Conversing easily, we had passed a number of decrepit buildings, holding our noses against the gagging stench of offal. Then from the Street of the Winemakers and the Street of the Goat Herders, we attained a slight rise where we could see the Temple plainly.
Stopping a moment, we could make out a crowd milling about noisily in front of the Temple gates. There the Master was sure to be, for all crowds gravitated to him. From where we stood, it was clearly an angry crowd. Shrill voices vibrated in the thin air.
“Kill,” they shouted. “Kill, kill, kill.”
For a moment I had a sickening feeling and started to run on ahead, beckoning the older woman to follow as she could. She half lurched after me, stumbling a little. Panting breathlessly, she caught up with me at the fringe of the crowd. I could see now that it was a raging mob, dominated by the Scribes and Pharisees. The object of their wrath was a slim woman of twenty-one or so, who was defiantly tossing her long black curls. There was not a hint of fear in the flashing eyes or the lissome body crouched as if ready to spring.
With a start, I recognized her. How fragile the flesh, how weak human resolve. She had been healed and saved, and had so soon sinned again.
The Master was in the center of things, of course. He had planted himself firmly by her side, his hand raised and a glint of fire in his eye.
A stone flew past him, and with a thud struck the young woman on the head, knocking her to the pavement.
The Master moved quickly between the crowd and the prostrate figure.
A second stone, hurled from the rear of the crowd, thumped against his chest.
His piercing eyes jumped out at the throng, and his face clouded over like a thunderhead.
“Stop,” he cried in a voice that shattered the crisp autumn air. “He who throws another stone shall die in sin, without hope of salvation.”
I could see the hesitation in the crowd. They looked to the Pharisees and Scribes, and these worthies, shamed by his wrath, cast their eyes sheepishly away. Still, a mob, once aroused, does not easily give up. And I was looking around warily at these cowards, when I was startled by the agonized cries of a woman hurtling past me.
“My daughter, my daughter,” cried the woman with the dream, “they have killed my daughter.”
She would have thrown herself protectively onto the prone body but was stayed by the strong hand of Jesus. Swiftly he kneeled and tenderly examined the young woman, breathing into her mouth and touching her on the temple, where a welt now showed. “Rise and be well, Mary Magdalen,” he said quickly.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes.
The Pharisees and Scribes stood sullenly at bay, and the mob which they had directed, awed by the apparent miracle, nervously backed off, allowing the stones to slip from their hands.
Our old friend, the Rabbi Ezra, and the Master faced each other across the expanse of a few feet.
“This woman,” said Ezra coldly, “was taken in the very act of adultery, and under the law of Moses sentenced to be stoned.”
Jesus returned his look with a benign smile. “And what sentence,” he asked, “was given the man with whom she was caught?”
A shock wave went through the crowd. “But the law makes no reference to the man.”
The Master’s eyes moved mildly over the crowd. “How does one sin alone in adultery?”
I laughed inwardly at the Rabbi Ezra’s discomfiture.
“Do you set yourself up as greater than the law?” he shouted.
With all eyes on him, the Master stooped and wrote on the ground, his finger tracing easily through the loose soil.
Then raising himself, he peered over the rabbi’s head into the crowd and repeated what he had written:
“He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at this woman.”
Under his gaze, many in the crowd began to melt away, avoiding the glance of the Pharisee leader, who was beside himself with wrath. “Cowards,” he cried, “shameful cowards.”
There was a shadow of a smile on the Master’s lips. Again he stooped and traced some words with his finger. And to those still lingering uneasily, he read again what he had written:
“Let him who has not lain with this woman or any other, let him cast the first stone.”
By the time he looked up, all had departed, even the Rabbi Ezra, who had shaken his fist and then shambled away after the others.
Save for the weeping mother, we were alone with the fallen woman. She had eyes for only the Master, but he spoke to her sharply, saying: “Comfort your mother, whom you have found here today. Mother, comfort your daughter.”
They embraced, but the one called Mary Magdalen quickly returned her gaze to him.
“How do I repay you for twice forgiving me?” she said.
He regarded her gravely. “You will always be remembered for your devotion to the Son of Man.”
The mother had recovered sufficiently to be aware of her surroundings. She, too, seemed fascinated by the Master and could not take her eyes from him. It was almost as if the long-lost daughter had not existed, at least in that moment.
“Sir,” said she in a tremulous voice, “come you from Galilee?”
“So men would say.”
“Have you a mother named Mary?”
“I have no family but in the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Her eyes widened now and she slipped reverently to her knees.
“You are the Savior of my dreams,” she cried, “the Anointed One of Israel.”
The tears streamed from her eyes. “Thank God that before I die I have witnessed the glory of his Son.”
I could see that Jesus was strangely moved.
“For your faith, you shall ascend and be born again.”
The mother had seemed in distress from the beginning. And now the shock of her reunion with both her daughter and her dream was too much for her. Her face had taken on an unnatural pallor, and her eyes glistened as if she were reliving the fantasy of her dream. “Thank you, dear God,” she breathed, “for letting me see the Deliverer.” And with these words, before our very eyes, she uttered a low moan and gave up the ghost.
