by Bodie Thoene
Speaking to the boy as if the two were alone instead of in front of a hundred onlookers, Nicodemus gently inquired, “How did it happen?”
“The man who put the mud on my eyes …”
“Jesus of Nazareth,” Nicodemus supplied.
“Yes!” Peniel’s face lit up with joy. “He told me to go to the Pool of Siloam.”
“And after?”
“Afterward, I went home, seeing!”
The two Pharisees flanking Nicodemus could not be restrained any longer. Darting at Peniel from either side of Nicodemus, they demanded, “What have you to say about him? This sorcerer?”
“Yes, what? It was your eyes he opened. What do you say?”
It filled me with angry amusement to watch these men, who believed themselves to be scholars—lifelong, pious students of Torah—awaiting a reply from the potter’s son. The whole room leaned forward to hear what the formerly blind beggar of Nicanor Gate would say.
“Well,” Peniel said, “he must be a prophet. How else could he perform such a miracle?”
Both of Peniel’s antagonists threw up their hands in disgust. One swung around and leveled an accusatory finger at Peniel’s father and mother, hustled to the front of the mob, and cowered there. “Is this your son? Is this the one who was born blind? How is it that he now can see?”
I saw tension and sorrow creep into Peniel’s face, and I shivered. He was afraid his own parents would betray him for fear of the Temple authorities.
“We know he’s our son,” Peniel’s father said slowly, as if by stating the obvious he could escape some sort of trap.
Peniel’s mother added, “Yes, he was born blind. But how he can see now, or who opened his eyes, we don’t know. How could we know? We weren’t even there, were we?”
If Peniel’s father was a man of few words and less courage, his wife made up for any lack of verbiage while managing to still disown her boy. “Why ask us? He’s of age. He’s a man. Ask him. Go on, ask him. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Peniel gazed at the floor with the bitter knowledge that his mother and father would not speak up for him. They would sacrifice him to preserve themselves. Nicodemus grasped Peniel by the shoulders and gave him an encouraging squeeze.
Through gritted teeth the prosecutor said, “We … know … the man … who did this … is a sinner.”
He managed to make it sound so vile and hateful that I expected Peniel to also recoil and denounce Jesus.
Instead, he lifted his chin to the light and raised his beautiful, clear, brand-new set of eyes toward heaven. In a voice that rang throughout the chamber and carried even beyond the door to the plaza outside, he declared, “Whether he is a sinner or not, I don’t know. One thing I do know: I was blind … completely, totally, and utterly blind … and now I see!”
“But how? How did he do this?”
Peniel let a little exasperation creep into his tone when he replied, “I already told you, and you didn’t listen. Why do you want to hear it again?” A sly smile played across Peniel’s lips when he added, “Do you want to become his disciples too?”
With that they bundled him toward the exit, all the while heaping abuse on him. They demanded more answers, then howled with rage when he would not admit Jesus was a sinner and a lawbreaker. They offered excuses for their unbelief, growing less and less coherent, while Peniel grew ever more confident and sure of himself.
When argument failed, they returned to the original imprecation, having nothing left to offer: “You were steeped in sin at birth. How dare you lecture us?”
And they threw him out.2
“Let’s go after him,” Nicodemus urged, “and see that no harm comes to him. He and his grace-filled faith are worth more than all the rest of these pious imposters put together.”
Sometime later I learned that Jesus went looking for Peniel and found him. Peniel, the man born blind, became one of the most fervent disciples of Jesus of Nazareth and a living witness to the reality of his power. Because of his love for stories, the former beggar of Nicanor Gate became Peniel the scribe, recording the deeds of the one who gave him sight.
Part Three
Then the LORD was jealous for his land
and took pity on his people….
The trees are bearing their fruit;
the fig tree and the vine yield their riches….
I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten.
JOEL 2:18, 22B, 25A
Chapter 17
The beheading of John the Baptizer was proof that Herod Antipas feared his wife more than he feared God. Like Ahab and Jezebel, the two brought judgment on the land just as John had warned. It was a difficult year for the righteous and the unrighteous together.
