The Kingdom and the Crown

by Gerald N. Lund

  Miriam suddenly felt her knees go weak, and she had to reach out and clutch Simeon’s hand. He squeezed it tightly, and they fell in step behind the servant, who was already returning toward the house.

  Inside the palatial structure, they could hear the noise of a crowd off somewhere in the house, but that was not the direction they were heading. The servant led them down a narrow hall, then opened the door to a side room and gestured for them to enter. “Mordechai ben Uzziel will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you,” Miriam managed. She gripped her husband’s hand even more tightly than before. The man shut the door again, and they heard him walk away.

  “Oh, Simeon? What am I doing?”

  Before he could answer, they heard footsteps in the hall again. In a moment the door opened, and Miriam’s father stepped in, his face a hard mask. He shut the door behind him with a sharp crack, then stood where he was. “I thought it might be you,” he said, his voice like a cold wind off the snows of Mount Hermon.

  “Shalom, Father,” Miriam said quietly.

  “Shalom, Mordechai ben Uzziel,” said Simeon.

  “What do you want?” he snapped. “How dare you come here?”

  Simeon felt his anger rising. “It didn’t take any courage at all,” he said, giving him a mocking smile. “We just knocked on the gate and came right in.”

  “Don’t be impudent,” Mordechai cut in. “I don’t find it amusing in any way.”

  “And I don’t appreciate your rudeness,” Simeon shot right back. “This is your daughter. I don’t care how you feel about the choices she has made. She is your flesh and blood and—”

  “Simeon, please.” Miriam nudged him gently and stepped in front of him. She turned to her father, whose face had gone purple at the confrontation with Simeon.

  “Father, I’m not here to ask anything of you. It saddens me more than I can say that we have been estranged from each other. I love you and always will.”

  Mordechai responded with a soft snort and a toss of his head.

  “I do, but I didn’t come here to try to convince you of that. I came because something has happened that I felt you needed to know. Then we will leave, and we will not bother you again.”

  His eyes narrowed a little. He said nothing, but she could see his interest.

  “You are going to be a grandfather.”

  Simeon had wondered what Mordechai’s reaction would be when he first heard the news. Would he be his usual grim self? Would there be so much as a flicker of pleasure in his eyes? What Simeon saw completely surprised him. Mordechai actually fell back a step. His eyes were large and shone brightly in the lamplight. And then he looked away, not wanting them to see how he was responding.

  “It will come in September, about six months from now,” Miriam said. She too had been caught completely off guard by his response, and she was near tears. “If it’s a boy, Simeon and I plan to call him Mordechai.”

  “Don’t try to influence me in that way,” he said gruffly.

  “Mordechai is a noble name,” Simeon said slowly. “One of my favorite stories is of how the Mordechai of long ago helped Queen Esther save our people in Persia. I have no reluctance to name a son after you.”

  Mordechai was staring at the floor. Finally, he spoke without looking up. “It is not a good thing that you are here.”

  Simeon felt the anger flash again. That was it? That was all he had to say?

  “I understand,” Miriam said dispiritedly. “We’d better get back to Bethlehem, Simeon.”

  As they started toward the door, Mordechai moved aside.

  “Shalom, Father,” Miriam whispered as she passed him.

  “Shalom, Mordechai,” Simeon said coolly.

  Mordechai said nothing. Then, as Simeon pulled the door open, he spoke. It came out sharp and hard. “Simeon!”

  Simeon turned back, tensing a little. “Yes?”

  His voice was stiff. “This is not a good time to be in Jerusalem.”

  That surprised Simeon, and it showed.

  “Not for a woman, especially.” Then his eyes moved to Miriam. “Not for a woman with child.” He gave just the slightest hint of softening. “Tomorrow, keep her in Bethlehem where she will be safe.”

  The tears in Miriam’s eyes spilled over. It wasn’t much, but for him, it spoke volumes. Impulsively, she ran to him, went up on her toes, and kissed him on the cheek. “Good-bye, Papa.”

