Tempting Jesus

by Brent King

  “‘Then I was beside Him,’” he whispered, “‘as a master workman, and I was daily His delight, rejoicing always before Him.’”

  He pushed the curtain aside and slipped into an empty golden room. Exquisite etchings of angels decorated the walls, and a brilliant light shone on him from the center of Most Holy Place. It illuminated the blood that still stained his robe.

  As daylight erased the vision, Jesus drew a deep, shuddering breath. A tear traced his cheek. He drew closer to his mother.

  “I am the one,” he whispered. “I am the Deliverer—the Lamb—whose wounds will heal the nations.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Son.”

  A voice awakened Jesus. His eyes opened to darkness that yet filled the room.

  “Speak, Father,” he said, “for your servant is listening.”

  “I miss you!” The voice persisted. “I need to talk with you.”

  Jesus dressed and pulled on a coat. He tiptoed through the living room and out the front door, climbing the ladder to the roof and leaning up against the parapet. Stars scattered the heavens like wildflowers strewn across the desert after a rain. There were so many of them…

  “Father…” he said.

  He lost track of time, and too soon, a familiar voice broke upon his consciousness.

  “Jesus! Breakfast is ready!”

  The sun broke free of the horizon and corroborated his mom’s announcement.

  “I’m coming, Mom,” he said as he climbed off the roof and entered the house. A grin spread across Jesus’ face at the sight of his brothers, James and Simon.

  “Look who’s here for breakfast,” said his mother.

  Cakes and milk covered the table before his brothers. Jesus hugged them. He bowed his head at his place at the table, gave thanks for the food, and took a draft of milk. His brothers’ eyes rested on him.

  “So what did you think of the temple, Jesus?” James asked.

  Joy danced in Jesus’ eyes.

  “It’s more amazing than my dreams of it.”

  Shafts of sunlight painted him with the colors of the morning as he gazed at the distant hills through the window. His voice grew hushed.

  “To stand on Mount Zion, high and lifted up. To see the temple, whiter than the whitest white and blinding like the sun. I couldn’t take my eyes off it for days. I could never get enough.”

  “It’s a splendid sight,” James said, reaching for another cake. “It continues to amaze me too.”

  “It’s a wonder of the world,” Simon said.

  Mary set another dish of butter on the table. “None of us get used to it, but that is because Yahweh is eternally new.”

  Her eyes rested on Jesus. “I need you to take fresh cheese to the Rabbi’s wife this morning. She’s almost out.”

  Jesus picked up a cake and stood. “I’d like to talk with you more about Jerusalem when I get back.”

  His mother handed him the cloth with the cheese. He kissed her and disappeared through the front door. Jesus passed lightly over the stone streets toward the synagogue, singing a morning song of praise.

  “There he is!” cried a young man, approaching Jesus. “Mister Holier Than Thou!”

  Another teen, not much older than Jesus, blocked his path and sneered.

  “What makes you think you are so much better than the rest of us? Next time maybe you’ll join us in the fun instead of lecturing us on why you can’t.”

  Several guys stepped forward and shoved Jesus. He stumbled backward but managed to catch himself. The darkness of this assault out of nowhere startled him.

  “I didn’t mean any offense,” he said, taking more steps backward.

  His smile and gentle response didn’t appease the gang. They surrounded him, tearing the cheese from his hands and trampling it in the street.

  “We don’t need you to show us how bad we are,” they cried.

  A fist struck Jesus in the face. Pain exploded through his head as blood trickled down his chin.

  These guys intended to seriously hurt him, and he didn’t have to take it! He was God, wasn’t he?

  Jesus sprawled into the mud before the next blow. The bullies descended upon him with insults, punches, and taunts.

  “Maybe you’ll think twice before you make us look bad again!”

  Was this his Father’s will? Did his Father want him to let these guys beat him bloody?

  Of course not! His Father loved him. He wanted him to escape injury.

  Scowls and clenched fists encircled Jesus.

