by Randy Singer
The second day of our week in Jerusalem, I was standing on the balcony of the Antonia Fortress, a fortified tower that hovered over the northwest corner of the Courtyard of the Gentiles. I was watching the soldiers play a game with knucklebones that they called basilinda, the Greek word for king. The events in the courtyard below happened so quickly that I nearly missed them.
There was shouting and pointing, a commotion under the porticoes at the north end. In the center of the action was a single man, a furious Jew who was creating all kinds of chaos, overturning the tables of the money changers and releasing pigeons from their cages.
The soldiers saw it and started fastening their armor. I held out a hand to the captain. There were Temple guards down there; let them handle it.
The Jew at the center of the havoc was shouting something, his white robe flying behind him. He was thin and sinewy, but he had the hardened look of a laborer. He sent tables flying with explosive strength. A crowd formed in his wake, and the Temple traders scrambled around on the ground, chasing after coins that were rolling on marble. They cursed at the interloper. Others packed up their tables and moved out of the way before he could get to them.
The crowd behind him started cheering, and I found myself relishing this spontaneous rebellion against the money changers. “It’s about time,” I mumbled to myself.
The man had no weapons, and the Temple guards started closing in. Despite my attempts to delay them, the Roman soldiers from the fortress had sprung into action as well, rushing toward the steps of the Temple courtyard. They were bored. They wanted action.
As suddenly as he started, the madman stopped. He caught his breath and turned this way and that as if he were daring anyone to challenge him. The crowd fell back; the priests and guards gave him a wide berth.
“My house shall be called a house of prayer for all nations!” he shouted at the priests. He swept his arm in a great arc. “But you have made it a den of thieves!”
For a moment there was silence, and it seemed like the crowd held its collective breath, waiting for the religious leaders to respond. But the priests just sneered and walked away. The Temple guards put their swords back in their sheaths. One or two folded their arms across their chests.
A member of the crowd shouted, “Hosanna!” and others echoed the cheer. People began pressing toward the man, approaching from all areas of the courtyard—thousands of them, trying to get close enough to touch him. He talked to them and smiled, reaching out to place a hand on a beggar’s head, stopping to pray for a man who appeared to be blind.
From the balcony, I witnessed a strange phenomenon. The inner courtyards and the Temple proper, with all its polished marble and gleaming gold, were attracting little attention. The center of gravity had shifted to this table turner, this fearless maniac who seemed to have a grudge against the religious establishment. At the very least, he was now a folk hero.
Or perhaps he was more. The crowd gathered close around and listened in hushed silence as he talked, hanging on his every word. A stillness spread out from him in every direction. At one point, he apparently called for the children, and they scrambled up into his lap.
Was he a threat to Rome? I didn’t think so. A Temple reformer? Maybe. The priests and the Temple guards were certainly keeping their distance, gathering in small huddles and casting sideways glances at him.
Our own soldiers stayed on the edges of the crowd, letting the people see that the Roman guards were there to keep the peace. Yet the man who had started it all didn’t seem to notice or care. He looked like he was having fun now, a man of the people.
I wanted to find out more about him. I needed information. And I needed a good glass of wine. Once the sun went down and much of the city went to sleep, I knew a place where I could find both.
CHAPTER 21
This was the life. The great estate of my friend sprawled out before me on a vast hillside a few miles outside the city, wheat fields and vineyards stretching in every direction. The air was cooler and crisper here, a nice reprieve from the stale air that hung over Jerusalem.
I sipped the wine, Judea’s best, from a silver cup. We stood on a marble terrace, leaning on a railing of carved stone, staring mindlessly at the thousands of oil lamps that still burned in the city.
I was surprised when Nicodemus told me that the volcanic rabbi in the Temple, Jesus of Nazareth, had stood on this same terrace before. Nearly a year earlier, he had come at night, at the request of Nicodemus, and shared a cup of wine with one of Israel’s wealthiest rulers.
“I’ve become a disciple,” Nicodemus said. “Though I haven’t let it be widely known.”
“Your rabbi certainly has a flair for the dramatic.”
“You could say that.”
I took a deep breath of night air and felt myself relax. I had learned a long time ago that Nicodemus was my intellectual equal. Neither of us felt the need to impress the other. Our growing friendship transcended cultural differences.
“What did you talk about when he was here?” I asked.
“He’s a rabbi, Theophilus. We talked about religion.”
“Is he a threat to Rome?” I asked, getting right to the point.
Nicodemus took his time thinking about it. When he spoke, he seemed to be measuring his words. “Have you heard about the way he healed the centurion’s servant?”
“No. My Jewish sources seem to be failing me.”
Nicodemus ignored my little barb and told me the story of how Jesus had allegedly healed the servant of a Roman centurion. “He didn’t even need to go and see him, Theophilus. He just said the word and the man was healed.”
“Sounds impressive,” I said. “If it’s true.”
Nicodemus chuckled. “Always the skeptic.”
“I’m Roman. It’s in my blood.”
“The point, my friend, is that even after the healing, Jesus never tried to get the centurion to leave the service of Rome. In fact, Jesus told his own followers that he’d never seen such great faith in all of Israel. Does that sound like somebody intent on overthrowing Rome?”
