When Jesus Wept

Chapter 5



When I received Judah’s message bidding me to come to supper at his Jerusalem home, I had mixed emotions: eagerness and some anxiety. Judah was my best friend, and more than that, we were partners in business ventures. There was much I wanted to discuss with him.

Whatever was spoken of in the halls of power in the City of David or elsewhere within Rome’s Imperial arms, Judah knew. What I wanted to hear most from him was: what does Rome think of another rumored Jewish messiah? What does Rome think of Jesus of Nazareth?

With so much to discuss, why did I hesitate to take the first steps of an hour’s pleasant stroll toward Jerusalem?

Because Judah had a younger sister named Jemima.

Our families had been close for generations. We were even related—Judah and Jemima being cousins to me through my mother’s line. There had once been a time when my father and Judah’s had plotted and schemed to weld us even more closely together through marriage.

When I was fifteen and Jemima eleven, the idea had seemed absurd to me. After all, did I not have two annoying sisters of my own? Why would I want to marry one such?

By the time I was seventeen and she a vivacious and marriageable thirteen, I had already fallen in love elsewhere, and the notion was shelved. Jemima had never married, and Judah had hinted to me more than once that I had broken her heart.

While I now felt ready to turn from my oppressive grief and take an interest in the world again, still I had vowed to never remarry. But if I ever did, I told myself, it would be someone like Jemima I would seek.

That was a troubling and not a comforting thought.



Anticipation and trepidation dogged my steps from Bethany to the outskirts of Jerusalem. The sun was high and beat upon my back as I moved with the throng. The wide road, built by conscripted labor in the time of Herod the Great, was packed with caravans, commerce, and pilgrims. Righteous and unrighteous rubbed shoulders in the ascent. The sounds of psalms mingled with bawling camels and shouts of drovers urging their livestock forward.

I peered up at the watchmen on the walls above the gate. Sunlight glinted on the armor of a Roman soldier.

A poor farmer, with his wife and children gathered around him, sang a psalm of treason against the oppressors who scowled down at us from the parapet. His voice was a rich baritone so beautiful that it rivaled any in the Temple chorus:

“For your servant David’s sake,

do not turn away the face of your Anointed.

The Lord has sworn in truth to David;

he will not turn from it;

of the fruit of your body will I set upon your throne

if your children will keep my covenant.”1

A current of humanity from around the world surged upward toward towers and walls that enclosed the great Temple first built eight hundred years before by King Solomon to honor the Most High God of Israel. Along with other pilgrims entering the Holy City, I joined him in the psalm:

“For the Lord has chosen Zion;

he has desired it as his habitation.

This is my resting place for ever;

here I will dwell, for I have desired it.

I will abundantly bless her provision;

I will satisfy her poor with bread.

I will also clothe her priests with salvation:

and her saints shall shout aloud for joy.”2

We all knew the Presence of the Lord had long since departed from the Temple. The priests were corrupt and in league with our oppressors. The poor who came to Zion to worship were cheated in the Temple courts. Though they prayed for Messiah to come, their prayers for deliverance seemed to go unheard. Beggars camped along the road and held their cups out to passersby.

Still, we sang in defiance of reality. We fixed our hopes on the promise of what would come to Zion some day.

“Behold, how good and how pleasant it is

for brethren to dwell together in unity!

It is like precious oil upon the head,

the beard of Aaron,

running down on the edge of his garments.”3

The brute soldiers played a game: spitting on our heads as we approached the pedestrian entrance. I saw them grin at one another when an old man glanced up in thanks to God and was splattered in the face.

I chose to enter the broad commerce gate instead. I walked beside a camel for safety as we entered the tunnel that opened into a teeming marketplace inside the city walls. Tax collectors, merchants, and thieves occupied that place. All were of the same mind: to prey on the weary travelers.

“Wine to drink!” A child, barely taller than the clay jug he stood beside, and much the same shade of earthy brown in skin and clothing, offered a cup dipped from the amphora to a burly traveler.

The pilgrim was dressed like a Greek. He paid his penny and drank deeply. In a flash a cutpurse moved in and stole the man’s money pouch, dashing into the throng. A cry of surprise and fury rang out. The victim threw down the cup, and I joined him as we pursued the young thief through the booths and livestock.