  “Yes, my son!” a voice spoke into Jesus’ consciousness. “Save yourself!”

  Yet, at the climax of decision, quiet words from scripture entered his troubled mind.

  “He was bruised for our iniquities…”

  No. These fists and insults were his Father’s will, spoken from antiquity.

  As Jesus slipped from consciousness, one resolution gripped his fading mind: he would not save himself.

  The lamp gripped the walls with flickering fingers as Jesus walked across the room to where Joseph was lacing up his sandals.

  “Good morning, Dad,” he said, handing him a knapsack. “You’re going to love our lunch today. I packed fish that James smoked just last week.”

  Joseph glanced up.

  “Thanks, Son,” he said. “I’ll look forward to it all morning.”

  Jesus bent and tied his own sandals before following his dad through the entry and into the twilight. The breaking light captured lush fields with its magic and encircled farmhouses spread out on either side of them as they walked along the road toward Sepphoris. The morning air invigorated Jesus. He glanced over at Joseph.

  “I like the walk to work,” Jesus said. “I don’t care if it does take most of an hour to get there.”

  “Yes,” Joseph said. “It’s a beautiful route. I only wish the road were shorter so we could be home every night.”

  “I do miss Mom,” Jesus said, “but at least we get to see Grandma and Grandpa more this way.”

  Joseph laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Always looking on the bright side,” he said. “That’s my son. It’s a blessing that Grandma and Grandpa live where they do. I’d hate to sleep in the construction pits all week like so many others.”

  “It is a blessing,” Jesus said. “Even though the work is backbreaking, Grandma is a good cook, and the bed is soft.”

  His dad nodded.

  “I’ve often wondered how we would survive if Herod weren’t building this great city so close to us.”

  “The Lord would provide,” Jesus said. “He always does.”

  They skirted a broken cart and continued north across the fertile valley. A star shone bright on the eastern horizon toward the Sea of Galilee. It reminded Jesus of the story of the star that the wise men followed at his birth. He’d listened to it many times, but this morning, for whatever reason, he yearned to hear it once more.

  “Dad,” he said, “tell me again about the Magi and the star.”

  Joseph’s eyes connected with his, their corners crinkling.

  “That seems so long ago, way back in the good old days when I still ran the shop at home.”

  Joseph gazed at the distant mountains.

  “Times were better then…so much has changed.”

  “I know, Dad,” Jesus said. “I feel bad. You’ve had to work so hard all these years in Sepphoris.”

  Joseph’s eyes returned to Jesus.

  “It is what it is,” he said. “But back when you were born, the world was full of miracles. It was a time of angels, magical stars, and mysterious men from the east. Even common shepherds joined in the enchantment.”

  For a quarter hour, Joseph recounted the story again—the gold, the Magi, the angels, and more. Jesus focused on the eastern star and imagined it all over again. When Joseph finished, he gazed over at Jesus.

  “I didn’t expect a miracle like you or Mom to come into my life,” he said. “You were a wonder chil
d.”

  The sun broke free of the horizon as Joseph spoke. The star faded as shafts of sunlight spread richer tones across the morning canvas. Jesus moved closer to his dad.

  “What does it all mean?” he asked.

  His dad cast his eyes once more upon the waning star to the east. The moments ticked by as their feet fell upon the dusty highway.

  “I wouldn’t say this if I hadn’t experienced these things,” he said at last. “If I hadn’t seen them with my own eyes and heard them with my own ears—for it is incredible to say, much less to believe.”

  He stopped in the road and faced Jesus, laying a hand on his shoulder again.

  “But the scriptures foretell it,” he said. “I’ve read them over and over again.”

  Joseph stared long into his son’s eyes before he spoke.

  “You are the Great Deliverer, Son,” he said. “That means that you are all those things that have been prophesied of the Messiah: Emmanuel, The Lamb of God, Savior, The Prince of Peace, The Beginning and the End, The Great I Am,” he paused to glance again into the east before he finished, “and the Bright and Morning Star.”

