The Kingdom and the Crown

by Gerald N. Lund

  Simeon started. Chorazin was a town constructed almost entirely of black basalt stone in the hills a few miles north of Capernaum.

  Jesus turned even more, looking eastward beyond Capernaum, along the shoreline of the sea. “And woe unto to thee, Bethsaida. If the mighty works which have been done in you had been shown in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented in sackcloth and ashes long ago.”

  Everyone gave the others strange looks. Tyre and Sidon were Phoenician seaport cities, Gentile cities famous for their worldliness and wickedness. What did this mean?

  He released a long sigh, filled with pain. Simeon saw Jesus’ head turn so he was looking directly at the nearest houses of the town. “And thou, Capernaum, which are exalted unto heaven, thou shalt be brought down to hell. For if the mighty works which had been done in thee had been done in Sodom, it would have remained until this day.”

  Simeon winced. Sodom and Gomorrah had become the ultimate metaphor of wickedness. Those cities had been destroyed in one day when Abraham could find no righteous among them. And Capernaum was worse than that?

  And then he thought of what he had noticed just a few moments before. All around him stood living evidence of the miraculous power of Jesus. Joachin the leper; Elah ben Reuben; Ruth, widow of Yohanan; Mary Magdalene; Jairus’s daughter. Simeon realized that right here, before his very eyes, was one example after another of the “work” that Jesus had done in this area. And there were those who were not with them this day. A blind man, healed with a touch. A man from Chorazin who had come to the synagogue one morning, one hand drawn back within his robes so that people wouldn’t see its withered, twisted deformity. Somewhere he carried out his occupation, whatever it was, and now he did it with two strong, healthy hands. The servant of Sextus Rubrius had been healed from a distance when Sextus had told Jesus that he wasn’t worthy to have the Master come to his home.

  And what of that which had helped to finally turn Simeon’s hardened heart around? On a hillside west of Capernaum, Simeon had watched with his own eyes as five loaves of bread and two fishes had been blessed, then passed to more than five thousand people. When the people had all eaten, twelve baskets filled with leftovers were brought back in.

  If the mighty works which have been done in you had been shown in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented in sackcloth and ashes long ago. Yes, he thought. If Sodom had seen such marvels happen in their streets, what then? If Rome or Athens or Alexandria had been witness to such wonders, would the majority of their citizens have gone on about their business as if nothing had happened?

  Jesus slowly turned back to the crowd. There was sorrow in his eyes. “I say unto you, in the day of judgment it shall be more tolerable for the land of Sodom, and for Tyre and Sidon, than it shall be for Capernaum, for Chorazin, for Bethsaida.”

  He stopped then, looking drained, stepped back, and turned to Peter. “We can go when you are ready.”

  Chapter Notes

  As has been stated in earlier volumes, arranging the events of Christ’s life into chronological order is very difficult to do. Many so-called “harmonies” of the Gospels have tried to do this, and none are in complete agreement with each other. Not that it makes a significant difference. The power of Jesus lies in what he said and did, not when he said or did it. Most harmonies do agree that the last months of Jesus’ life were spent in what is often called “the Perean and later Judean ministry.” John seems to tie the beginning of that ministry to the Feast of Tabernacles (John 7:1–3), which was held in October.

  Many of the cities, towns, and villages in the Holy Land today occupy the same sites they did in the time of Christ, though often the names have changed or been modified. Ironically, though Chorazin, Bethsaida, and Capernaum were thriving towns situated on sites one would expect to be conducive to continued occupation, there are no villages at any of the three sites today. Some find that interesting in light of Christ’s condemnation of these villages because of their lack of response to his ministry (see Matthew 11:20–24; Luke 10:13–15).

  Just a note about the way in which the characters in the novel speak of “going up” to Jerusalem. To modern readers, “up” and “down” is usually determined by the orientation of our maps, with north being at the top. Thus, from Montana one goes “down” to Arizona, while Arizonans would go “up” to Montana. To the Jews, one always went “up” to Jerusalem. This was partly because Jerusalem sits at about 2,600 feet above sea level in the tops of the central ridge of mountains that dominate Israel. Even when considering the north and south, along the spine of the mountains, Jerusalem is higher than the immediate land surrounding it. So as one approached the city, one would literally go up.