First, news of the approaching plague came in the heat of high summer. A hard-riding messenger was sent to us from our sister Mary in Magdala. Covered with the dust of his journey, he arrived before sunrise. His horse was lathered and near collapse.
“Open the gates! I bring urgent news from the Galil! Call Master Lazarus!”
I was already awake when Martha knocked on the door of my bedchamber. “Brother! A rider comes from Mary! Bad news, I fear!”
I dressed quickly and hurried to the courtyard.
Martha was beside the fountain. “Perhaps Mary is ill.”
A single locust buzzed into the courtyard and fell to the stone floor at Martha’s feet. She gasped and jumped to the side. I glanced into the fountain and scooped out three dead insects. The largest was half the size of my index finger.
I examined them in my palm. “For several days our vineyard workers have been killing locusts. Frying them for supper.
A delicacy. This time of year there are always a few stray locusts from the desert. Never so many that they can do harm.”
Martha frowned. “Cook is from Ethiopia. She saw such plagues with her own eyes. She told me of the famine and misery that followed.”
I hurried toward the stable where the rider waited. Remembering stories of biblical plagues, I reasoned that the sins of Herod and his wife could well bring a heavenly judgment on the land.
Samson and Patrick and two dozen workers gathered around me as I read Mary’s warning aloud.
Greetings, my brother and sister,
I send this letter in hopes you may devise a plan to save your vines. I know harvest is near, yet still the grapes cannot be ripe enough to pick. Judgment comes from the north. Swarms of locusts, in clouds so dense that they darken the sun, are flying south. Do what you can to save your vines. In hopes you are well, your sister, Mary.
The rider sat on a heap of hay and filled his cheeks with bread. “They’re coming, for certain. They’ll eat every green leaf and shoot by the time they’re done. A swarm in Syria, miles wide.”
I asked the exhausted servant, “And Galilee?”
“Thousands north of the sea. Landed upon the grazing land, and when they flew away there was not one blade of grass left. Everything. Down to the bare dirt. Vineyards destroyed. Your sister says if you act now, you are a clever fellow and may have time to prepare.”
I looked to Samson for wisdom. The old man’s face was grim. He inclined his head toward Patrick.
“I set Patrick onto this last week when the very first rumor came from Tyre. Aye. The lad’s got something to say, if you don’t mind, sir.”
Patrick cleared his throat. “I saw such a plague come when I served with the Roman army in Egypt. They stripped every tree and flower. Destroyed every crop before they left. Crawled into the beds of the mighty and tormented the poor. Drove the livestock mad. Fell into the water and the children’s milk. Ate the fodder for the cattle. Stripped the vineyards clean. Leaving nothing behind but hunger, sir.”
“What is to be done?” I spread my hands wide.
Samson spoke up. “Me and the lad have been thinking on this, sir. In case the rumor’s true. There may be a way to save some vineyards and possibly a portion of the fig crop.”
Pat
rick agreed. “The vines, yes. Partly. The orchards will be more difficult.”
“If you can help us do this, Patrick, you will be well rewarded.”
He tucked his chin. “I will do this for the good of fighting such a mindless, faceless enemy, sir. But since you offer, I will ask one reward, sir.”
“Name it.”
“My freedom.”
“Done!”
He continued. “And not just myself, sir, but the girl Adrianna, Samson’s adopted daughter. She is sixteen years old thereabouts. As near as she can figure. Old enough to marry. I’d like her as a wife. And her freedom too.”
Samson nodded his approval.
It was an offer I accepted gladly. I clapped hands with Patrick in a bargain. “Before the Lord God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, you shall be a free man.”
“For such a prize I’ll do all I am able.”
Samson seemed pleased. “Patrick has fought these flying devils before. God has sent him to you to save what can be saved.”
The Galilean messenger warned, “Unless there is a miracle, you have perhaps three days before the swarm overshadows Judea.”