  Joseph fell to his knees in front of Jesus, still holding his gaze.

  “I keep these things in my heart,” he said, “as does your mother, for no one would ever believe them. Yet I believe them, not only because of the miracle of your birth, but also because I have lived with you through all these years. I have seen how you’ve never thrown a tantrum or spoken a harsh word, but always displayed a kind and gentle spirit. I have seen how sin tortures you. It’s like you chose to obey your Father before you were born…”

  Tears brimmed in Joseph’s eyes.

  “Who am I to have the privilege of living with you,” he said, “of raising you to manhood?”

  Jesus’ eyes shone.

  “I’ve kept that truth in my heart too,” he said, “since the first time you took me to Jerusalem and my Father showed it to me. The joy is mine to have a dad like you to share it with.”

  Jesus lifted Joseph to his feet and cast an arm around him. They paused in the warmth of the sun, enjoying the moment before they set their feet onward once more to Sepphoris.

  The hammer and chisel grew heavy in Jesus’ hands. He laid them down for a moment and lifted a flask of water to his lips. He gazed past the block of stone in front of him to another swinging into place on the wall above him. The crane creaked as it labored under the weight. Workers scurried on a scaffold high above him, intent on maneuvering it into place. His dad and James struggled with the load as it drew near its destination. It settled perfectly into place, and Jesus resumed his sculpting.

  The heat of the sun increased as the day wore on, blazing from a cloudless sky and baking the job site. The stone became untouchable as the laborers fit block after block into place along the arc of the theater wall. Sweat stung Jesus’ eyes as he glanced at the sky. Lunchtime was close. It would be nice to relax in the shade and eat with his family. Maybe he could finish this block before then. His chisel resumed its steady rhythm.

  A shout from above broke his concentration. His eyes shot skyward as a massive block of stone broke loose from the crane and slammed into the scaffolding. Wood splintered, and men scrambled. Jesus dove for cover as a whole section of scaffolding collapsed to the ground before him.

  “Dad!” cried a voice from above him.

  Jesus squinted against the sun to where his brother clung to a mangled timber high on the wall. Several men lay crushed and moaning amid the debris around him. The realization of his father’s fate hit Jesus at the same time as he ran forward to help the fallen men. He found his dad pinned under a timber.

  “Dad!” Jesus cried out, echoing his brother’s cry.

  He strained at the broken scaffolding, but couldn’t move it. His dad moaned as he leaned over him. Joseph focused on Jesus with eyes that bled pain. He struggled to speak.

  “Son,” he said.

  Jesus laid a hand on his dad’s forehead. He swallowed, trying to push his heart back where it belonged. His dad choked and coughed up blood.

  “I wanted to see you…” he said, struggling to utter each word, “when you…when you came into your glory…”

  Jesus’ mind raced. He didn’t want his dad to leave. No one else on Earth, aside from his mother, believed in him. He could speak a word and his dad would be all right. He shouldn’t leave him dying here when he could help.

  “You will see me in my glory,” Jesus said.

  He raised his eyes to the sky and sobbed.

  “Why must he leave me now?”

  But all he heard above his dad’s groans were the words of Isaiah: “He is a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.” How could he understand the heartbreak of men if he refused to experience it?

  “Not my will then,” whispered Jesus, as his dad took his last breath, “but yours.”

  A shriek rent the morning—and pierced Jesus' heart—as they carried Joseph's body into the house. Jesus—the resurrection and the life—held his mom and attempted to comfort her in the vacuum of the power he had given up to his Father’s will. Vulnerability and weakness invaded him as she sobbed on his shoulder.

  A glare directed at him from across Joseph’s body penetrated Jesus’ consciousness and intensified his pain. He raised his eyes from the silent form of his dad to his brothers. They scowled. James spoke like a bitter inmate, unjustly jailed for life.

