This public statement landed poor John in prison. Then, during a birthday celebration when Herod reportedly became drunk with mixed wines, Herodias’s daughter performed some kind of erotic dance that pleased the inebriated Herod. So much so that he offered to give her whatever she desired. And that was when the woman requested that he give her John the Baptist’s head on a platter. Her request was granted, and John was beheaded.
I remember questioning Jehovah at the time, wondering how he allowed such wickedness not only in this world but in positions of Jewish leadership. But then I was reminded that the Lord God Jehovah does not control the will of man. And the will of man, much of the time, seems determined to turn its back on God and to pursue its own selfish ways.
Of course, Jesus exhorted us again and again to turn back to God the Father. And many of us had been doing just that—through Jesus, who was like a door, a gate that took us right to Jehovah. But now our door is gone. How will we enter?
Our meal is ending now, but I see there is nearly as much food on the table as when we began. No one has much of an appetite. And no one has much to say. I move to my place by the window as the women begin to clear away the food. The sky is dark now, and another hopeless night looms before us. How long must we wait, Lord?
“Let us remember and be encouraged by what our Lord told us,” John says, and the room suddenly grows very quiet. “On his last evening with us, our Master said, ‘No man has a greater love than to lay down his life for his friends.’”
The women stop clearing the table, and we all focus our attention on John, waiting for him to continue, hoping he might also have the words of life that we all dearly miss.
“And then Jesus said, ‘You are my friends if you do as I instruct you. I do not call you servants anymore. For a servant is unaware of what his master is up to. But I am calling you friends because I have told you all that my Father has told me.’”
I can tell that the others are feeling more hopeful, thinking that perhaps John is remembering something vitally important, or maybe Jesus is speaking through him, and maybe something he says tonight will make sense out of what feels like a bad mistake.
“Go on,” John’s brother James urges.
“Our Lord said that we did not choose him, but that he chose us. Not only did he choose us, but he appointed us.”
Heads are nodding now. The flicker of hope and memory is burning brighter.
“Jesus said,” John continues, “‘I appointed you so that you could bear fruit and that your fruit should remain. And if you ask the Father for anything in my name, he will give it to you.’”
“But what does that mean?” Andrew asks.
“Explain it to us,” James insists. “Because I have been asking the Father to do something. And I have been asking in Jesus’s name. And yet it does not happen.”
“We need to have faith,” John says. “Even if it looks hopeless.”
“I just want him to come back,” Mary of Magdala says in a desperate voice. Then she staggers slightly, as if she is about to faint, and one of the other women helps her sit down. Once seated, Mary takes her head into her hands and weeps like a brokenhearted child. Soon many of us are weeping. We cannot help it. I look to John with tears blurring my eyes. I appreciate his words and his willingness to encourage our hearts, but now I see that he too is crying.
I wonder how much grief we can endure and whether hope will ever live again. I turn my face to look out the window now. The world is dark, but I can see the golden glow of lamplights flickering in the windows in the homes down below. I am reminded of when Jesus said that we, his followers, were to be like a city on a high hill, something people could spot from miles away—or like a lamp set upon a pedestal, shedding its light for all to see.
But it seems our lamp is burning low tonight, or perhaps the evil one has placed a bushel basket over it to obscure its light completely. For if anyone is watching us, Jesus’s devoted followers, all they would see tonight is a sad little group of lost and confused children hovering in the darkness. Not very impressive.
I remember the prayer that Jesus taught us. It is one I have repeated often, but not since my son’s death. I look out over Jerusalem now—the city that killed my son—and I quietly whisper the words into the night air.
“My Father in heaven.
Holy is your name.
May your kingdom come to us,
and may your will be fulfilled here on earth,
even as it is fulfilled in heaven.
Give us what we need for this day.
And forgive us our sins,
as we forgive those who sin against us.
And lead us away from temptation,
and deliver us from evil.
For your kingdom is powerful and glorious for all eternity.
Amen.”
To my surprise, I feel a bit better now. I consider the words of this prayer, and I wonder if I have ever completely understood the meaning before. Or even if I understand it now. But I do believe God’s kingdom came to us—it came to earth in the sinless form of my son, the Lord Jesus. And yet it still does not seem that God’s will has been fulfilled here on earth. If anything, it seems that it was thwarted when Jesus was killed yesterday. And I do not understand the purpose in this. Still, I trust Jehovah and I trust Jesus, and I do believe God’s kingdom is forever. And so we must continue to wait.
I decide that I will attempt to encourage myself, following John’s example, by remembering the words Jesus spoke during his ministry. I will see how many of his words I can recall. Remembering how I have planted them like seeds in my heart, I will see if they are still there. Perhaps my tears have watered them recently, and maybe they will finally begin to grow. Or at least they will help me pass the time until morning. And then what? What will I do tomorrow?
