Jerusalem's Hope

by Brock Thoene

  It was time to go. Marcus would have to hurry to Jerusalem to deliver his official account before Shomron arrived ahead of him.

  Miryam accompanied him to the gate. She tossed her head the way she always did when she wanted to say something important. Her message was simple. “Marcus? Be safe.”

  Did she sense the same imminent danger he felt? “Miryam, promise me . . . promise! That you won’t go into Jerusalem this Passover! You must not! No matter who would ask you . . .”

  “I promise.”

  Marcus exhaled loudly, resisting the urge to take her in his arms. Was this good-bye? He searched her eyes and for an instant thought he saw a familiar longing. He swallowed hard. “I’d like to come back, when this is over.”

  “It’s just beginning, Marcus.” Miryam touched his wrist. “It’s not likely to be over in our lifetime. But . . . yes. Please, there’s much I want to say.”

  “There’s no time,” he put in regretfully.

  “None to waste.”

  “A dark hour for the world.”

  “Then we must be a candle,” Miryam said softly.

  “There’s been no flame to warm my heart since you—”

  She silenced him with a finger on his lips. “Not now. Not yet.”

  “Later?”

  “Marcus.” She glanced away. “So much more I need to explain . . .”

  And so they came full circle. He closed his eyes briefly, as if he could shut out every longing. “There’s no time. I have to go . . . Jerusalem is . . . I can’t stay.”

  “Then shalom, Marcus.” She stepped away from him and closed the gate gently.

  Herod the Great’s Jerusalem palace was marvelous to behold: a wondrous place of artificial lakes, manicured gardens, gleaming marble sculptures. It had enough gold leaf on ceiling and trim to finance a centurion’s wants for several lifetimes. Only on this visit, Marcus had neither time nor inclination to admire any of it.

  Governor Pilate was in his audience chamber, attended by Tribune Felix and consulting with Praetorian Vara. The meeting was already in progress. There was no opportunity to make his report to Felix privately beforehand. To test the waters, so to speak.

  Nor was there any chance to draw back. His arrival had been announced, and Pilate had ordered him shown in.

  Helmet under his arm and armor buffed as best he was able, Marcus squared his shoulders and marched toward what might be his death sentence.

  The governor was seated in the curule chair, the X-shaped seat of judgment used when making proclamations, issuing pronouncements, and passing sentence.

  Marcus put no stock in omens, but it seemed a bad sign.

  From the elevated platform on which he sat, Pilate peered down on Marcus, making it difficult to judge his expression properly.

  Felix kept his gaze turned floorward, not meeting Marcus’ eyes.

  Vara, bearded as was Marcus and dressed in the robes of a Syrian merchant prince, smirked openly.

  Perhaps sentence had already been passed, and Marcus was late for his own execution.

  “Come in, Centurion,” Pilate remarked.

  The words echoed around the emptiness of the hall.

  “News has reached me of an attack on the aqueduct project. Is this true?”

  The information had indeed traveled to Jerusalem faster than Marcus. Pilate had probably been informed of the disaster within hours of its occurrence. What he could not know and was undoubtedly waiting to hear from Marcus was what had been done about it.

  So Marcus told him. Without offering excuses, without embellishing or trying to spread the blame to others, Marcus explained. He recounted the whole sequence of events, including the evidence that pointed toward bar Abba, the arrest of Benjamin and Lev, and their release after the blood covenant ceremony.

  Vara scowled and shook his head in apparent disbelief. His visage suggested that Marcus was even more stupid than he’d previously thought.

  Marcus ignored him. “There is every indication the rebels are in Jerusalem right now,” he concluded. “It is my opinion they will strike here. Who or what will be their targets is not clear.”

  Pilate coughed and raised an eyebrow. “According to High Priest Caiaphas, it is extremely clear! He and the Sanhedrin are frightened out of their wits. Word has spread on the streets that bar Abba is going to avenge a sacrilege against their God. Caiaphas is certain he is the next target!”

  “It seems easy enough to guard the members of the Jewish council until the danger is past,” Marcus ventured.