I enjoyed another swallow of wine and relaxed a bit more. Perhaps it was the drink. More likely it was the relief of knowing we didn’t have a major problem on our hands.
“Why would a rabbi like you—someone revered throughout all of Israel—become the disciple of another rabbi?” I asked.
“Ah,” Nicodemus said as if I had finally stepped into his trap. He looked out over the hills and began telling me about Jesus—the things Nicodemus had heard before inviting the man to his estate. The man could cast out demons, heal the lame, cause the blind to see, silence his critics, multiply food. “Some say he walked on water,” Nicodemus said, turning just in time to see me smirk. “I know,” he quickly added. “I didn’t believe that one at first either.”
Nicodemus filled me in on their conversation. The rabbi’s strange response when Nicodemus asked him about all the miraculous signs he was performing: “‘Unless a man is born again, he cannot see the Kingdom of God.’”
Nicodemus paused as if the rabbi’s statement was incredibly profound.
I shrugged. What did that even mean? For obvious reasons, I didn’t care for the mention of a kingdom, but the reincarnation aspect seemed harmless enough. It was the essence of Eastern religions, and I was surprised Nicodemus had bought into it.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Nor did I,” Nicodemus admitted. “When I asked what he meant, he told me that unless a man was born of water and the Spirit, he could not enter the Kingdom of God. He said that what was born of the flesh was flesh, but what was born of the Spirit was spirit.”
Again Nicodemus paused as if measuring my reaction. He seemed to be describing the separation of body and soul, a concept familiar to me. It was why in Rome we cremated our dead. The soul journeyed on, but the body did not. A man’s soul soared to heaven when it was freed from his body, or it descended through the corridors of the underworld if his life
did not measure up.
We talked for nearly an hour. Everlasting life. Immortality. Didn’t we all strive for that? Augustus Caesar had lived the kind of life that achieved immortality. And during my time in Greece I could feel the spirit of Cicero coursing through my veins, the man’s words and achievements outlasting him. This was why I trained to be an advocate, to develop strength of character, to lead a moral life. But immortality was a rugged climb and not for the faint of heart. In my way of thinking, it was for a select few—those who had the blood of the right ancestors flowing through their veins, who proved themselves in turbulent times. It was not something that could be achieved by normal men.
Nicodemus respectfully but enthusiastically disagreed. Even in the dark, I could see the spark in his eyes. He claimed that Jesus was the Son of God. That whoever believed in him could have eternal life. Even lowly peasants.
I swirled my wine, letting the sweet smell of the grapes fill my nostrils. I reminded my friend that the “Son of God” title had already been taken. The great Tiberius Caesar, son of the divine Augustus.
Nicodemus told me that I should go listen to the rabbi teach. “The leaders of the Sanhedrin are planning to set a trap for him tomorrow in the Temple courtyard,” Nicodemus said. “They’re going to ask him whether we should pay the imperial tax to Rome.”
The imperial tax, paid only by those who lived in the provinces and not by Roman citizens, formed the backbone of Rome’s economy. The trap for Jesus was obvious, though no less clever for its transparency. Answer yes and lose the crowd—what kind of Messiah supports the imperial tax? Answer no and lose your life. What kind of Roman ruler would allow such sedition?
Nicodemus had my attention. “What do you think he’ll say?”
“Why don’t you come and see for yourself?” Nicodemus asked.
I told him I just might. I finished my wine and thanked him for his hospitality. As I was leaving, he put a hand on my shoulder, appraising me with earnest eyes. “You’ve been a good friend, Theophilus. That’s something I cherish. But I cannot put our friendship above the words of the prophets. If this man is the Messiah—and I believe he is—Rome won’t be able to stop him. He’s not a threat in the way you’re worried about. He’s not going to take up arms against Rome. But the prophecies are clear. The rulers of the world will all eventually bow to the Jewish Messiah. I don’t want you to be on the wrong side of fate.”
The words were nearly treasonous, but I figured it was just the wine talking. One thing was certain—Nicodemus would follow this new Messiah anywhere. Yet right now, his main concern seemed to be my welfare.
I decided to shrug it off. “We are Romans, Nicodemus. We make our own fate.”
CHAPTER 22
The Temple courtyard was back to normal on Tuesday. It was as if the Nazarene had never passed through the day before, leaving fear, resentment, and a mad scrambling for coins in his wake.
There were a few changes. The Temple guards had proliferated, and the money changers looked wary, glancing around occasionally to see if the wild man was going to make another run at them. But the priests were still inspecting lambs, goats, doves, and pigeons, frowning and shaking their heads, and travelers were still digging into their purses to buy a better animal.
The hum of exploitation had returned.
I wandered around in my white Roman toga, sweltering in the afternoon heat, getting jostled by the busy crowd. At one point I helped a young child of five or six who was standing next to one of the huge Corinthian columns with big tears in his eyes. We scoured the crowd and searched around until we located his parents in another part of the courtyard. His mother thanked me profusely and tried to pay me. I refused with a polite smile. The little boy endured a good tongue-lashing from his father and then scrambled over to give me a hug before they went on their way.