  “Jesus,” he said, “according to our father…” he glanced at his mom, “and our mother, the angels and the wise men at your birth said you were the Messiah…but you don’t act much like a messiah. If you were truly God, you would save us from this tragedy.”

  “James!” Mary cried.

  “Well, it’s true! Goodness is as goodness does. If he has the power to help us, but doesn’t, then he is neither God nor good!”

  Jesus held his brother’s eyes, taking his abuse into his bosom. He stared once more on the pallid face of the only man who had ever believed in him. Why was he so alone? Yet, into his loneliness and heartache came the voice of Moses: “The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.”

  He wasn’t alone.

  God’s goodness was his presence and not whether he acted according to man’s expectations, but how could he make James understand such a thing? He returned his gaze to his brothers, and a fallen brow shadowed his eyes.

  “It breaks my heart to lose Dad,” he said, his voice shaking, “but God is good all the time, not just when the world smiles on us. We cannot judge Him according to the evil that befalls us.”

  James’ countenance remained unchanged as he spoke.

  “All the right words can’t cover the fact that Dad is dead and God is silent, apparently powerless to do any good in our family!”

  He wheeled and threw a punch into the room’s wooden partition. It crashed to the floor as he thundered out of the house, followed by the rest of his brothers. Mary’s howls shattered the room. Jesus' aunt and sisters joined in the clamor as Jesus tried in vain to comfort them.

  He left his mom for a moment and lifted the partition back into place. When he turned again, the room grew strangely silent, though the women continued to wail and flail. Jesus stepped forward and stood at the foot of his dad’s corpse. He paused there—hushed—in the midst of the din. As he gazed at the motionless form, Joseph’s eyes opened. His soul shone once more from their depths as he sat up and hugged his overjoyed wife. Jesus embraced his dad. Yet the warmth of Joseph’s touch died in his arms as the vision faded. The smell of death returned, and the cacophony of noise resumed.

  It would only take a word, one word—in defiance of his Father’s. Yet, once again, the words of scripture came to his defense.

  “This will be my comfort,” he whispered “even though I wallow in pain unsparing: that I will not deny the words of the Holy One.”

  Jesus stepped toward his mothe
r. His dad could never embrace her in his arms again. He could not comfort her in her pain.

  He pulled her close, encircling her with his love.

  But he could.

  “‘Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one.’”

  Salome’s voice broke the stillness of the Sabbath afternoon as Jesus entered the house. His sister surveyed him with bright eyes from the middle of the room as he stepped across the threshold.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  “They’re still at the synagogue,” Jesus said. “I came back to make sure you were okay.”

  Salome nodded. “It’s been a quiet morning.”

  Jesus stood gazing at his older sister for a moment. Her charm had always drawn him. When she smiled, the sun came out, and her voice was like that of an angel. He walked over to where she knelt.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Can we say the rest of it together?”

  “Sure,” said Salome as Jesus knelt next to her.

  “‘You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart,’” Jesus’ voice joined Salome’s, “‘and with all your soul and with all your might. And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk—’”

  A clatter of hooves in the street brought their prayer to a halt. Voices barked orders outside the door a moment before three soldiers crashed through the entry. Jesus sprang to his feet.

  “Well, look here,” said a weathered soldier with a scar across his face. “We got lucky. I bet no other door in town has such a fair maiden behind it!”

  Two young warriors flanked him. They eyed Salome, and Jesus knew their intent. They moved toward her as the older soldier shut the door. Jesus stepped between them.

  “Please don’t hurt her,” he said. “She’s my sister.”

  The young men hesitated, captivated by the eyes that crafted the heavens.

  “Take me,” Jesus said. “I will be your slave, but don’t hurt her.”

  “It’s not you we want,” said one as they shook off the spell.

  Salome cried and recoiled backward to the wall. One of the soldiers followed her, but Jesus blocked the way, throwing up his arms to protect her. The soldier tackled him and pinned him to the floor. The scar-faced soldier held him tight while the others ripped strips of cloth from a drape and bound Jesus’ hands and feet.