“Yes, yes,” he said. His voice was as animated as his movements. This man could not contain himself. “I feel as if I am Solomon.”
“Where will you find shekels tomorrow?” I asked. “And the day after?”
“With the gifts I have received, how can I think merely of myself? Others here have greater need. Of all people, I should know how keen that need is.”
His answer shamed me. Would a paid actor have done this?
“What is your name?” he asked. “I am Nahshon. My family has been in Jerusalem since before the Romans.”
It occurred to me that I had been content to think of him as “my beggar.” With a name and this meager information, I was now forced to acknowledge him as more than an object of pity. This was the danger of helping people directly instead of helping charity.
“I am Simeon,” I said. “My family has roots in Alexandria.”
I saw little need to tell him how I had struck out on my own after my youth in the harbor area, and where my endeavors had taken me since then.
“You are a young man,” he said. His eyes flicked briefly back to my scar. “Wife? Children?”
My natural inclination is silence; I’m often too busy to worry about the niceties of everyday conversation. But because this man was a stranger with whom I’d already been candid, and because of my emotional rawness, I did not retreat into privacy as I would have normally.
“I have a wife,” I said. “And a daughter—Vashti.”
Jaala and I had called our daughter Vashti because the name meant “fairest, loveliest woman”; now her name served as cruel mockery of what she would never be.
“I will pray that God will bless you with a son,” Nahshon said, on the assumption that any man would proudly mention a son before a daughter.
I kept my face a blank. We had called our son Ithnan—“the strong sailor.” One who was to inherit my ships, my warehouses, my shops. One who had laughed as he ran, taking pleasure in the motion of his sturdy little legs.
“My young son died recently in a fire,” I said.
I touched the scar on my face. “It was the same fire that gave me this.” I was acutely aware of how the scar pulled at certain expressions—a constant reminder of that horrid day.
Nahshon’s eyes widened. But not for the reasons I expected.
“Yesterday, you took me to the Messiah when you could have stood in my place to beg for mercy. You are a kind and selfless man! I will pray for you in your grief.”
I could not tell this joy-filled man that it had not been selflessness that had kept me from the Messiah, but lack of faith.
“How long had you been blind?” I asked, weary of talking about myself.
He was more than eager to answer. I learned about his time as a temple worker. And his now-dead wife. And the years between.
I cut his enthusiasm short a few minutes later.
“What did you feel?” I asked, aching to understand. If Nahshon was a hired actor, pretending blindness in the morning and a new vision in the afternoon, he was well worth any money a false messiah had paid him. “What was it like?”
“I felt a silvery light,” he said without any hesitation. As if all that had occupied his mind was that moment of healing. “I did not see it, but I felt it. Like a bright star alone in a dark sky, growing brighter and warmer until it filled the heavens. When He took His hand from my eyes, the star’s warm light became the sun; I could see it shining down on the temple. . . . And peace. I felt peace. No words can explain the strength of that peace.”
I closed my eyes briefly, wishing against all knowledge that I could believe this man before me.
“He may return today,” Nahshon said. “Go to Him. He can heal you!”
We both knew the unspoken. Yeshua could not give me back my son.
I shook my head.
“My daughter was burned in the fire that took my son. It is she who needs healing,” I answered. “I do not.”
Chapter Eighteen
Nahshon, old as he was, sparkled with the exuberance of a boy. I easily saw that in his renewed joy he wanted to be moving, exploring. It soon became apparent that only a sense of obligation kept him in further conversation with me. So I offered him an excuse, pleading business of my own, and set him free.
By then, the temple doors had opened. I joined the crowd moving inside, hoping to see the man of miracles.
My hope was not in vain. As I learned later, He was delayed only briefly on His journey from Bethany to Jerusalem.
**
On their descent of the Mount of Olives, Peter, of all the disciples, saw it first. Where once green had softened the outline of the fig tree, a framework of drooping branches now showed through leaves turned brown, curled, and dry, rustling in the breeze.