Seneca would have been proud.
At a few minutes after noon, I followed the flow of the crowd to the place where Jesus was teaching. Most of the people were mesmerized by what the rabbi was saying and didn’t pay any attention to me.
I found an inconspicuous place in the back and listened. My Aramaic was passable—certainly much better than Pilate’s—and I could understand enough to catch the drift.
Jesus was a storyteller. “A man had two sons. . . .” “There was a landowner who planted a vineyard. . . .” “A king prepared a wedding banquet. . . .”
And he wasn’t much for happy endings. The son disobeyed his father. The tenants killed the landowner’s agents and ultimately even the landowner’s son. Nobody came to the wedding. Finally, when somebody did, not wearing proper wedding clothes, he was tied up and thrown out by the king.
“Many are invited but few are chosen,” Jesus said.
What intrigued me was the man’s presence, the authority with which he taught. He walked around and engaged the crowd, his piercing brown eyes transfixing his listeners. He used the full arsenal of advocacy I had studied in Greece—voice inflections, facial expressions, fluid movement of his rough hands, a smile for a mother holding her child, a hard stare as he delivered a line aimed at the religious leaders. These were things that took me years to learn, yet this man—supposedly a carpenter’s son—evidently came by them naturally. The crowd leaned in, silencing anyone who dared talk.
Jesus’ eyes snagged on me at the back of the crowd, or so I thought, if only for a brief moment. It seemed like he recognized me from someplace.
“Beware of the teachers of the law,” he said, raising his voice. I bristled. Perhaps he thought I didn’t know the language. Perhaps he didn’t realize my role as Pilate’s assessore. I could crush him with a word.
“They like to walk around in flowing robes,” he continued, surveying the crowd again. “They love to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces and have the most important seats in the synagogues.”
I realized that his words weren’t aimed at me, and I felt a little silly for momentarily thinking otherwise. He was addressing the Pharisees—the teachers of the Jewish law—standing to his immediate right. They knew it too and scowled back at him, their long faces and glue-stiffened beards registering their disapproval. They wore long black robes, just like Jesus said, prayer shawls with long tassels, and phylacteries, each containing a verse of Scripture, on their foreheads.
The rabbi accused them of devouring widows’ houses and told the crowd that the Pharisees would be punished severely by God. Around me, there were murmurs of agreement, and I realized the crowd had grown. I was no longer tucked safely away in the back.
“Teacher,” a young man called out from the middle, not too far from where I stood, “we have a question.”
The Nazarene walked toward the man and his friends. The crowd parted to let Jesus pass, then came together behind him, encircling him and the young man who had called him out. I could sense a growing tension, like storm clouds at sea ready to make their assault on the land. I knew these men were the ones Nicodemus had told me about, preparing to ask the one question that would bring Jesus down.
I tried to catch the eye of Nicodemus, standing on the other side of the crowd, but he was engrossed in what was happening.
“Teacher, we know that you are a man of integrity and that you teach the way of God in accordance with the truth,” the young man said, acting as a spokesman for the group of young Pharisees. “You aren’t swayed by others, because you pay no attention to who they are.” He paused, speaking loud enough for the entire crowd to hear, though Jesus was right in front of him. “Tell us then, what is your opinion? Is it right to pay the imperial tax to Caesar or not?”
Jesus shook his head. “You hypocrites, why are you trying to trap me?” he asked. “Show me the coin used for paying the tax.”
One of his questioners reached into his sack, pulled out a denarius, and gave it to Jesus. The rabbi held it up to the sun, turning it over in his hand.
Exhibit A.
“Whose image is this? And whose inscription?” he asked.
&
nbsp; “Mm,” some people next to me murmured. His point had not been lost on them.
His questioners worked to maintain their stoic expressions, though you could see a brief flicker of panic in their eyes. The denarius, a silver coin created at the private mint of Tiberius, had a profile of the emperor on one side along with the inscription, Tiberius Caesar, worshipful son of the god Augustus. On the other side was a picture of the Roman goddess of peace and the words Pontifex Maximus—high priest, the greatest bridge builder to God.
Whose inscription indeed! Jesus held it there, showing it to the crowd as if they’d never seen it before, and his questioners seemed to shuffle away from the suddenly poisonous coin. You can’t tolerate shields in Pilate’s private residence but you can bring a graven image of Caesar into the Temple courtyard? I thought. And from the looks of the faces in the crowd, I wasn’t the only one thinking that way.
“Whose image? Whose inscription?” Jesus repeated.
“Caesar’s,” the young man answered.
Jesus grinned. He handed them the coin. “So give back to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”
It wasn’t until the crowd had dispersed and I had a chance to talk with Nicodemus that I fully grasped what had just happened. “Our rabbis have a certain style of interacting with their students,” Nicodemus explained. “The rabbi answers a question with another question, referencing the Torah to show the weakness of the student’s position. Only then does he actually answer the underlying question. As you know better than most, our commandments say that we shall have no other gods besides Yahweh and we will make no graven images of any other god. When Jesus asked about whose image was on the coin, his audience immediately thought about the commandments and their prohibition of such images.”