  But the use of the expression “going up” indicated far more than simply elevation. Jerusalem was the capital city. It was the center of culture, learning, and religion. Here the temple, the heart and soul of Judaism, crowned one of Jerusalem’s highest hills, gleaming golden-white in the sun, like a beacon to all the world. So to go to Jerusalem was to ascend upward—physically, emotionally, culturally, and, most importantly, spiritually. “Going up” to Jerusalem is frequently used in both the Old and New Testaments (see, for example, 1 Kings 12:28; Isaiah 2:3; Matthew 20:18; Mark 10:33; Luke 18:31; Acts 15:2).

  Chapter 9

  And he said unto them, The sabbath was made for man, and not man for the sabbath: Therefore the Son of man is Lord also of the sabbath.

  —Mark 2:27–28

  I

  On the road to Jericho 12 September, a.d. 32

  “Uncle Simeon. Tell me a story before I go to bed.”

  Rachel, who was laying out blankets on the ground, swung around. “Esther! It is past your bedtime. Boaz is already asleep. You have stalled long enough.”

  The large black eyes didn’t even glance in her mother’s direction. In the firelight, they only grew larger, more imploring, and more beautiful. “Please, Uncle Simeon. Please, Aunt Miriam.”

  Simeon turned to his sister-in-law. “Now, how are we supposed to resist something like that?”

  Rachel just shook her head. “She is shameless, you know. She knows that she can twist the three of you like a thread around her finger.”

  Simeon nodded, smiling at his niece. “I know, but it is our first night on the road. Little girls—young women!”—he quickly corrected himself, before she could react—“need something to calm them down after all the excitement.”

  Esther snuggled in between Miriam and Livia, who put an arm around her. “We’ll make it short,” Livia promised Rachel.

  Rachel sighed, not really displeased, and bobbed her head. “All right. But then, Esther, you promise that you will go right to bed when it’s done?”

  “Yes, Mama.” It was said humbly, but the gleam of triumph in her eyes was unmistakable.

  Simeon laughed. “So what story would you like to hear?”

  “Queen Esther!” came the instant reply.

  “Of course,” Miriam said, hugging her tightly. “What else would it be?”

  II

  Simeon was lying back, propped up on one elbow. He watched Miriam, her face tinged with just a hint of gold from the low firelight. She was sitting, arms folded on her knees, staring into the fire. They were alone now. Livia had taken Esther to her family and had stayed to talk.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  She turned, slightly startled, then smiled. “Actually, I was thinking about what Queen Esther’s uncle said to her when he was trying to convince her to go to the king and plead for him to save her people.”

  “‘And who knoweth,’” Simeon began to quote softly, “‘whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this.’”

  “Exactly,” Miriam murmured. “And surely it was so. To have a Jewess in such a position of influence in the royal court of Persia that she could save her people, that had to be the hand of the Lord.”

  “No question about it. She was a woman of uncommon beauty and remarkable courage. The Lord su
rely raised her up for that very purpose.” He reached out and touched her arm. “I picture her to be like someone else I know.”

  Miriam smiled. “Hardly anything like Queen Esther, but thank you anyway.” She turned her head to where Ephraim and Rachel were preparing for bed beside their sleeping children. “What will our little Esther see in her lifetime? What things has the Lord in mind for her?”

  “It is a sobering question,” Simeon replied. “For one thing, she will grow up being a disciple of the Master. She already has as much faith in him as anyone does.”

  “Yes, and that seems strange, doesn’t it. We came to know Jesus in our adulthood. She and Boaz and little Miriam and Amasa will all grow up knowing him from the beginning.”

  “And our children as well.”

  She nodded happily. “That, too. What a difference it will make to them. What a great blessing that will be to them.”

  “What blessing is that?”