  One hand came up, hovering above her shoulder for a moment; then it dropped to his side again without touching her. “Good-bye, Miriam.”

  X

  Outside, Simeon held his wife for a time, letting the shudders gradually exhaust themselves. The night had turned cold, and her breath came out in soft puffs of mist. When she was finally spent, Simeon helped her into the seat, then moved around to untie the horse. At that moment a noise brought his head up. From out of one of the side gates of the massive complex, a double column of men was emerging. They were in full uniform and carried spears at their sides. Clouds were scudding across the sky, momentarily hiding the moon, but still Simeon could see.

  When the column turned in their direction, Simeon moved behind the horse, still holding the reins. “Keep your head down,” he whispered. “Don’t let them see who you are.”

  But if the soldiers saw them, they gave them no heed. They filed past, marching in step, moving briskly but not in quick time. Simeon counted as they passed. Twenty. Twenty plus the three men who led them. He climbed up onto the seat beside Miriam.

  “Where do you think they are going at this hour of the night?” she asked.

  His lips were pressed together in a tight line. So this was what Mordechai had meant. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “I’m going to take you back to Bethlehem; then I’ve got to come back to try to find Jesus.”

  “Back to Bethlehem?” she exclaimed. “But that will take you two hours or more. You have to find Jesus quickly. I can go by myself.”

  “I won’t let you go alone. Not tonight.”

  She didn’t want to, either, but didn’t know what else to do. Then an idea came to her. “I’ll go back to my father’s house and ask Levi if he’ll send one of the servants with me to drive the cart. You saw his reaction to our visit. I’m sure he’ll do it.”

  Simeon considered that. He didn’t like it, but she was right. He couldn’t wait two more hours. “All right, but only if Levi agrees.”

  Miriam grabbed him tightly by the arm. “Oh, Simeon,” she cried. “Do you think they really want to—” She couldn’t put it into words.

  “Did you see who was leading them?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I recognized one of them. I didn’t get a clear look at the other two.”

  “Which?” he asked.

  “The man closest to us is named Malchus. He is the servant of Caiaphas, the high priest.”

  Simeon was nodding. That made perfect sense. The temple guards were technically under the auspices of the high priest, though the Pharisees, because of their numbers on the council, handled much of the funding and control. “The one just behind him was Caleb, the aide to Azariah I told you about. He’s probably the designated commander of the detachment.”

  “And the third?”

  He turned his head, feeling a deep chill run through him. “The third was Judas Iscariot.”

  Chapter 29

  Betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss?

  —Luke 22:48

  I

  Outside Jerusalem, in the Kidron Valley 3 April, a.d. 33

  Peter, James, and John were at the back of the group. The twelve of them, including Jesus—Judas had not yet returned—were strung out for perhaps a hundred paces as they walked along, but these three had lagged behind deliberately so they could talk.

  “It’s going to be close to midnight by the time we reach Bethany,” James noted. They had just reached the bottom of the Kidron Valley. They still had the climb up the western slope of the Mount of Olives and then most of the way down the
other side to the village. “Let’s hope that the Master doesn’t plan an early start in the morning.”

  “Personally, I feel like I could sleep until noon,” Peter agreed, pulling his tunic more tightly about him. It was getting cold enough that they could see their breath, and he was anxious to reach the house of Mary and Martha and get out of the night air. “Surely Jesus must be as tired as we are.”

  “No,” John said quietly.

  Both of the others turned to him. “Why?” James asked.

  “He’s more tired,” John said. “Haven’t you watched him? His step is slow and heavy. His shoulders sag. It’s like he’s carrying this great burden inside him. I’ve never seen him look so utterly drained. He’s much more tired than we are.”

  “You are right,” Peter responded.

  “And wasn’t that a remarkable night?” Andrew, who was just in front of them, had overheard them and drifted back to join them. “Here we went expecting the normal Passover and—”

  “I doubt I’ll ever be able to even think of tonight without weeping,” James said.