“Yeshua, look!” Peter cried. “The fig tree You cursed has withered!”
Peter’s large hands flailed as the words tumbled from his mouth, his excitement so great that he shared his news with the other disciples as if they could not see for themselves.
“Yesterday. Remember? The teacher spoke to the tree. Did you not hear? He said that no one would ever eat fruit from it again. And look! It’s withered.”
With the scorn that the cynical use as a defense against enthusiasm, Judas rolled his eyes as Peter continued to point.
“To its roots,” Peter said. “Look. Withered to its roots. Just as the teacher commanded and more!”
“Tell me, Peter,” Judas said, sounding like an adult patronizing a child. “Has something happened to the tree?”
“Yes, yes,” Peter said. He was too caught up in the marvel to hear Judas’s tone. “Overnight! The tree has died. See for yourself.”
Judas looked around to see if the others enjoyed the humor of his sarcasm. He felt doubly pleased by Peter’s oblivion to it. But none of the other disciples paid Judas any attention. Of late, they’d grown accustomed to his sourness. Besides, Judas’s attempt at attention paled beside what their eyes beheld. The tree had actually died overnight at the mere words of their teacher.
“Master,” Peter said, slowing down, “the tree . . .”
Yeshua continued to walk. Often He would not answer until a time of silence and contemplation had passed. They had almost come abreast of the tree when Yeshua spoke.
“Have faith in God,” Yeshua answered, pausing deliberately. Would they understand? Without faith, Israel in its appearance of glory was as barren of God as the tree had been of figs. And whatever resisted God would most surely be swept away.
Yeshua waited for a glimmering of comprehension, but the faces around him remained rapt with awe. The miracle itself had impressed them. A storm calmed, the lame healed, a man raised from the dead. In all of it, as with the withered fig tree, they had failed to look beyond.
The common rabbinical expression for doing the impossible was “rooting up mountains,” and as a Jewish teacher, Yeshua gave His followers the comfort of the familiar in His attempt to lead them further.
“I assure you,” Yeshua continued, “that you can say to this mountain, ‘May God lift you up and throw you into the sea,’ and your command will be obeyed. All that’s required is that you really believe and do not doubt in your heart.”
Still He faced the blank, rapt awe of children. Should it not be obvious? Faith not only gives power to prayer but is also its foundation. He had, on another occasion, told them the two great laws of faith: love God; love man. True prayer demands by extension a spirit untainted by selfish ambition or unforgiveness. Could they not see? In true prayer, a man bound to earth can reach up to heaven. Such is faith.
Yet Yeshua did not show any frustration. He smiled at His listeners. These men had traveled with Him for three years and shared His pains, joys, hopes, sorrows, and disappointments. They were young, unlearned. Any teaching He shared could only be an outpouring of love and compassion.
“Listen to me!” He said. “You can pray for anything, and if you believe, you will have it. But when you are pr
aying, first forgive anyone you are holding a grudge against, so that your Father in heaven will forgive your sins, too.”
Would they understand? With faith, they could have everything. Without faith, whatever resisted God would most surely be swept away.
Yeshua, still smiling, looked from one face to another.
When His eyes met those of Judas, the slender disciple flinched and looked away. One of the twelve, it seemed, understood too well the judgment against the fig tree that had denied Yeshua.
Chapter Nineteen
Although I had been waiting in a corner of the courtyard, when Yeshua arrived I did not approach Him or His disciples. Not many pilgrims had arrived yet, but there were enough that I could remain among them and watch without being noticed.
The clouds had begun to thicken. With the breeze came an occasional waft of incense, reaching my nostrils like an unseen butterfly moving randomly through the air.
I had not minded the wait. Hope was so precious, I was reluctant to test it. And, with the habits of business I could not escape, I preferred to size up my prospective client.