  They both turned as a figure appeared out of the night. Simeon sat up, half turning. “Peter? Erev tov!”

  “And good evening to you two. May I join you?”

  “Of course.” Simeon moved closer to Miriam to make a place for him. The chief apostle sat down beside them, sighing wearily as he did so.

  “I thought Mother and Father were with you,” Simeon said.

  “They are, or were. They’re with Anna and Mary Magdalene and Joanna. I decided I would take one last look around camp to make sure everything is all right.”

  “And?”

  He chuckled. “You can tell it’s our first day on the road. Half the camp is already asleep.”

  “What about Jesus?” Miriam asked.

  “He’s off by himself somewhere. We asked everyone to let him have some time alone.” He looked at Miriam. “So what blessings were you talking about as I came up?”

  “Oh, we were talking about these children who will grow up knowing Jesus from the very beginning.”

  “We told Esther the story of Queen Esther,” Simeon explained. He chuckled. “For the hundredth time at least. And we were just wondering if the Lord has something special in store for our Esther, just as he did for Queen Esther.”

  “But of course,” Peter said. “She will be part of the new kingdom of God.”

  “That’s just what I was saying,” Miriam responded, pleased to know her thoughts were similar to their old friend’s.

  “And what will the kingdom be like in twenty-five or thirty years?” Peter mused. “Look how many have come to believe in just these last two years. Give it thirty more years, and Jesus could have a following of tens of thousands.”

  Miriam was struck with that thought. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful? It could influence the entire country.”

  “All of Israel even,” Peter agreed.

  That reminded Simeon of something that had been bothering him all day. “Have you got a few minutes?” he asked. “Or do you have to get back?”

  “No, I’m fine. It feels good to sit for a while.”

  “Tell me about what Jesus said this morning as we were preparing to leave.”

  Peter turned himself a little so he faced them more directly. “About Chorazin and Capernaum?”

  “Yes. That and his other comments. It was almost like he was saying good-bye. Like he wasn’t coming back.”

  Peter looked at him sharply. “Why do you say that?”

  Simeon shrugged. “I don’t know. It was just a feeling I had. That comment about the Son of man having to suffer as John the Baptist did. Was he talking about himself?”

  Peter didn’t answer for a long time; then his mouth pulled down. Absently, he began to stroke his beard, deep in thought. “I’m worried, Simeon.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, first of all, we weren’t supposed to go up to Jerusalem for Sukkot this year.”

  Simeon began to nod. “That’s what Father said you had told him a few weeks ago. So what happened?”

  “It was really strange. Mary, his mother, came down with the rest of the family a week or so ago.”

  “Yes, I remember that.”

  “The brothers asked Jesus if he was going up to the feast. He said no. By that time we knew there was talk of possible trouble in Jerusalem, and so we were pleased to hear that.”

  “Are his brothers still having a hard time accepting Jesus for what he is?” Simeon wondered.

  Peter’s mouth pulled down again as he nodded.

  “Not Mary, surely,” Miriam exclaimed.

  “Oh, no,” Peter replied hastily. “Mary knows exactly who and what her son is. But his brothers . . .” He shook his head. “There’s no animosity there, or anything like that. It’s just . . . well, I can see why. I mean, it would be hard to believe that the Messiah had come right into your own family. That he was the older brother you grew up with, wrestled with, shared a sleeping room with, ate with every day. That would be strange.”

  “And yet surely they’ve seen him work,” Miriam said. “Surely they’ve witnessed some of his miracles.”

  “Yes, they have. And in fact, that’s why they pressed him to go to Judea. They want him to let the disciples there see what he does. ‘If you work in secret,’ they told him, ‘how can you hope to be known openly. Go, show yourself to the world.’”

  “And what did Jesus say to that?” Simeon asked.

  “That’s one of the things that worries me,” was the response. “He said something like, ‘My time is not yet come. Your time is here, so you go up to the feast. But my time is not yet.’” He exhaled slowly. “Then his next words really chilled us all. He said, ‘The world cannot hate you, but it hates me, because I testify that its works are evil.’”

