When Jesus Wept

by Bodie Thoene

  The Levite choirs sang on in the background …

  “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the LORD.

  From the house of the LORD we bless you.”5

  The religious leaders were outraged as Jesus said these things. They picked up stones and were ready to stone him right then and there.

  I whispered to Peter, “We’ve got to get him out of here.”

  But Jesus answered his accusers, “I have shown you many good works from the Father; for which of them are you going to stone me?”

  Caiaphas stepped forward then. “It’s not for a good work that we are going to stone you, but for blasphemy. Because you, being a man, make yourself God.”

  The priests and scholars could not match wits with Jesus. He quoted back to them from Scriptures, refuting every false charge they made against him. He ended the discussion that evening with this: “If I’m not doing the works of my Father, then don’t believe me. But if I do them, even though you don’t believe in me, believe the works. That way you’ll know and understand that the Father is in me, and I am in the Father.”6

  The chorus continued singing:

  “The stone the builders rejected

  has become the cornerstone;

  the Lord has done this,

  and it is marvelous in our eyes!”7

  The council sent for the guards to arrest Jesus. But the Jerusalem Sparrows snuffed out their torches. People moved in, jostling and shoving, shouting back at the Temple guards. Jesus slipped away, escaping from their clutches.

  We hurried back to Bethany, where the Lord spent one more night. Then he left us, crossing the Jordan River to safety where John the Baptizer had been at first, and there he and his close disciples remained.

  Fame from his miracles reached far and wide. People came from everywhere to seek him. They said, “John never performed miracles, but everything John said about this man Jesus was true.”

  And many believed in Jesus in that place.

  I rejoiced as the memory of a song of the Levite choirs at the Temple washed over me …

  “You are my God and I will give praise you;

  you are my God and I will exalt you.

  Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good;

  his love endures forever!”8

  Chapter 25

  It was in winter, just after Jesus of Nazareth and his followers departed for the region of Perea, that the strangling sickness came to Jerusalem. I learned the grim news when Centurion Marcus Longinus galloped his black stallion to Bethany in search of the Healer. Otherwise the Jerusalem Sparrows would die, Marcus said.

  Plagues were common enough in Jerusalem, especially among the poor. And there were few who lived more desperate lives than the Jerusalem Sparrows, the Link Boys who resided in the ancient quarries. It was said, “Sparrows are sold two for a penny.” The Link Boys were paid a penny for a pair of them to assist travelers in finding their way around Jerusalem by night. The Sanhedrin voted the orphans a charitable allowance: a supply of wood for torches. Such was the charity of Lord Caiaphas.

  A penny earned might buy bread for a day … but not much else. The Sparrows scavenged or begged for the rest of their needs. When fares were scarce and donations dried up, the boys were left starving and freezing.

  Now this.

  “They’ll die by the dozens, and it will spread,” Marcus reported. “I hoped to find Jesus … to take him back there with me.”

  “It’s because of threats against his life that we urged him to move away from Jerusalem,” I said. “You know Lord Caiaphas has spies watching for him. So does Herod Antipas. Is there nothing we can do ourselves, so we don’t have to ask him to return?”

  Marcus looked doubtful. “I’ve seen such a plague take hold in Rome. Thousands died—mostly beggars and children—but anyone who cares for them will be risking the same.”

  “I’ll go,” I volunteered. “I’m no physician, but surely blankets and decent food will help. It’s the least I can do.”

  Martha shook her finger in my face. “I’ll not have you going alone. I’m coming too.”

  “We have lives to protect here,” I countered. “Tell her, Marcus.”

  “He’s right,” the centurion agreed. “You have no idea how bad it is, Martha. The children Mary brought with her from Galilee must not be exposed to this plague. You and she must stay here and care for them. No one should go back and forth until the crisis passes. Only someone who can remain there should go.”