I reached quickly for her pulse. There was no throb of life. “She is dead,” I cried, aghast.
The Master peered into her face. “Have you ever seen features more tranquil?”
And, in truth, she had a look of peace.
“She is with God,” he said.
I did not understand why he was so philosophical about her death when he grieved about others.
He looked at me in surprise. “Can you not see, Judah, that her mission on this earth is accomplished? And now, because of her faith, she is with God in a kingdom far more rewarding than this.”
The daughter was dry-eyed and unmoved.
“I have no family,” she said, “any more than the Master.”
“It is different,” said he, “for my family is of God and yours is of this world.”
“I would be a hypocrite to manifest grief after all these years.
Were it not for my parents, I would not be the object of men’s contempt today. They forced me into the streets.”
He looked into her eyes.
“Do you have a sister?”
“Yes.” Her voice was sullen.
“And did her path turn as yours?”
“She was loved more than I,”
“Mary, Mary,” he said sadly, “if you love those who love you, what reward have you in that? Do not even the Romans and the taxpayers do the same. But bless them that curse you, and do good to them that do you evil, and you shall be perfect, even as your Father in heaven is perfect.”
She looked down at her body, the flesh gleaming like ivory through the tattered garments, and began to sob. “How can I ever be clean?”
He gazed at her with compassion.
“Your penitence cleanses you before God, and no others count before him. Your accusers are sinners as well and fade before the judgment of the Lord. There is none to accuse you b
ut your own conscience.”
He put his arm around her shoulders. “Look well, woman, where are your accusers?”
Her eyes shone gratefully.
“You have driven them off, Master.”
“What man now condemns you?”
She bowed low. “No man. Lord.”
“Neither do I nor the Father condemn you.” He patted her head as she looked at him in silent adoration, “Go and sin no more. With the baptism of the heart, you are purified and reborn.”
Jesus looked now to the dead woman. “For the family’s sake, Judah,” he directed, “I would have you take charge of the remains and see that she is buried in sight of God.”
Mary Magdalen sighed. “Help me take her to the home of Martha and Lazarus in Bethany. They were her children as well.”
Jesus looked at her closely. “Are they not also your brother and sister?”
Her mouth tightened, and she said severely: “Their door is closed in my face.”
“Not for long, Mary Magdalen, for Martha and Lazarus, too, must forgive if they would be forgiven.”
Her eyes snapped. “I do not want their forgiveness.”
“That is not for you to say, but to receive gladly without their claiming special merit from it. As you are forgiven, forgive them their forgiving you.”
At his piercing look, she bowed her head. Tour will be done. Master.”
“Not my will, but God’s will.”
How often I heard him say this, and yet who knew God’s will?
Chapter Eleven
THE DIE IS CAST
“WHAT IS THIS DAY?” Jesus asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“Why, the twenty-fifth day of Kislev.”
“And is this day, Judah, not especially dear to you and Simon Zelotes?”
The disciples looked up from their frugal fare of goat’s milk and honey and a handful of grain.
“It is the last week of the Roman year,” said Matthew, still thinking in terms of the calendar he once set his taxes by.
“It is a day,” said I, “that fills me with sadness.”
“And why is that?” Jesus spoke softly.
“It is a reminder not so much of the Maccabean’s glory, but of our continued submission to Rome. How can we celebrate the day Judah Maccabee liberated the Jews when our own deliverance is so slow in coming?”
“Our deliverance is not that distant, Judah.”
He scanned the sky with a practiced eye. “It is a good day for the High Priest’s procession into the Temple, honoring old Mattathias and his five heroic sons.”
“It is the only day,” I observed sourly, “that the High Priests remember the Maccabeans.”
“But we shall give them new cause to remember this day, Judah. We shall have our own parade. It shall be a people’s parade. It shall be a day sacred to all who know the Prophets, and this knowledge, Judah, you must confess to as a proper Judean.”
Rarely did he mention our common heritage, preferring to think of himself, like the others, as a Galilean. And so it had significance, for he rarely wasted words.
“Yes,” said he, “this will be a day that even the Prophets will remember.” He had a way of speaking of Isaiah, Elijah, Ezekiel, David, and the rest as if they still lived in the bosom of the Lord.
I felt a growing excitement, sensing that he had come to some critical decision.
His manner had become crisp and businesslike.
“You, Judah, and you, Simon Zelotes, will be my special missionaries on this day. Now listen carefully, and do as I tell you.”
To the envy of the others, we stood by his elbow, eagerly awaiting his instructions.
“Go into the village of Bethany,” said he, “and as you enter by the main street, you will find a donkey and its foal, which has never been broken. They will be tied to a door. Loosen them, and bring them here. Now, if anyone questions your actions, tell that man the Lord has need of him, and he will help you dispatch the animals.”
Neither Simon nor I doubted for a moment that we would find the donkeys, for he had just come from Bethany where he had visited with Mary, Martha, and Lazarus and could easily have arranged this. Nevertheless, we felt a letdown at being assigned so trivial an errand.