  “Whew!” Simeon said. “Those are strong words.”

  “Yes,” Peter said, “and it clearly frustrated them. We learned just a few days ago that the family had taken Mary to Jerusalem. Then, to our surprise, Jesus announced that we would be going up there after all.”

  “In spite of the danger?” Miriam asked softly.

  “In spite of everything. He has agreed to go up secretly, but we are going.”

  “Secretly?” Simeon gave a short, mirthless laugh. “With the crowds he draws, the Sanhedrin will know he’s coming before we ever reach the city.”

  “I know,” Peter said glumly.

  “Do you think he’s afraid that . . .” Miriam couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

  “Afraid? No. Does he think that he’s in danger?” He nodded vigorously, rubbing at the dirt with the palm of his hand. “Definitely.”

  “And you couldn’t convince him not to go?” Simeon asked, already knowing what the answer was.

  Peter stared into the fire for a long time before answering. When his head finally lifted, he looked very grave. “Let me share with you something that happened not long ago,” he said. “We haven’t talked much about this, and it’s so personal that I don’t like to talk about it, but it helps to answer your question.”

  Both Miriam and Simeon sat back to listen.

  “We had gone north,” Peter began, his voice soft and far away, “up in the area of Caesarea Philippi. You’ve been there, Simeon. It’s where the springs of Pan are.”

  “Yes, I know it well.” At the southern base of Mount Hermon, copious springs burst forth from the ground, forming one of the sources of the River Jordan. It was a beautiful spot, and much earlier, the Greeks had turned it into a center for the worship of Pan, their god of forest and pasture, flocks and shepherds. In recent times, Herod Philip, son of Herod the Great, had built a Roman city there and named it Caesarea in honor of the Emperor Tiberias. It was called Caesarea Philippi to distinguish it from the Caesarea on the coast.

  “One afternoon, out of nowhere, Jesus asked us a question,” Peter continued. “He asked us who men thought he was. We knew what he was thinking—there were many theories about his identity. I think it was Andrew who said that some people were saying that he was John the Baptist come back from the dead. Others
claim he is Elijah. We’ve even heard that some believe he is the prophet Jeremiah returned from the grave.”

  “And what did he say to that?” Miriam asked.

  “He seemed interested in those reports, but then he looked squarely at us and said, ‘But whom do you say that I am?’” Peter seemed far away. “It was the strangest thing. Suddenly it was like I had a fire erupt inside of me. I looked right at him and said, ‘Thou art the Christ, the Son of the Living God.’”

  “Well said,” Simeon half whispered. He had been thinking how he would have answered. Peter’s reply said it all.

  “That seemed to please him,” Peter admitted. “Looking right back at me, he said, ‘Blessed are you, Simon, son of Jonah, for flesh and blood have not revealed this to you, but my Father which is in heaven.’ And then he told us some things about the kingdom that I shall not speak of at this time.”

  “That must have been a marvelous experience,” Miriam breathed, thoroughly caught up in the words of the fisherman.

  “It was.” He hesitated. “But it was what happened a short time thereafter that I wish to speak of.” He stopped, his eyes troubled in the firelight. “It wasn’t long after that. He started telling us he had to go to Jerusalem.” His head dropped. “He said he had to go there and suffer many things of the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes.”

  Miriam looked down and briefly closed her eyes in pain. One of those elders was her father.

  “This time there was no hinting, no skirting around things. He told us straight out that he would be killed, but that he would be raised again the third day.”

  “Killed!” Miriam cried out. It was one thing to talk about arrest or imprisonment, but death? A cold chill swept through her body, causing her to shudder.

  Simeon had likewise gone cold. “Then why are you letting him go? We have to stop this.”

  “Let me finish,” Peter murmured.

  “Sorry,” Simeon said.

  “I felt exactly as you did. We were all shocked, but I was horrified to hear him talk like that. I grabbed his arm and began to rebuke him. ‘Lord,’ I said, ‘this thing be far from you. This shall not be.’”