“Stop! Thief!” I cried, as the young man purposely knocked down a cascade of wicker baskets, blocking our way.

The stranger I had tried to help stumbled and fell. Our pursuit ended when the thief vanished in the mob.

Winded and drenched with sweat, the pilgrim let me help him to his feet. “I’m sorry,” I said as I brushed him off. “He’s gone.”

The fellow’s lips pursed in disappointment. “He did not get everything. But he took enough. I am Porthos of Athens. Traveled far to worship the Lord in Zion. Now I must pray that I will be able to pay my fare and return home again. I thank you, friend.”

“My estate is not far from the city. Bethany. I am David ben Lazarus. Ask for me in the village if you need a place to stay.” Glancing toward the sun, I knew that I was late. Judah and Jemima would be waiting the noon meal for my arrival. I parted from Porthos. Clamping one hand tightly over my moneybelt, I hurried toward Judah’s house.

It was hot. I covered my nose against the stink of animal dung that littered the paving stones leading from the souk.

The streets were steep and narrow beyond the clamor. Feeling a sense of relief as I left the confusion behind, I turned to the right and climbed a series of steps, rising from the hovels of the poor toward the mansions of Jerusalem’s wealthiest citizens.

Judah’s mansion was high on the western hill, with a clear view of the Temple Mount and the palaces belonging to the Roman governor, Tetrarch Herod Antipas, and the high priest. The blocky bulk of the Antonia Fortress, barracks of Roman soldiers, glowered down on the Temple courts to stifle dissent. Worship your Jewish god if you choose, it seemed to say, but know that Caesar is lord.

For High Priest Caiaphas, over whom the Antonia’s shadow daily fell, this dichotomy of deities was no struggle at all. He, like his father-in-law, the high priest Annas before him, had long since compromised their piety in exchange for wealth and power.

Our Roman oppressors and their henchmen passed by the walls of Judah’s house many times through the day, coming and going to their own grand mansions. As I emerged from the winding alleyway onto the broad avenue, trumpets proclaimed the procession of Roman cavalry accompanying a nobleman on horseback. I guessed they were on their way to see Governor Pilate.

Pausing in the shadows, I watched them approach. Pedestrians scrambled out of the way of prancing horses and the hobnailed boots of the foot soldiers.

The celebrity, a middle-aged man dressed in gold-trimmed robes, rode a dappled gray horse. The animal was barely under control. Eyes wide with fright at the noise and nostrils flared, the creature danced sideways up the road. Iron-shod hooves sparked on the flagstones. In a glance I knew the horse was not safe to ride. No doubt the man on its back had chosen his mount for pride and the aura of strength and not for manners.

A fitting metaphor for many things about Rome, I thought.

I looked toward Judah’s house and spotted movement outside the entry. Was that Judah and Jemima in the street? My friend and his sister were standing beside a cart loaded with oil jugs. I was late. Perhaps they were there watching for my arrival. I waved, catching Judah’s attention.

As he spotted me, he jumped up on the cart, waving to return my greeting. The rear latch of the cart failed, and five precariously balanced amphorae tumbled out just as the Roman nobleman neared the spot. The containers of oily fluid crashed onto the pavement right in front of the skittish horse. The animal whinnied and reared. Its master tried to control the panic, but iron shoes slipped on oiled stone, and the horse crashed down, throwing the rider against Judah’s wall.

There was no time to think. I ran toward the injured man. Bodyguards with shields and swords pushed me back, as if I had intended to harm the bloodied rider.

“They tried to assassinate the ambassador!”

“Go! Quickly! Arrest them!”

“Sedition! The house of Judah ben Perez! A rebel!”

As Judah’s gates crashed open, I tried to explain what had happened, what I had witnessed. “An accident! It was an accident! I’m their guest. They were looking for me. The jugs broke loose! It was not meant to harm.”

I was beaten into silence by an apelike sergeant who lunged from the ranks. He knocked me to the ground with the handle of his javelin, striking me hard on shoulders and head. He continued to hammer me long after I stopped resisting.

The last thing I remember was the screams of the women inside the gate and the command from the decurion: “Arrest them! A nest of rebels, this House of Perez! Take them all away!” I tried to shield my head as blows continued. And then I passed out.