by Bodie
“Do you suppose we’ll get to speak with him?” my friend asked.
“I hope for it,” I replied. “But I also pray we are not deluded by our hope.”
Pilgrims, inspired by John’s words, began to sing the old song my namesake, the shepherd David, had sung as he tended the flocks. The words, meant for the ears of the Messiah, must have irritated the soldiers and the hypocrites. They set a watch and lay down with drawn swords in fear we would rise up in rebellion.
Beneath the encircling bonds of their watchfires, we eagerly waited for dawn and the coming of our Messiah.
A deep baritone voice started the song, and we all joined in as one great choir:
“Why do the nations rage
and the people plot a vain thing?
The kings of the earth set themselves,
and the rulers take counsel together
against the LORD and against his Anointed One.”5
I imagined myself among the ancient Hebrews as they left Egypt and camped in the wilderness. What song had my forefathers sung as they set their faces toward freedom and their masters pursued them from behind? How the cavalry of Pharaoh must have mocked the Jews!
“They say, ‘Let us break their bands asunder
and cast their cords of control from us.’
He who sits in the heavens laughs;
the Lord holds them in derision.
He speaks to them in his deep anger and troubles them
in his displeasure and deep fury, saying,
‘Yet I have anointed my King
firmly on my Holy hill of Zion.’
I will declare the decree of the Lord:
he said to me, ‘You are my Son;
this day I declare I have begotten you!
Ask of me, and I will give you the nations
as your inheritance, and the uttermost parts
of the earth as your possession.
You shall break them with a rod of iron;
you shall dash them in pieces like potters ware.’ ”6
Judah and I sang out with all our strength.
I imagined that the Temple spies and soldiers on the crests of the hill were frightened by the warning in the lyrics just as we who chanted were made still more bold.
“Now, therefore, O you kings,
act wisely; be instructed and warned,
O you rulers of the earth!
Serve the Lord with reverent awe
and worshipful fear!
Rejoice and be in high spirits with trembling.
Kiss the Son, lest he be angry
and you perish in the way,
for soon shall his wrath be kindled.
Oh blessed are all those who seek refuge
and put their trust in him.”7
As our song resounded against the rocky slopes, I thought I heard the voices of many angels joining in.
I slept with the melody ringing in my ears.
Chapter 4
If I imagined the psalm would serve as warning to bring the religious imposters to their knees, I was mistaken. By the time morning dawned, the number of mockers and soldiers in the camp of the Pharisees had doubled. And still more were marching toward the Jordan in hopes of killing the Lion before he could roar.
Even before we knew who Messiah was, our world was divided by John the Baptizer’s announcement that the Son was now among us.
We had awakened just before sunrise as bakers and fruit sellers moved among us with heaping baskets. Word that John had said the Messiah was present and about to be revealed had reached the tiny villages and farms in the surrounding countryside. Weavers had abandoned looms, and elder shepherds had left flocks to the hirelings to come.
With these newcomers, the presence of skeptics and armed soldiers had increased. Like locusts threatening my vineyards when the leaves were still new, the scoffers attempted to devour joy and expectation of what was to come.
We washed and hurried through the morning prayers as the spaces beside the riverbank began to fill. I purchased bread, cheese, dates, and nuts, and drank deeply from the sweet wine we had brought from home.
Judah wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I told you this was quite a circus.”
I gestured across the river toward a troop of uniformed Herodian foot soldiers who had arrived while we slept. They remained on the east side of the Jordan River, in the Perean territory belonging to their master, Herod Antipas.
We knew they would not cross over into the west where John the Baptizer stayed. The west was governed by Rome, which, so far at least, tolerated John’s preaching. The troops of Antipas could only wait like hungry jackals in hopes that the Baptizer would foolishly cross the watery border.
But John the Baptizer was no fool.
Judah nudged me hard as yet another disguised gang of armed watchers arrived on the west bank. “If there’s going to be violence, neither side is safe. Shall we stand in the middle of the river?” He leaned close. “I wonder where he is?”
I knew without further explanation to whom Judah’s query referred.
Judah pointed to distant rain clouds. “It’s going to rain. If he’s coming, he’d better get here soon.”
I surveyed the common folk, searching faces and expressions in hopes of spotting someone extraordinary. Children splashed in the shallow water. Women chatted. Young men carried themselves with a swagger, as though they were prepared now for the Son of David to lead them into battle. Old men frowned and remembered other wars and earlier messiahs who had come, which had instead led to disaster and defeat.
No more than a day’s journey from this place, the prophet Elijah had called down fire from heaven to destroy the enemies of righteousness. He had slaughtered pagan priests and turned back the troops of evil King Ahab and wicked Queen Jezebel in terror.
The Messiah would certainly wield that kind of power against the mockers and the tyrants who ruled our lives. All of us hoped, that morning, that if Messiah was among us, he would call down heavenly fire upon the forces who gathered on the west bank and lead us home in freedom.
Judah and I scrambled onto a boulder and observed as John the Baptizer, surrounded by disciples, arrived. The crowds parted and applauded.