  Vara snorted. “Let them fend for themselves. Our only concern is protecting the governor.”

  “And maintaining the peace,” Pilate added. “No riots! There will be no uprising! Vara, you have enough men in disguise to prevent any mob from getting out of control. Isn’t that what you promised?”

  Vara nodded. “My troopers will be part of every crowd, every gathering, from here to the Temple Mount.” Clapping his jewelry-encrusted hand against his leg produced a metallic ring as he struck a concealed sword.

  “Keep the bloodshed to a minimum!” Pilate cautioned. “Clubs and whips, not blades, are called for.” Turning toward Felix, Pilate asked, “You received a message from Caiaphas moments ago. What does he want now?”

  “He’s thought of a way to defuse the aqueduct issue, he says,” the young officer related. “He wants you to receive a delegation of leading citizens who will spell out their grievance in regard to the Korban funds. These are . . . men who were not consulted before the project was approved.”

  “Never!” Vara vowed. “They have no right to question His Excellency’s orders.”

  Marcus remained silent, recalling that the aqueduct scheme had been rammed through the Jewish council when more than half of them were absent.

  Felix continued, “Caiaphas feels that by giving them a chance to air their complaints, and by giving the governor opportunity to detail the excellent reasons behind the plan, much of the anger will be defused.”

  “Caiaphas,” Pilate commented dryly, “doesn’t always say everything he means! By sending the delegation here he expects to shift the focus of the blame from himself to me! But I will oblige him. He’ll be more in my debt than ever. Vara, you and your men will of course be here as well.”

  Vara bowed.

  Then Pilate said to Marcus, “Why didn’t you crucify the two men involved in the brawl?”

  The governor liked to display his political skill at keeping others off balance, Marcus thought. After the conversation had gone well beyond the Tower of Siloam, Pilate abruptly brought it back front and center, trying to catch Marcus off-guard.

  It didn’t work.

  Since Marcus had no intention of making excuses or lying, he had no reason to hesitate. “Because I judged it to be the best way to prevent a bad situation from getting worse,” he said. “Two more deaths would only have kept the anger between herdsmen and stoneworkers simmering and led to more bloodshed. The destruction was caused by the rebels. What followed was unfortunate, but not deliberate. If things now remain calm, the damage can be repaired in a matter of weeks at most and the project not further delayed by more trouble.”

  Vara’s expression was maliciously eager, like a vicious dog awaiting the signal to attack.

  Pilate rested his chin on the tips of his index fingers and stared at Marcus. After several beats passed in uncomfortable silence the governor observed, “Quite right too. It has always been my custom to release a prisoner at Passover as a sop to the mobs. Let it be announced that the two men at Herodium were freed by my order. Have that proclaimed in the streets so when the pilgrims hear about the attack on my tower, they’ll also hear about my mercy in the very next breath. That’s enough for the moment. You are dismissed.”

  Vara appeared disappointed. Clearly he’d expected to arrest Marcus, if not to be ordered to organize an execution.

  Eyeing his enemy, Marcus waited for Vara to leave first, then he and Felix saluted and turned to go.

 
VE-LO

  The open scroll of Isaiah was on Nakdimon’s desk. Every passage seemed laden with prophecies about the Messiah, Jerusalem, and the future of Israel. The scroll itself appeared to be a jumble of contradictions. By Messiah’s wounds the transgressions of Israel would be forgiven? And yet Messiah, as the promised shoot from the family tree of Jesse and David, would rule as King in Jerusalem? Here he was servant of the Lord; there he was given authority over Israel and all the nations! Could the book of Isaiah be speaking of one Messiah and yet two separate events in future history?

  Gamaliel believed this was the case. And coupled with the prophecy in Daniel about the Anointed One being cut off, Gamaliel believed the first prophecy concerning Messiah as Redeemer was within a year of being fulfilled.

