at Simon’s house in the Galil some years before. I had not been there on that occasion, but I knew that after Jesus had saved her life, telling her to “go and sin no more,” she had been transformed. In gratitude she anointed his feet with expensive perfumed lotion.

She did the same again now.

The powerful aroma of costly spikenard filled the chamber, easily overpowering the remaining scents of the dinner. The air was charged with inexpressible sweetness.

Mary allowed her hair to fall across his feet, and I saw her embrace them, scrubbing Jesus’ feet with her reddish locks and mingling her tears with the ointment.

I heard Judas mutter, “Such a waste. Terrible expense!”

When Jesus sat up to thank Mary for her kindness, she wanted to anoint his head as well, but the remaining spikenard would not come out of the flask. Without hesitation, Mary shattered the vial on the flagstones. Scooping the remaining lotion up with her hands she applied it to Jesus’ hair.

Judas raised his chin and said with utter contempt, “Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? Why has this woman been keeping this back from us? It’s worth a year’s wages!”

Jesus addressed Judas, but he kept his gaze fixed on Mary. When he gestured, she raised her downturned face, and he looked into her eyes. “Leave her alone. It was intended she should save this perfume for the day of my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”1

I couldn’t keep my thoughts from returning then to my vineyard. The grapes, so carefully tended, had to be crushed before they became wine. Even then the juice had to undergo a transformation before being released from the tomb of the barrels.

What in Jesus’ words put all that in my mind?

What did it all mean, and when would I fully understand?