As I watched the group, their conversation continued, and Yeshua laughed with His followers and the few pilgrims who sat on the outer edges of the gathering.
I found myself liking this man. He had entered this lions’ den of His own free will, knowing His very presence would be a challenge to the religious authorities. Yet He did not tread lightly as if fearing to wake the lions, nor did He posture with bluff braveness as a man with a sword, daring the lions to attack.
He was relaxed, handsome when He smiled. Yet, unlike some attractive men, He did not have the oiliness that repels other men. I could imagine Him as comfortable helping fishermen as He would be accepting a gift from a patroness.
Those gathered around Him shared His degree of comfort. It struck me that if this temple truly were a house of God instead of a monument to religious rule, this is how God might want His creatures to enjoy time in His presence.
This sanctuary of carefree enjoyment, however, ended as dozens of men entered the courtyard. The delegation marched with the size, unison, and determination of a small army. Of the thousands of priests who served at the temple, nearly fifty had been released from duty, and they formed the largest part of the wedge of men that now approached Yeshua and His followers.
The priests wore white hats and long white gowns tied with girdles. Each had risen before dawn to take a ritual bath as part of his daily duties. The clash of a gong thrown onto the pavement in front of the temple had called the thousands to hours of ceremonial music and singing. Other priests had been scattered earlier to perform the usual duties—offering sacrifices for pilgrims at the altar in front of the temple, lighting lamps, cleaning the altar of blood. These priests had been ordered to march here.
A much smaller group of elders and scribes—gathered from those who held places of honor among the highest tribunal of the Sanhedrin—led the priests. These men wore ordinary clothes that reflected their occupations, but the stiff dignity in their shoulders and faces clearly set them apart as men of power.
Leading the delegation, Caiaphas set the pace. He alone, in the entire land, had the authority to wear the vestments of the high priest. On this occasion he had dressed to show his supreme position. A blue robe hung to his feet, covering his traditional white priestly garments except for the sleeves. From the bottom of the robe tassels with golden bells and pomegranates hung in alternation. Over the blue robe, he wore the ephod, a cape embroidered in bands of gold, purple, scarlet, and blue. A gold purse inset with twelve precious stones was attached to each shoulder of the ephod by gold broaches inset with sardonyxes. Caiaphas, a tall man already, had added to his height with a blue headdress banded with gold.
The delegates had chosen the early hour with purpose; few pilgrims had gathered around the prophet yet to hear His teachings. The market in the Court of the Gentiles was nearly deserted by the merchants, for not many were brave enough to change money or sell livestock after the previous day’s rebellion. In the relatively quiet temple, the audible padding of the priests’ bare feet against the pavement made an ominous sound on their approach.
Caiaphas with his dozens of men against Yeshua with a handful.
As the delegation neared, Peter was the only one to rise from the steps where Yeshua sat among the disciples. He stepped forward and waited, arms crossed, the hilt of his sword obvious from his girdle. However, at a few whispered words from Yeshua, Peter sat again.
When Caiaphas stopped, the men halted with him. He stared across a distance of twenty paces at the prophet from Nazareth. To any other Jew in the land, such a hostile glare from the highest religious authority would have been like a roar from God Himself.
“Shalom,” Yeshua said. “May God’s peace rest upon you.”
Caiaphas refused to answer. He had chosen to intimidate, to stand silent as the supreme judge. He nodded for one of the elders to move up beside him. They both stared at Yeshua.
“Shalom to you too,” Yeshua said to the elder. “God has granted us a wonderful day in His presence.”
“You have been teaching in the temple,” the elder said. He was the same age as Caiaphas, almost as tall, but much heavier. He was completely bald, but his beard, streaked with gray and braided, touched his chest. “Do you deny this?”
Yeshua shook his head no.
“Let me be clear in front of all these witnesses,” the elder said. “I am not suggesting You are a mere Haggadist, a teller of legends and stories. I am declaring that You actually teach. Do You deny this?”