  It was a frightening possibility. All the passages that described the death of the Messiah were followed by further predictions that the nation of Israel would then be broken by its enemies and scattered to the far corners of the earth! The people of the covenant would live in lonely exile until the last days when the Lord, Immanu’el, would shout from heaven to the north, south, east, and west, “Give them up!” At the command from heaven the children of Israel would come home to Jerusalem and once again Israel would become a nation! When that was finally accomplished, Messiah would return to Jerusalem as King to judge the earth and rule over the nations.

  Could it be?

  The final fulfillment of hope for the Jewish nation would not come to pass until years, possibly centuries, of suffering!

  Nakdimon closed his eyes and prayed that none of this would come to pass in his lifetime or the lifetimes of his children. The prospect of judgment on this beloved Eretz-Israel was almost too much to bear.

  Only days now before Passover.

  Jerusalem resounded with the bawling of sheep and cattle passing through the gates and into the pens of the Temple. The streets smelled of cow dung and hummed with the buzzing of flies.

  This year it was expected that the city would be more packed than usual. The buzz everywhere was about the Prophet from Galilee. Would he come to Jerusalem for the Passover? Or would he remain in hiding since the death of the Baptizer? Pilgrims had begun arriving to find a place to stay. Signs suddenly appeared, advertising room rental in private homes for the holiday.

  Nakdimon had never much liked the city during this season of the year. This year he dreaded what might happen.

  He told his mother, “This year we stay behind these gates. What I mean, Em, is this: lay in all the supplies we’ll need, then bar the doors.”

  At first she stared at him as if he were joking. Then with a harsh glare she said, “You’re expecting it to be that bad?”

  He nodded. “Almost a certainty.”

  “What? Over the Korban funds?”

  “That. And more.” He wouldn’t tell her all that he envisioned.

  His mother drew herself up. “Then let’s go to my house, Nakdimon! The sea air will do the children good! Come! We can be packed by morning and on the road. . . .”

  “I can’t go, Mother. You know that. As a member of the Sanhedrin, I have to stay. Especially now.”

  “Stubborn! Like your father! The family times he missed because of this . . . politics! And don’t tell me you’re doing this for the sake of HaShem! The Almighty has nothing to do whatsoever with the inner workings of the Sanhedrin! Caiaphas and his tribe are Roman puppets. You know it, and so does everyone from here to Rome!”

  “You’re right. That’s why I must stay. Gamaliel and I . . . a few others—”

  She interrupted him with a dismissive wave. “Please. Spare me your noble causes. You and Gamaliel. Your children grow up, and you’re so busy searching the Scriptures for the answers to life that you miss life. Miss it altogether! So! Let me take the children to Joppa. Hannah is trying so hard to fill the empty space left by her mother that she’s forgotten how to laugh. And Samuel has never met your sisters. You stay in this sweltering sheep pen if you like. With the flies! The Romans! The cohanim and sicarii. But the children could use a lot of fresh air and a whole lot less intrigue. I’m getting old in this dreadful city! My bones ache for a day at the beach. White sand between my toes.”

  She was right, of course. Nakdimon was missing life. Hadassah had always kept him balanced. But no more. Since he had come home from the Galil, he had been obsessed with searching Torah and the Tanakh for answers to his questions about Yeshua. He had hardly left his study.

  “Yes, Em. You’re right. Of course. You’re right. I left Yerushalayim hoping to find answers. Instead I’ve come home with more questions. I . . . fear . . . this is a dangerous time for us all.”

  She gazed at him with pity. “You’ve always been a good boy, Nakdimon. But you need . . . a wife . . . a good woman to steer this ship away from the shoals.”

  “I had Hadassah. I can’t let myself love any other.” He did not tell her that the only other woman who had sparked his imagination would be unacceptable as a wife. What would his mother say if she knew he had regarded Miryam, sister of El’azar of Bethany, with more than passing interest? Best to say nothing. Best to steer clear of that particular reef altogether.

  His mother frowned. “Well then. You’ll have to make do with your mother telling you you’re wrongheaded.”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I can’t so much as glance away from the affairs set before me now, Mother. Or something terrible may happen here this week. I feel it. I fear it.”

  “Then should the children be here when it happens?”