  “Parts of it were so sacred we may never speak of them,” John added.

  They were silent for a few moments.

  “Some sacred, some frightening,” Peter finally said. “I’m worried about tomorrow. It almost seemed like Jesus was bidding us farewell, like he was telling us he was going to . . .” he paused. “Going to die soon.”

  “I felt the same way,” John said. “I can only hope we’re misinterpreting.”

  “Still, tomorrow could be critical,” Peter concluded. “I told Simeon and his family and Luke and all the other men to be at Bethany first thing.”

  “Good,” Andrew said. “We’re going to need every man we can find to stand with us. The more we have, the less likely it is that the Sanhedrin will try something.”

  II

  Bethlehem

  “Where will you look?” Miriam asked, not able to keep the worry out of her voice. “Simeon said that even Peter didn’t know where they were going to hold the Passover tonight. He could be anywhere. Jesus could be anywhere.”

  David ben Joseph pulled the cinch on the saddle down with a jerk, then buckled it. “I’m not sure. I’ll ask around. Someone surely has seen that many soldiers. Maybe I can follow their trail. That’s likely what Simeon will do.” He realized that mentioning the soldiers was not the best thing to say. “We’re not going to confront them, just see what is going on.”

  David finished saddling Benjamin’s horse. He took the reins and swung up into the saddle. “Ephraim, Benjamin. We’ll send word back the moment we learn anything. If you don’t hear anything by dawn, then go to Bethany. Whether I find Simeon or not, I will go there. Whatever happens, hopefully they’ll know by then where we are.”

  Deborah moved up beside her husband. “May the Lord smile upon your efforts. Be careful.”

  He nodded. He wasn’t very confident about having good fortune on this night. It was about the second hour of the second watch. Midnight would be almost upon him by the time he reached Jerusalem. But one could only hope.

  “We’ll pray for you,” she whispered.

  “No,” he responded. “Not for us. For Jesus.”

  III

  Outside Jerusalem, the Mount of Olives

  Something ahead of them caught Peter’s eye, and he slowed his step. “What now?”

  The other three looked ahead as well. In the near total darkness—the moon was covered for the moment by a large cloud—they could see their companions turning off the road to the left.

  “It’s the garden.” Peter groaned. “I was hoping we might bypass it just this once.”

  “He probably needs to rest for a few minutes,” John suggested. “Don’t say anything to him.”

  Peter shot him a hard look. As if he would do that.

  The olive grove was near the base of the Mount of Olives, just where the mount started sloping upwards. Because the owner of the grove had not only an olive press but a small cistern to provide the necessary water for washing the olives and cleaning the press after each day’s harvest, the people of the area called the grove a garden. Cisterns were not that common, especially on the side of a hill, and most olive groves were just that, groves only. The press, a large stone device, was a commercial one. The owner of this grove, who was better situated than his neighbors, offered to press their crops for a small portion of the resulting oil. Sometime in the past, the garden had been given the Greek name for olive press, Gethsemane.

  Jesus stopped beneath one of the first of the olive trees and waited for them all to join him. When the last four were there, he looked around, his face barely visible in the darkness. “Tarry here while I go yonder to pray.”

  They looked at each other, nodding. In light of the mood that had come upon Jesus in the upper room, this was not a surprising announcement. They started to look around for a place to sit.

  “Peter?”

  Peter turned back. “Yea, Lord?”

  “I would like you and James and John to accompany me.”

  The two sons of Zebedee seemed as surprised as Peter, but instantly moved over to stand beside him. Without another word, Jesus moved deeper into the olive grove. The three men fell into step beside him. They moved slowly, picking their way over the rocks and through the weeds. Then, to Peter’s pleasure, light suddenly flooded softly through the leaves above his head. The cloud obscuring the moon had moved eastward, letting its light bathe the earth. It was clear and full, and the effect was as if someone had instantly lit a hundred lamps with soft silvery flames. Trees and rocks stood out in sharp relief.