With a walking stick, Patrick etched our battle plan in the dirt. “We must cut firebreaks between the vines. We must sacrifice some. What you choose, we will attempt to save.”
“How do we decide between them?” I looked to Samson.
The old man replied, “The hoppers will ride on the wind. The prevailing wind. From the north.”
I considered the logic of our situation. “The decision is simple, then. The vineyard on the northwest hill faces the wind. It must be sacrificed. Those vines produce more grapes, as you have said, but weaker … less quality.”
Samson nodded. “A wise choice. We concentrate on saving the best first. Then, if there is time, perhaps the others.”
I caught the vision. “Then the Faithful vines on the south hill.”
Patrick agreed. “Yes. We erect tall poles at both ends of the vine rows. At the top of the hill, dividing north from south. Suspend palm fronds, coated with pitch, upon the posts.”
Samson scratched the ears of his goats. “You’ll need to hire more laborers.”
Martha, who had been pale and silent through it all, at last said, “Three days. Is that enough time?”
Patrick nodded. “Just. If we begin this instant.”
Her chin jutted in determination. “We must do our best.”
Samson concurred. “We must focus on vineyards. Harvest the figs that are ripe today. All else must be let go.”
Patrick agreed. “Locusts can eat their weight in foliage in one day. When the monsters land on your pastures and begin to feast, we must set fire to the fields.”
I considered the loss of grazing land in Galilee and Judea alone. What would that mean to the livestock in the coming year?
Martha was somber. “The women can help.”
Patrick instructed, “Every hand, man, woman, and child must cut and gather palm fronds. And coat them with pitch.” He turned toward Martha. “The men must be fed and cared for.”
Martha took up the challenge. “Feed an army? This I can do.”
Samson tugged his beard in deep thought. Raising his eyes heavenward, he said, “We must pray as we work. Hell has opened and spewed forth destruction.”
Samson set two dozen men at work, cutting a firebreak between Faithful Vineyard and the north vines. They started at the top of the rocky hill, stripping away branches to separate that which we would fight to save and that which we would give over to the evil.
I knew the fig groves could ultimately survive the locusts and severe pruning. Samson marked the best trees. Fruit had ripened on the sunny west side. Three teams of two men each began harvesting ripe figs, placing them in clay jars, and leaving what was not ripe. Others followed with pruning hooks to hack off leaves and limbs and unripe fruit for fodder to feed my flocks.
Oxen dragged the dead wood into strategic piles heaped up and prepared for the torch.
Patrick began construction of the frameworks that would support our shield against the enemy.
While I saddled my horse, Martha organized the feeding of our workers.
I rode to the village. In the marketplace, news had already spread about the scourge that was descending upon all Israel. By noon I had hired seventy-two strong men and sent them to the estate, promising each a denarius for a day’s work.
Speculation about the cause of the scourge had begun. “God’s judgment upon Herod for the murder of John the Baptizer.”
“Aye. That’s it. The Baptizer lived on locusts and honey, they say. So the locusts are sent for revenge.” In Galilee the fields of Herod Antipas had already been devoured, but the vineyards of many righteous had also been consumed.
“Herod and the Romans will be after stealing any crops that are saved when their own are gone. Wish the Almighty would just smite the wicked for their crimes and not let all of us suffer ill.”
Though I understood their feelings, I knew the Lord had given us sound reasoning and ways to defeat such a plague. I said, “Come to help only if you have faith strong enough to stand and fight.”
When I returned home, I brought with me an army preparing for battle.
Chapter 18
The following morning there was still no sign of imminent doom. I rose before dawn after a fitful, sleepless night. To the west, hanging above the Mount of Olives, the star Vega shone like a blazing torch in the midst of King David’s Harp. I prayed for courage and strength. As I faced about toward where the sun would soon punch its way over the heights of Moab, the orange eye of Aldebaran and the kindlier twinkle of Capella studied me from the placid heavens.