  “And that means me,” I said firmly. “The vines are dormant. This year’s vintage is in the barrels. I get restless this time of year anyway. I’ll go, and Peniel can help me. Besides, Martha, you never had this illness. Mary and her servant, Tavita may be safe because they already had it. Peniel says he also had it as a child, but you never did.”

  The underground caverns that were home to the Sparrows were gloomy and fearful at all times. Now the sounds of coughing and low moaning reverberated the length of the low ceilings.

  It was terrifying. A score of children were already dead.

  Threescore more were gripped by the plague: feverish, shivering, hollow-eyed, and listless. “Dear God of Heaven, where do we even begin?” I murmured my prayer of supplication even as my mind wrestled with the problem. “They must be moved,” I decided. “These tunnels are too cold and drafty. They’ll all be dead in days.”

  “I agree,” Marcus said, ordering men to stir the meager fires and sending others to round up blankets. “But where can we take them? We don’t want the plague to spread, nor cause a panic that one is spreading.”

  “Leave that to me,” I offered. “Stoke the fires and get them some water. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  The first three empty buildings I offered to rent suddenly became unavailable when I explained the need. Fear and superstition overcame greed.

  It was not until I located an empty olive-oil storage warehouse outside the Damascus Gate that I was successful. The building had been vacant for a year. The owner was eager to see it earn some payment, his broker said, and in any case, the landlord lived in Antioch and never visited the property. “Make it worth his while and it’s yours,” the steward said, not even asking me my purpose for the space.

  “Short term,” I said. “I’ll pay you three months’ rent for two months’ use if I can take possession today.”

  “Done,” the steward said, stretching out his upturned palm to receive a pile of silver coins.

  I recruited a team of beggars who were also eager to earn some of the coins from my money pouch. With their assistance, soon my hospital took shape. In short order I acquired braziers and charcoal to heat the drafty space, rope-strung sleeping pallets, cook pots and fresh water, and a supply of bread and beans.

  When all this was organized and ready to receive the children, I sent my crew off to carry them back. Of the residents of Jerusalem, it was the beggars who had little fear of the plague. They had lived with near starvation much of their lives and often saw dreadful diseases up close. Finding their next meal was more important. This pestilence had no terror for them—at least, not yet. Unlike the wealthy, including Lord Caiaphas and Tetrarch Antipas, who escaped to safer locations, the poor had no means of escape.

  The glowing embers of the braziers raised the temperature of the hall. Bubbling pots of stew scented the air. I made my way along rows of boys, spooning broth into mouths.

  The first Sparrow, a lad of ten named Suda, was clad in little more than rags. He apologized for coughing. His eyes were bright with fever, but after a few mouthfuls of soup, he sat up and leaned back against the wall. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Will you give some to my brother now? He’s only six and needs it more than me.”

  “What’s your brother’s name, and how will I know him?”

  “Hiram,” Suda replied. “He has a blue head scarf.” Suda surveyed the warehouse. “I don’t see him, but he was sleeping next to me in the caves.”

  Peniel touched my elbow. Drawing me
aside, he said, “Hiram didn’t make it.”

  Returning to Suda, I offered him more broth. “We’ll see to your brother, boy. Right now you must eat and get well yourself.”

  Big tears welled in his eyes, and he turned away from me. “He’s dead, isn’t he? I promised to care for him … and I failed.”

  With some difficulty, Marcus Longinus finally located a doctor who would come to our aid.

  I was attempting to feed another of the Sparrows. Jason was his name, and he said his throat hurt too badly to swallow. “And …,” he gasped, “my chest hurts. Can’t breathe good.”

  The physician, a Greek by the name of Sosthenes, asked another boy to open his mouth. By the light of an oil lamp held nearby, he examined the lad’s tongue and throat. What he saw there caused him to narrow his eyes and frown.

  Gesturing for me to follow him, he showed me the progression of the disease, from simple fever and cough, to constricted breathing and lethargy, and then to a third patient worse than the rest.