  If Jesus noticed the change, he said nothing. He moved forward about a stone’s throw until he came to one of the larger trees of the orchard. He motioned with his hand. “My soul is exceedingly sorrowful,” he said, taking them by surprise, “even unto death. Tarry here and watch with me.”

  The three of them nodded, and he moved off again. He went only a little farther before he found a large, mostly flat rock and sat down. His head was bowed, his hands clasped together.

  Peter watched him intently, his concern like the dark cloud that had blocked the light a moment before. Even unto death? He didn’t like that. What did Jesus know? And would he tell them in time so they might prepare?

  Peter’s two companions looked around, found a place, and sat down. John patted a bare spot beside him. “Come, Peter,” he said. “Rest your feet.”

  He waited another few moments, but seeing that Jesus had not moved, went over and joined the two brothers. He let out a long sigh. “I must admit,” he said in a low voice so as not to disturb Jesus, “it does feel wonderful to stretch out for a time.”

  For almost ten minutes they sat there. John’s head began to droop, and soon it was on his chest. James was not far behind him. He kept jerking his head up, fighting it, but finally lost. He shifted his weight so that he could use the rock for a pillow and closed his eyes.

  Peter felt the weight of his own eyelids. It had been a long and grueling day, both physically, and, even more, emotionally. He blinked quickly and pinched his leg, hoping that would push back the weariness a little. Then, a movement out of the corner of his eye brought his head around. Jesus was getting up. He leaned forward, prepared to stand again. But no, Jesus had just shifted his position. He was on his knees, elbows leaning against the rock, his head bowed.

  Once again Peter felt a deep longing to know what was going on inside the Master’s head. How else could he, the one in whom Jesus had put the trust of leadership, know what he was to do? He stared morosely at the kneeling figure, lost in his own musings.

  After a time, another movement caught his attention. Jesus’ arms were outstretched. His fingers were clawing at the surface of the rock, as if he were slipping over a cliff. His body was rigid, his face pressed into the stone. Peter could hear the murmur of his voice. He sat up straighter, straining to hear.

  What came next made him jump. It was a cry of agony, o
f pain so deep and intense that it sent chills shooting through him. “O my Father!”

  Peter felt tears spring to his eyes. Never had any child cried out with more pleading, more yearning for a parent.

  “If it be possible, Father, let this cup pass from me.”

  Peter got to his knees, leaning forward. The words had stopped. Was Jesus saying more, or had the agony overcome him? Peter started to rise, then froze as the next words came.

  “Nevertheless—” there was a tremendous weariness amidst the pain—“not as I will, but as thou wilt.”

  The figure slumped forward. Peter was on his feet instantly, ready to sprint across the narrow distance. But something stopped him. “Tarry here” had been the specific instructions. Jesus clearly wanted to be alone. Now Peter understood why. This was a time between Father and Son. Did he, Peter, in all of his earnest efforts to do good, dare to intrude at such a sacred moment? Slowly, he sank back down again. He folded his arms on his knees and laid his head on them, brooding, troubled, disturbed.

  IV

  Outside Jerusalem, in the Kidron Valley

  Judas held up a hand and came to a stop. Caleb swung his head back and forth, searching the wayside nervously, and nearly bumped into him.

  “What?” Caleb hissed.

  “The entrance to Gethsemane is about a furlong from here. Hold the men in that stand of sycamores while I go forward and see if they are there.”

  “They’d better be there,” Caleb muttered darkly. He still didn’t completely trust this man. He had a gnawing worry that Judas might be leading them squarely into an ambush.

  Judas didn’t answer as he moved off. In moments he was a dark, nearly indistinguishable figure moving up the moonlit roadway.

  V

  The Garden of Gethsemane

  “Peter.”

  Peter’s head came up with a jerk, and he looked around wildly for a moment. Then shame washed over him as he realized Jesus was standing directly in front of him, looking down with reproachful eyes.

  Peter heard a shuffling sound and saw out of the corner of his eye that James and John had come awake just as he had.