Yeshua let a half smile touch His face. He understood. To the assembled priests and elders and scribes, this was a question of great importance.
To teach meant to follow a tradition, handed down from teacher to disciple, who, once granted the teacher’s authority by the teacher, passed on the same information, unchanged. The most respected scholars were those who recited teachings word for word, nothing lost, nothing added. In any discussion, the ultimate appeal was always to an authority, whether a famous teacher or the Great Sanhedrin. Anyone who disagreed with the set authorities was seen as an ignorant scholar or a rebel to be banned. And anyone who did not teach from an authority could not truly be teaching.
“Do You deny that You teach?” the elder demanded again, his anger rising at the lack of fear on Yeshua’s face.
Again, Yeshua shook His head no, acknowledging that yes, teaching had taken place.
**
Caiaphas, the imperious observer, smirked. The previous night’s meeting in council had planned this perfectly, right down to the time the delegation would approach this peasant. Now, as calculated, the trap had been set. There was no way for the Nazarene to retreat.
“By whose authority did You drive out the merchants from the temple?” the elder asked. “Who gave You such authority?”
During last night’s meeting, there had been a long, heated debate as the exact wording of the questions had been decided upon. It had to publicly appear that they were not merely challenging this man because of His teachings; instead, they would be seen as following the duty that forced them to verify His background. After all, if Yeshua had done everything attributed to Him, the elders had to protect the people by confirming that these acts were not from Beelzebub, the devil who opposed God, did they not?
“By whose authority did You drive out the merchants from the temple? Who Gave you such authority?”
Caiaphas licked his lower lip, anticipating one of three answers. Unlikely as it was, the fool might actually answer Beelzebub, the devil, and the priests would have every right to take Him to the temple wall and hurl Him into the valley.
If He quoted a great Jewish teacher as His authority—the revered Hillel, for example—then the people would lose faith in Him, for no Messiah would be lesser than another man.
The anticipation of a possible third answer, claiming authority from God, made Caiaphas’s muscles twitch and tremble. Would th
is man actually blaspheme and claim it came from God? Caiaphas had more than once engineered the immediate stoning of a rebel for heresy. And it would give him great pleasure to watch stones bite into the Nazarene peasant’s flesh.
“By whose authority did You drive out the merchants from the temple? Who gave You such authority?”
Yeshua had not yet replied. He turned His gaze from the elder to Caiaphas, as if He were reading the high priest’s thoughts. For a missed heartbeat, Caiaphas felt the juice of fear wash against his stomach walls. Then he remembered the dozens of priests behind him and put the curl of scorn back onto his lips. In that moment, the hatred he held for the prophet’s teaching became a personal hatred for the prophet.
“Will You not answer?” the elder demanded. “By whose authority did You drive out the merchants from the temple? Who gave You such authority?”
Yeshua leaned forward. Still sitting on the marble steps, He transferred His weight and leaned His elbows on the tops of His thighs. “I’ll tell you who gave Me authority to do these things if you answer one question,” Yeshua replied. He began so casually, listeners not paying attention might have guessed this was simply another matter of teaching under discussion. “Did John’s baptism come from heaven or was it merely human?”
Abruptly, Yeshua pushed Himself up and stood. “Tell me!” He commanded. His face, previously gentle and amused, had stiffened to match the sudden anger in His voice, as if an invisible mantle of power had been placed upon Him, as if Yeshua were now judge and the delegation on trial.
Caiaphas actually took a half step back. He hated the peasant with a cold personal rage that he wanted to satisfy by plunging the sacrificial dagger into the man’s liver.
The nearest elder whispered to Caiaphas in panic. “If we say it was from heaven, He will ask why we didn’t believe Him.”
Caiaphas did not answer. John the Baptist was believed by all to be a prophet sent directly from God. His stature was so great among the people that Caiaphas thought of John with envy and idly wondered at times if it might be worth it to be martyred.
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