A woman shouted, “Will Messiah come today?”
Others called out, “Where is he?”
“Who is he, John?”
“Show us who he is!”
Higher up the bank the mockers cried, “Yes, John! Herod Antipas wants to know where Messiah is hiding!”
“And why he is hiding!”
“Is the Messiah afraid of Herod Antipas?”
“Does he fear Rome?”
“Show us your deliverer!”
John bowed his head and prayed silently as the two camps hurled insults at each other.
“Traitors!”
“Rebels!”
“Hypocrites!”
“Ignorant, impious peasants!”
Dark storm clouds moved toward us. A gust of fresh wind touched my face, and I smelled approaching rain. I saw a flash of lightning and heard the low growl of thunder. The sky broke loose with a downpour, and suddenly hundreds scattered and ran for shelter.
Judah grabbed my arm as I turned to go. “Wait! Not fire this time, but rain. Look!” Judah pointed at the shaggy Baptizer who stood, fearless, in the water.
The Baptizer raised his hands and let the pelting rain wash his face.
I nodded and did not bother to cover my head with my cloak.
We watched as Herodian soldiers, Pharisees, and Temple lackeys scurried away like packs of drenched dogs to find shelter in the nearest villages. The clouds rolled after them, as if in pursuit of those who fled. Only a few hundred of us remained by the time the storm broke.
And there was John, undaunted, in the midst of the stream. His disciples, following his lead, remained with him, waiting.
The sun broke through, and a brilliant double rainbow sprouted and grew like a vine across the sky. Its unbroken arch spanne
d east and west.
John smiled behind his beard and looked past the remaining crowd. His words rang clear. “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!”1
All eyes followed the wild man’s gaze. And then I saw the one John was talking about. He was an ordinary-looking young man about my age, I guessed. Brown hair parted in the middle. Strongly built. Dressed like a laborer who had just completed a long journey. He was wet, drenched to the skin, like all of us. He walked straight toward John and the river.
John proclaimed, “This is the one I meant when I said, ‘A man who comes after me has surpassed me because he was before me.’ I myself did not know him, but the reason I came baptizing with water was that he might be revealed to Israel.”2
Judah and I moved nearer as the stranger waded into the water and stood before John. He put his hand on John’s shoulder and spoke in a quiet voice. John nodded once, sank to his knees in the water until the man blessed John, then helped him stand. The two men stood face-to-face for a long moment. Then, to my amazement, John baptized him, immersing him fully in the exact manner he had baptized the common folk of Israel.
Again the thunder rumbled, just above our heads. I imagined I heard, or rather felt, a deep voice in my chest.
“… beloved Son … I am well pleased … ”3
Had heaven spoken? Or was it only thunder and my imagination? I could not say for sure. Glancing at Judah, I asked, “Did you hear that?”
He nodded. “Thunderbolt. Too close. Danger here in the open.”
I waited a moment longer, then left Judah as the man emerged from the water and strode back toward the hills. It began to rain again as I hurried to the knot of men gathered around the Baptizer.
“Master! Is he truly the one?”
“What’s his name?”
“Did he tell you who he is?”
“His name is Jesus. He comes from Nazareth,” John explained.
They questioned, “But … Nazareth?”
“Can Messiah be a Nazarene?”
John said, “I saw the Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him. And I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water told me, ‘The man on whom you see the Spirit come down and remain is he who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.’ I have seen and I testify that this is God’s Chosen One.”4
It occurred to me that perhaps John was nothing more than a religious fanatic. Such fellows surfaced from time to time, then faded away. Still, I was curious.
What if …
Judah and I made our way back to the village in the pouring rain. All the rooms at the caravansary were filled, but I paid a poor man to vacate his place so we had shelter for the night.
Judah was disappointed when I told him that the Baptizer had said Jesus was from Nazareth. He shrugged. “So, it was just a thunderstorm after all. It will pass. Everyone knows Messiah can’t come from Galilee. If he was David’s son, he would be born in Bethlehem. That’s what the prophets say.”
I did not argue but thanked Judah for coming with me on the journey.
Judah clasped my hands in friendship. He told me he understood what I must be feeling and that this had been an amusement if nothing else. “I hoped you would find comfort by spending a few days among the rabble. Camping beneath the stars. Perhaps when you come home again you’ll be ready to find a new wife. I will pray for you.”
Judah’s comment stung me. Find a new wife? My grief was too deep to consider such a thing, even though I knew what he was hinting. It was as if my friend did not know my heart or understand the depth of my sorrow at all. I had lost my wife and my son. Every hope I had for the future had been wiped away. It was not so easy to shrug and decide to begin again.
I said, “You are a great comfort to me, my friend.”
But at that moment he was not.
As I spread my cloak on the fresh straw, I thought of the only woman I had ever loved. I wondered if I would ever find joy or hope or love again. The fire of sorrow burning in my heart had not been quenched by the rain. And Jesus, the ordinary-looking man whom John called “the Lamb of God,” did not match my vision of the Messiah. A lamb? Jesus had not roared like a lion, driving out our political oppressors as the people expected.