“Do not worry about tomorrow,” my son once told us. “For tomorrow has enough worries for itself.” Well, that is true enough. And I cannot even count the times I have cheered myself with what he said next. I suppose it was the gardener in me that latched onto these happy words.
“Think about the flowers on the hillside,” he said as he held up a glorious red anemone flower. “They do not worry about how to spin or how to weave fine cloth. They never fret over what they will wear. Yet even King Solomon, in all his glory days, never turned out as beautifully dressed as these pretty flowers.”
I remember how I laughed the first time I heard him say that. How perfectly appropriate. And how easy to remember. His stories were like that for me. He made a very clear point, but not with fancy words. He simply painted word pictures and told us stories we could remember. Parables we could repeat to one another as we traveled the roads of life. And now I am hoping his stories and my memories can carry me through another night.
12
AS THE WOMEN GATHER up the remains of our mostly untouched supper, I am reminded of another time when there was a surplus of leftovers. It happened near Capernaum shortly after the execution of John the Baptist. I am sure Jesus was grieving the death of his cousin. Probably on several levels.
I had heard rumors that some of John’s followers had turned to Jesus, hailing him as king but pressuring him to take his kingdom by force. Many of our people were tired of being oppressed by not only the Romans but also the crooked leadership of our own people. As a result, people hungry for a leader, a prophet—yes, even the Messiah—came from all over, clamoring to see Jesus.
Sarah and I had just returned from Cana, where we had spent a few days with her family, but hearing of John’s death disturbed us greatly. We both suddenly longed to be near Jesus once more. And we were not alone. We overheard one man estimating that there were at least five thousand men present that day. And that combined with women and children could probably be four times that number. Incredible.
Jesus and his disciples had taken a boat across the lake. I later learned this was simply to escape the huge crowd of people. Of course, the people had no idea, and they simpl
y walked around the lake to the place where they had heard the Master would be teaching later in the day. Naturally, and not unlike sheep, Sarah and I went with them.
We all ended up at a lovely, albeit somewhat remote, area on the north side of the lake. A slight breeze cooled the afternoon air, and before long we found places to sit on the hillside, waiting for our Lord to arrive.
I could tell, even from a distance, that Jesus was tired and, I am sure, overwhelmed by John’s death and the subsequent pressure from John’s disciples. But, making the boat into his platform, he stood before the crowd and taught just the same. That is how compassionate this man was. He always put the needs of others above his own. And although he was weary and grieving, his teaching that day (at least for me) was some of his best and most memorable. Perhaps that is because he spoke of plants and seeds and growing things, subjects that were near and dear to my heart. And I suppose I even wondered if my love of gardens had somehow had an effect on him. Although, as Jehovah is my witness, I take no credit for his sermon. Besides, it was plain to see that Jesus’s heavenly Father was speaking directly through him.
“A man went out to plant seeds.” Jesus began with these simple words, and the crowd grew instantly quiet as his voice carried across the water and up the hillside. “And as he was planting, some of the seeds fell along the road and were immediately gobbled up by the birds. And some seeds fell into the rocky places where the soil was not good, causing these seeds to spring up quickly, but when the sun came out, the plants became scorched and withered. Then some of the seeds fell among the thorns, and the thorns took over and choked them out.”
I remember feeling a bit worried, wondering what kind of farmer would be so careless with precious seeds? I could not imagine where Jesus was going with this story.
Then he continued. “But the other seeds fell onto good soil, producing a good crop, some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty.” Then he paused for a moment before he called out, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear!”
Well, I was not exactly sure what his story meant, but I did have hungry ears, and I wanted to be able to understand the meaning. But why did it always seem to be hidden? I glanced at Sarah, curious as to whether she understood the meaning, but she looked as confused as I felt. In fact, I noticed that everyone did.
I later learned the meaning of this parable from Simon Peter. He told me the disciples had been puzzled too, but Jesus had explained it all later. “The seeds are like Jesus’s words, words that tell of God’s kingdom,” Peter told me.
I nodded eagerly. “And we, the listeners, are like the different kinds of soil?”
“That is right. Some of us are like the road—our soil is packed so hard and tight that the words just bounce right off and are easily taken from us.”
“Yes, I have been like that before,” I admitted.
“So have I. And I think that is also a good description of some of the scribes and Pharisees—their soil is packed hard as a stone.”
“Maybe so.”
“And some of us are like the rocky soil,” he continued. “We get excited about the kingdom words, so the seeds spring up quickly, but we do not have the right kind of soil to grow the roots we need. And when the sun gets hot, we wither.” He lowered his voice and said, “I think Jesus was talking about some of John’s followers, the ones who are urging him to take his kingdom by force. But Jesus does not want to do it that way.
“And, finally, there is the good soil, and those are the hearts that are ready for the seeds. Those are the people who will grow good crops that yield many more seeds.”
“That makes sense, Peter,” I told him. “Thank you.”
Peter looked troubled. “I see how you keep a distance from your son, Mary. And I have heard the things he has said to you—things that might hurt a mother’s heart. But believe me, I know he loves you.”