It was the northern sky that drew my attention. The breeze in my face was barely a whisper. I sniffed as if trying to catch the odor of trouble above the aroma of blooming flowers and ripening figs.
Was there an acrid tinge to the otherwise sweet morning air, or was I imagining it? I had eaten roasted grasshoppers before and did not care for them. There was a bitter, almost metallic sensation connected with the taste and smell, but perhaps that was a result of the oil in which they were cooked.
Was I truly scenting a locust horde on the wind? Or was it merely my nervous mind playing tricks on me?
The men I hired to help defend the vines slept wrapped in their cloaks at the end of the rows in case the plague arrived during the night. Now it seemed as if I had paid for an expensive set of unneeded guests, some of whom had helped themselves to grapes and figs from my crop.
Martha awoke also and came to stand beside me as gray light spread upward in the eastern sky. “There’s fresh bread and cheese,” she offered, gesturing toward the cookhouse behind our home.
I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”
“What about the men?” she asked.
“Let them rest. If the locusts come, we may not sleep again for days.”
“Do you think they might not come this way, David?”
“It’s whatever the Almighty wills,” I said, shrugging. “If the breeze has shifted and is blowing more out of the west, then the hoppers are right now crossing Jordan to eat the Perean vineyards of Herod Antipas.”
“And well does he deserve it,” she concluded. Martha pointed toward the Judean hills in the direction of Shiloh and squinted. “The wind must be getting stronger. I think I see a dust cloud rising up.”
I stared toward the north as the sky’s pale blue luminescence increased and the stars faded. “I see it,” I finally agreed. “You have good eyes, sister. A brown smudge against the ridgeline. To left and right the hills look more sharply defined. In the middle they are blurred.”
“A dust storm would be a help, would it not?”
“Sweep the locusts away like Elijah’s whirlwind, eh?”
Samson joined us at the front gate of the estate. “The men are waking, mistress. Are the trays of bread ready?”
That was when I first noticed a persistent r
ushing sound in my ears, like the noise of surf sliding up and back a sandy shore.
I shook my head. My lack of sleep was already affecting me. I’d be better after bread and a cup of pomegranate juice.
“Bread for the men, of course,” Martha agreed. “My women and I were baking most of the night. There’s plenty.” The hissing noise increased. Now it sounded like the rasp of a pumice stone smoothing a board in a carpenter’s shop.
Over the next moments the rush became a roaring and the rasping noise grew in volume and intensity. A wind storm indeed was approaching.
Samson cupped his hand around his right ear and leaned forward. “Your pardon, mistress. What did you … ”
I saw horrified realization bloom on Samson’s wizened face at the same instant the identical thought struck me. Together we faced Shiloh and stared at the dirty brown wave now obscuring half the northern horizon.
“That’s not dust,” I said grimly. “Martha, get inside and bolt the shutters. Put all the food into cupboards and cover the jars. The plague has arrived. Go!” I nudged her toward the house, and she obeyed as Samson lurched away toward the vines, but I stayed transfixed at the sight.
The force of the wind above the trees was stronger than at ground level. The leading edge of the locust swarm dropped first on vines belonging to Herod. My orchards and vineyards would be next.
Samson moved in a shambling lope toward the crops, shouting for Patrick as he went. “Patrick! Light the smudge pots. Light them now!”
The middle rank of pests arrived. I felt the rush of air all around me. It was not a gentle breeze but the vibration of uncountable wings.
The first of the flying invaders pattered against my face and clothing like raindrops blown sideways. I brushed them away, only to have my hand encounter a half dozen more in midflight.
I turned to race toward the vineyards.
We had taken the precaution of buying tubs of tar. The pitchy substance, collected from the shore of the Dead Sea, was used to seal rooftops against rain. Ignited, it burned with an oily, smelly sputter that produced great volumes of thick black smoke. I hoped the stench and the heat would discourage the locusts. Even if it did not kill them all, perhaps the rest could be deflected into going elsewhere.