He saw our disappointment.
“It will be a day you will not soon forget, Judah. That I promise you.”
In a street such as he had described we saw the two donkeys tethered to the door of a small cottage. Several men stood and glumly watched at our approach. And as we untied the animals one of them protested: “What are you doing with the donkeys? They are not yours.”
“It is for the Lord we do this,” I said.
Instantly he drew back, as though I had given the password. “Take them,” he said, “and may God ride with you.”
My natural curiosity stirred. “Has this foal never been ridden?”
The man eyed me strangely. “He is your Master and you do not know?”
“Know what?” said Simon, tiring of the obscure conversation.
“That you do what you do so that the Lord’s prophecy may be fulfilled.”
With a thrill, I remembered the words of Zechariah:
“Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion; shout, O daughter of Jerusalem; behold, thy King cometh unto thee. He is just, and having salvation; lowly, and riding upon an ass, and upon a colt the foal of an ass.
Simon shook his head dolefully.
“What kind of a King is it that rides into Jerusalem on a donkey?”
“Don’t you see, he is finally declaring himself as the King of the Jews? Is that not enough for you?”
“Not when it is his own hand that fulfills the prophecy.”
“What difference how it is fulfilled? All that matters is that he has taken a step forward this day.”
He sighed. “Judah, you and the rest are deceiving yourselves. He is not of our temper. He keeps telling us: ‘They who live by the sword shall die by the sword.’”
“But don’t you remember his saying that he didn’t come to bring peace but a sword?”
“But,” said Simon, “he did not say the sword would be his.”
I looked at him over the donkey’s swaying back.
“Then why stay, Simon? Why don’t you and Joshua-bar-Abbas, Cestus and Dysmas, and the others just go off on your own?”
“I am a Galilean. Is that not enough?”
“You stay because you are loyal; there is no other reason?”
“All right,” he sighed. “Perhaps one day he will find himself in a corner. There will be no way to turn, and he will confront our enemies and show them a power greater than theirs.”
“And then all Israel will rally behind him.”
“All the world,” Simon enthused. “Don’t forget all those slaves in Rome waiting to overthrow the slavemaster.”
I could have kissed Simon for rousing my flagging spirits. “You see, we are not in a lost cause.”
The word had somehow leaked out that the Master was up to something, and a crowd had collected in the streets on our return.
“Hosanna, hosanna,” they cried, “to the Son of David. Blessed is he that comes in the name of the Lord.”
Simon and I helped the Master onto the foal while Peter hopped around nervously on one leg, fearful that the Master would look ludicrous making his entrance on a jackass.
“He lends majesty,” I said, “to any beast.”
Knowing the Prophets as well as I did, the adoring crowds threw down their robes and shawls in his path, to proclaim him the King of the Jews. Others cut down branches and scattered their buds along the roadside, crying: “Hosanna, hosanna, to the All-Highest,” all the way to the Temple gates.
As the procession moved through the Shushan Gate, into the Temple, the crowds grew thicker and more demonstrative. For it seemed all Jerusalem knew the prophesied King would enter meekly on a jackass.
All week he had meditated quietly in the Temple, in the Pharisees’ favorite place, in the shadow o
f the Portico of Solomon. Now as the people in the Temple took up the cry, saying this is Jesus the prophet of Galilee, he motioned the Twelve to lead his donkey toward that center of Pharisean activity. A goodly number of the faithful had already gathered there and were listening to the Rabbi Ezra.
Ezra looked up with a malignant smile.
“Look,” said he, “here comes our King, with not only one jackass but two.”
Jesus smiled at the throng as though he had not heard.
Simon Zelotes whispered in my ear: “With all these people behind him, it is time for him to declare himself and blow that nincompoop off his perch.”
Jesus dismounted gracefully, then chose a shaded spot some distance from Ezra, squatting comfortably on the stone and bidding us do likewise. Ezra, with a lordly smile, ordered his chair moved closer to the Master.
“You would not be avoiding me, Rabbi?” said he, giving him this title with an ironic smile.
“I did not know you were here,” the Master replied with an innocent look.
The nature of the crowd had changed somewhat. The Temple guards had driven off many of the Amharetzin and others who trailed noisily after the Master, and the Temple birds had flocked to their place. In the throng were many who often jeered at him when he preached in the Temple and yet resented his preaching to any but Jews.
“How,” said the crafty Pharisee, “do the Gentiles receive this Kingdom of Heaven you speak of when they have not been circumcised in accordance with God’s covenant with Abraham?”
Jesus replied mildly: “After Abraham there was one law, and then with Moses another. And just as Moses added on and changed the existing law, with the advent of the Son of Man it becomes necessary for the Gentiles only to obey the commandments and know that salvation is with God.”
Ezra’s beady eyes were those of a serpent ready to strike.
“Among your disciples there is even a tax collector.”
Jesus smiled. “The Pharisees should not mind, since that is one tax collector the less.”
Only the few Amharetzin in the crowd dared laugh, and Ezra rewarded them with a poisonous glance.
“These are already corrupted by you,” he cried.
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