Nor had he delivered me from the tyranny of my loneliness. I was not ready to pick up the pieces of my shattered life just yet. I told myself with a wry smile that perhaps I would be a witness if Jesus of Nazareth baptized the world with fire from heaven. Now that would be a story! Something to help me forget what had happened. In truth, I intended this journey as a diversion to keep me from my empty house … my empty life.
I returned home just as sorrowful as when I had left it.
Chapter 5
When I received Judah’s message bidding me to come to supper at his Jerusalem home, I had mixed emotions: eagerness and some anxiety. Judah was my best friend, and more than that, we were partners in business ventures. There was much I wanted to discuss with him.
Whatever was spoken of in the halls of power in the City of David or elsewhere within Rome’s Imperial arms, Judah knew. What I wanted to hear most from him was: what does Rome think of another rumored Jewish messiah? What does Rome think of Jesus of Nazareth?
With so much to discuss, why did I hesitate to take the first steps of an hour’s pleasant stroll toward Jerusalem?
Because Judah had a younger sister named Jemima.
Our families had been close for generations. We were even related—Judah and Jemima being cousins to me through my mother’s line. There had once been a time when my father and Judah’s had plotted and schemed to weld us even more closely together through marriage.
When I was fifteen and Jemima eleven, the idea had seemed absurd to me. After all, did I not have two annoying sisters of my own? Why would I want to marry one such?
By the time I was seventeen and she a vivacious and marriageable thirteen, I had already fallen in love elsewhere, and the notion was shelved. Jemima had never married, and Judah had hinted to me more than once that I had broken her heart.
While I now felt ready to turn from my oppressive grief and take an interest in the world again, still I had vowed to never remarry. But if I ever did, I told myself, it would be someone like Jemima I would seek.
That was a troubling and not a comforting thought.
Anticipation and trepidation dogged my steps from Bethany to the outskirts of Jerusalem. The sun was high and beat upon my back as I moved with the throng. The wide road, built by conscripted labor in the time of Herod the Great, was packed with caravans, commerce, and pilgrims. Righteous and unrighteous rubbed shoulders in the ascent. The sounds of psalms mingled with bawling camels and shouts of drovers urging their livestock forward.
I peered up at the watchmen on the walls above the gate. Sunlight glinted on the armor of a Roman soldier.
A poor farmer, with his wife and children gathered around him, sang a psalm of treason against the oppressors who scowled down at us from the parapet. His voice was a rich baritone so beautiful that it rivaled any in the Temple chorus:
“For your servant David’s sake,
do not turn away the face of your Anointed.
The Lord has sworn in truth to David;
he will not turn from it;
of the fruit of your body will I set upon your throne
if your children will keep my covenant.”1
A current of humanity from around the world surged upward toward towers and walls that enclosed the great Temple first built eight hundred years before by King Solomon to honor the Most High God of Israel. Along with other pilgrims entering the Holy City, I joined him in the psalm:
“For the Lord has chosen Zion;
he has desired it as his habitation.
This is my resting place for ever;
here I will dwell, for I have desired it.
I will abundantly bless her provision;
I will satisfy her poor with bread.
I wil
l also clothe her priests with salvation:
and her saints shall shout aloud for joy.”2
We all knew the Presence of the Lord had long since departed from the Temple. The priests were corrupt and in league with our oppressors. The poor who came to Zion to worship were cheated in the Temple courts. Though they prayed for Messiah to come, their prayers for deliverance seemed to go unheard. Beggars camped along the road and held their cups out to passersby.
Still, we sang in defiance of reality. We fixed our hopes on the promise of what would come to Zion some day.
“Behold, how good and how pleasant it is
for brethren to dwell together in unity!
It is like precious oil upon the head,
the beard of Aaron,
running down on the edge of his garments.”3
The brute soldiers played a game: spitting on our heads as we approached the pedestrian entrance. I saw them grin at one another when an old man glanced up in thanks to God and was splattered in the face.
I chose to enter the broad commerce gate instead. I walked beside a camel for safety as we entered the tunnel that opened into a teeming marketplace inside the city walls. Tax collectors, merchants, and thieves occupied that place. All were of the same mind: to prey on the weary travelers.
“Wine to drink!” A child, barely taller than the clay jug he stood beside, and much the same shade of earthy brown in skin and clothing, offered a cup dipped from the amphora to a burly traveler.
The pilgrim was dressed like a Greek. He paid his penny and drank deeply. In a flash a cutpurse moved in and stole the man’s money pouch, dashing into the throng. A cry of surprise and fury rang out. The victim threw down the cup, and I joined him as we pursued the young thief through the booths and livestock.
“Stop! Thief!” I cried, as the young man purposely knocked down a cascade of wicker baskets, blocking our way.
The stranger I had tried to help stumbled and fell. Our pursuit ended when the thief vanished in the mob.
Winded and drenched with sweat, the pilgrim let me help him to his feet. “I’m sorry,” I said as I brushed him off. “He’s gone.”