  This boy—no one seemed to know his name—was barely responsive to the doctor’s touch. His body was racked by spasms of coughing, and he shivered continuously. Each gasping breath made him raise his shoulders and gulp for air, like a drowning man … or one being crucified.

  More horror followed. Lifting the boy’s head and turning it so the flickering light shown into his mouth, Sosthenes called for me to come closer.

  What I saw caused me to draw back with disgust. Inside the boy’s lips, his tongue and throat were carpeted with a grayish-green monstrosity.

  “What … what is that?” I demanded.

  “Strangling sickness,” the physician reported grimly. “They all have it, but this is where it leads if untreated. ‘Leather-hide,’ it’s called.”

  “What do we do for it?” I asked urgently. It appeared some evil creature had crawled into the boy’s throat and was choking him to death. “For him?”

  Sosthenes shook his head. “For this one, it’s already too late. He’ll be dead by tomorrow.”

  “Can’t you yank that … that thing … out of there?”

  Marcus put his hand on my shoulder. “I saw this before. Even if you cut it loose, the boy would choke on his own blood and … it grows back.”

  I shuddered, then turned to look around the hall. Every conscious soul seemed to be gazing at me, imploring me to save them. The echoing of coughing and sniffling multiplied and resonated as if the warehouse itself were in the grip of the disease. “Dear God, not all of them,” I pleaded.

  The doctor’s manner was brusque and businesslike. “You won’t save all of them,” he snapped tersely. “But you won’t lose them all either, if you do exactly what I say.”

  Sosthenes prepared a list of medications and a treatment schedule: lemon oil to be added to boiling water to steam the room … oil of camphor in sweet wine, spooned into their gaping mouths … another oil, whose name I had never heard before, used to paint throats three times a day …

  Just as the doctor was concluding his instructions, a Roman soldier marched up to Marcus, saluted, and presented a scroll sealed with the mark of Governor Pilate. Marcus read the message, grimaced, and said, “I’m ordered—ordered!—not to provide help. A Jewish problem, the governor says.”

  “Someone has pressured him,” I said bitterly. “The Temple authorities want to use this as a trap to bring Jesus back to Jerusalem.” I thought of the dozens of innocent lives being risked by the high priest’s plot, and it made me angry and determined. “I know the power Jesus has,” I said, grasping Peniel’s wrist. “I know he told us to use his name in speaking to the Father … and that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

  I expended my silver like water, buying supplies and medicine. Peniel hiked to my home and waited outside the gates. Martha filled a leather pouch with coins and carried on a shouted conversation about the progression of the disease. Peniel purchased what was needed and trudged back to the hospital.

  Soon it seemed even that effort would not be enough to keep up with the plague’s demanding maw. Roman soldiers rounded up Jerusalem’s beggars at spearpoint and forced them into my shelter. Most were not ill, but since the plague had begun among the poorest of the citizens, the wisdom of the powerful was that the disease itself could be confined if the beggars were all imprisoned.

  A ring of troopers surrounded the warehouse. They were not present to lend any assistance, only to see that none escaped … unless carried out dead.

  The space that had seemed ample for the army of boys was now jammed wall-to-wall with a hundred patients.

  I wrote a letter to Nicodemus, imploring him to ask the Jewish Council to send aid.

  What I got in response—with Nicodemus’s apology for the lack of caring on behalf of the Council—were four crones, matrons from the women’s prison. They were greasy, surly, uncooperative, brutish wretches barely qualified to empty chamber pots.

  Much of my time was occupied carrying out Sosthenes’ instructions. He urged me to pay special attention to swabbing throats with the tincture he called phytolacca. It was the only means, he said, of stopping the progression of the disease into its acute phase.

  My thoughts were haunted by dread of the malevolent olive-hued evil creeping down young throats and choking out their lives.

  I dedicated myself to the task, though it was far from simple.