  “No.” He feigned cheerfulness. “All right. Joppa. The sea. Tell them. Get everything ready. I’ll hire escorts and porters from the Temple staff to take you to Joppa in the morning.”

  “Will you come? Have seder with us at least?” She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

  “I’ll try.” He stared at the open scroll on his desk. Words swam before him. He knew well enough he would be in Jerusalem this Passover and nowhere else. “But don’t get their hopes up.”

  The mood around the watch fire was mournful.

  Emet sat with his head cradled in his hands. He was unable to escape the sense that besides causing the deaths of so many innocent lives, the tragedy had not stopped. It expanded until it included the one innocent life he had cherished most in the world: the lamb Bear.

  Zadok had ordered the three apprentice shepherds to stand night watch over the flock bound for the Temple. Then, unexpectedly, the old man accompanied them.

  Tomorrow, Zadok said, Emet and the other two boys would return with him to Jerusalem to meet with Rabbi Gamaliel. Rebels who cause wanton destruction and the deaths of civilians, he said, are not soldiers fighting for a cause but criminals. As much as Zadok disapproved of the aqueduct and despised the Roman overlords, he still intended to denounce the rebels who attacked Siloam Tower.

  Politics and rebels were of very little interest to Emet. He hurt inside. Yeshua had given him a voice, but when the time appeared to use it to shout a warning, he had failed.

  Zadok tramped the rounds of the flock, posted Red Dog in a watchful spot, then returned to the fire. “Don’t take more on yourself than y’ deserve,” he said, sitting next to Emet and rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Your shoulders aren’t as yet as broad as a man’s, and many men would have failed the test you faced.”

  Emet sniffed and shook his head. “But it’s my fault. If I had told you about Asher right after it happened, then you could have warned someone.”

  “And that would have been the right thing for y’ to do,” Zadok acknowledged sternly. “There’s a time to keep silent and a time to speak.” The chief shepherd’s gaze took in a distant horizon, as if examining a scene visible only to him. When he spoke again, his tone was softer. “You were afraid,” he said, “and fear makes us forget right and wrong sometimes. But hear me, Emet. You’ll never again in your life let that happen. You would give anything to undo yesterday, wouldn’t y’?”

  Emet wiped his nose on the
sleeve of his robe, and big tears welled up in his eyes. “And today.”

  Zadok continued, “You’ve learned at age five what many men never grasp: failing to do what is right may have far worse consequences than anything y’ fear for yourself . . . and you’ll ache inside afterward. There will come a time in your life when this trial will again be yours. On that day you’ll remember what happened at Siloam’s tower, and you’ll not fail.”

  “But did it have to take Bear too?” Emet said, his voice quavering.

  “Yes,” Zadok said. “Bear paid a penalty because of you . . . but so it is with every sin offering and trespass offering and Day of Atonement sacrifice. Sin is not imaginary. It piles up on men’s backs like loads of heavy stones.”

  Zadok paused, as if in thought. “Y’ saw men crushed, trapped under the timbers of the tower . . . men who could not free themselves, and who needed someone to lift the weights before they died. Sin is exactly like that, except that it cannot be removed any other way than this: some other, some completely innocent other, must remove the burden. And this, the Almighty teaches, requires a death. Do y’ understand me, boy?”

  “But why the one lamb I loved?”

  “For repentance to be effective . . . for anyone to be forgiven and know without doubt that he is forgiven . . . that which is sacrificed must cost something, be precious, even be agonizing in the loss of it.” The chief shepherd put his arm around Emet and drew him closer. “You’re well and truly forgiven, Emet. It was a blood covenant that was enacted today, but for you it was an act of atonement. And the Almighty sees your heart and forgives you.”

  Emet and Zadok, Ha-or Tov and Avel sat beside the fire for a long time without speaking. The crickets were awake in the tall grass and frogs croaked in the pond at the far side of the meadow. These and the sighing breeze chorused with the crackle of the burning acacia branches.

  Emet sighed. He studied a bright blue-white star overhead and wondered at its name. When a blazing knot of wood popped particularly loudly, Red Dog turned and regarded the humans gathered in the circle.