“Yes. I know he does too. But he is right in saying that those who do the Father’s will are his mothers and brothers and sisters. And I respect that.” I smiled. “You see, my son is also my Lord.”
“He is my Lord too.”
And later that same day, Peter had the opportunity to prove it. But that is another story.
All the things from supper have been cleared away now, and I remember back to that day when all the thousands listened to my son preaching from the boat down on the water. As the day drew to an end, it became clear that the crowds were hungry and that we were far from civilization. Like many of the others, Sarah and I had left our provisions in the home where we had been staying, and now it was suppertime and those provisions were several hours away.
Jesus’s disciples told him he should send the crowds away so they could get food. But Jesus told his disciples they should feed the crowds. Well, I am sure this must have surprised them, since the only food they had was several loaves of bread and a couple of dried fish that had been donated by a generous little boy. But Jesus took these items and blessed them and broke them, telling his disciples to go out and feed the crowd. And so they did. To our amazement, there was plenty of bread and fish and everyone ate until they were full!
“This is like the wine at Benjamin’s wedding!” Sarah exclaimed as she bit into another piece of fish.
“Have you ever tasted bread this delicious?” I asked.
And we ate as much as we wanted. But it was all those baskets full of leftover bread and fish that surprised me so. I think I heard that there were twelve all totaled. Miraculous!
But that was then. Everything is different now. I shift my position and glance over to where Simon Peter is slumped against the wall and appears to be sleeping, but I suspect he is actually wide awake. Poor man. How I wish he could forgive himself. Has he forgotten the words of his Lord?
I know he will never forget what happened later that same day, after they had fed the huge crowd. With full stomachs, the crowd began breaking up and people started heading back to town. Evening was approaching, and I remember feeling relieved to see that Jesus appeared to be leaving too, going off by himself. And I hoped it was to have a good rest.
Yes, I fully realized by then that he was the Son of God and perfectly capable of taking care of himself as well as all of humanity, but, as his earthly mother, I still hoped he might get some much deserved peace and quiet, even if only for a short spell. His disciples, acting as his guards, would not allow any of the straggling listeners to follow as Jesus headed away from the lake. Soon everyone was back on their way to Capernaum and the disciples were getting back into their boat and preparing to row across the lake. Their plan, I learned later, was to meet up with Jesus on the other side sometime the following day.
We were almost back to town when the wind began to pick up and howl. It was obvious that a big storm was brewing, and Sarah and I began to walk faster. When we were nearly to town, we turned to look back at the lake, and that was when we noticed that the waves were cresting quite high.
“I hope his disciples will be okay out there,” she said with concern.
In all honesty, I felt thankful to know that my son was safely on land, but I kept these thoughts to myself as we hurried into town. We had just gotten safely into Sarah’s sister-in-law’s house when the wind began to wail and scream like demons from hell.
“Those unfortunate men,” Sarah said as we shook the rain from our outer garments. “Can you imagine what it is like out there on the lake?”
Her sister-in-law frowned. “Well, if there is anyone on the lake right now, you probably will not be seeing those poor souls again. Who would be out in this?”
“Jesus’s disciples,” Sarah said sadly.
Then her sister-in-law reached for my arm. “Dear Mary, please tell me, is your son with them?”
“No,” I assured her. “Jesus is safely on land.”
As it turned out, I was wrong. Not only was Jesus not safely on land, he was out there in the middle of the storm, walking right on top of the water! I have never seen a man as excited as Simon Peter whe
n he told me this remarkable story several days later.
“We thought we were goners,” he said. “That storm was trying to swallow up our boat for good.” He shook his head. “Being a fisherman, I have seen some bad storms in my day, but that one was a monster.” Then he went on to tell me how he had seen Jesus walking on the water toward them. “I could not believe it at first,” he said. “I honestly thought I was imagining the whole thing. But then the others saw him too, and we knew it was real. He called out to us, telling us not to be afraid.” Peter shook his head and laughed. “Then I said, ‘Lord, if it is really you, tell me to come out to you on the water.’ And Jesus said, ‘Come.’”
By now Peter’s brother Andrew had joined us. “Yes,” Andrew said. “And brave Peter went out on the water—”
“I did!” Peter exclaimed. “I was really walking on the water—”
“Until he got scared and started to sink,” Andrew teased.
“I did not see you out there walking on the water,” Peter said. “At least I gave it a try.”
“And lucky for you that Jesus rescued you.”
“But that is when we all knew for sure, Mary,” said Peter, more serious now. “We all got down on our knees, right there in the boat, and we all proclaimed your son as the Son of God.”
“Thank you for telling me this,” I told them. “It means so much to me.”
I think it was at that time that I really began to believe that Jesus was invincible, that, no matter what happened, he could not be harmed or debilitated, and certainly not killed. But it seems I was wrong about that too.
Three Days: A Mother's Story Page 7