  Eight-year-old Jason was braced against my knee as I sat on the floor. In one hand I held a bowl of the mixture. In the other I had a sprig of hyssop as a brush. Each time I attempted to paint his throat Jason would gag, cough, and spray phytolacca on both of us. Then he would apologize, and we would try again.

  Meanwhile I was surrounded by pitiful cries for water. These were supplemented by the whimpering moans of children unable to care for their own sanitary needs.

  “Rapha,” I said, calling the senior of the matrons, “Rapha, do you hear? Can you attend the water, please?”

  She and her sisters looked around at me like a herd of cows studies a passing rabbit, then resumed their gossiping. A phalanx of unfeeling, lazy flesh prevented the comfort of a charcoal brazier from reaching the patients. The women warmed their hands around the fire and studiously ignored me.

  “Rapha!” I repeated more sharply. “I need your help!”

  “But sir,” she whined, “didn’t you just tell me to stir the kettle so the stew don’t burn?”

  “How long does that take?”

  She sniffed and sounded abused and unappreciated when she put her hand to the small of her back and said, “It’s this cold and damp. My old bones don’t move as well as they used to.”

  Her complaint provoked a chorus of sympathy from her cronies. They also made sure to let me know that all these duties were beneath their station in life. According to Rapha, performing chores for beggars was lower than keeping hogs.

  “And besides,” Rapha said, “none of us has no medical training. We wouldn’t want to do something wrong and accidentally kill one of these boys.”

  The only success I had making them be of use was when I threatened to stop their food. Even that consequence only served before they had eaten. After sucking down a bowlful of lentils each, they were just as obnoxious and arrogantly slothful as before.

  On more than one occasion I caught them stealing bites of stew that were supposed to go into the patients’ mouths. They also hid bits of bread in their clothing.

  In almost every instance it was easier for me to perform the tasks myself, unless I was free to stand right over the women as they worked. The only reason I got any work out of them at all was that the guards stationed around my hospital had orders that no one could leave, so they had no choice but to remain.

  The physician had expressly ordered that the medication, the doses of camphor in sweet oil, had to go on around the clock. Otherwise, he said, we had small hope of saving any of the patients. For that reason I had to snatch a few minutes’ sleep whenever I could.

  It was not often. The rasping
coughs and the cries for help kept me awake most times. If these sounds were not enough to prevent slumber, Rapha’s snoring was.

  After a few days I was exhausted, stumbling from boy to boy in a stupor almost as profound as the worst of the ill. In the morning I penned a note appealing to my sisters for help. I did not know what they could do, but I was at my wits’ end.

  The help that came in response to my note was more than I could ever have imagined. The day after I sent Peniel to Bethany with my appeal, my sister Mary and her servant Tavita appeared at the hospital. Within moments of taking in the situation, they also took charge.

  “We will not risk asking Rabbi Jesus to return,” Tavita said.

  “And didn’t Rabboni tell us to ask whatever we needed in his name and his Father would hear us?” added Mary. “So, we’re asking! Almighty Father, we are not worthy that you should do anything for us, but in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, and by his direction, we do ask. Help us save these boys!”

  Then Tavita added, “And we’re going to keep on asking too!”

  Mary whispered to me, “Putting the Almighty on notice is a new achievement, even for Tavita.”

  “She has always intimidated me,” I confessed.

  “Now that we’re here you must sleep,” Mary urged.

  “But the next round of treatments—”

  “Can wait for one hour,” Mary replied. “You nap, and we’ll organize. That’s it. Off to the quietest corner with the cleanest blanket. There you go.”

  Truthfully, I did not require much urging. I think I was asleep while my feet were still moving toward my pallet.

  I drifted off, listening to Mary stating her plans and Tavita barking orders. The last comment I remember before slumber claimed me was Mary observing to Rapha: “You will obey everything Tavita tells you to do, and you will do it immediately and without complaint. Or do you know what? I will see that you are returned to the prison as inmates for pilfering supplies! And you’ll be confined in the lowest, coldest cell.”