The Weeping Chamber

by Sigmund Brouwer

When I discovered I had nothing else of importance to add to the note, I stood, wrapped myself in my cloak, and set the note on my bed where Pascal would find it.

  I was ready to die. And I was delighted to feel a sense of calm.

  As I departed the mansion of my cousin unnoticed, I pondered this calm. I decided it came to a man once he truly accepted the finality and consequences of a decision.

  So, too, it must have been for the man of miracles.

  **

  “Are You the king of the Jews?” Pilate asked Yeshua.

  The scratching of stylus on parchment reminded them both this was a private interview only in the sense that it was done out of the hearing of Caiaphas.

  “Is this your own question,” Yeshua asked, “or did others tell you about Me?”

  The man’s utter calmness fascinated Pilate. This peasant should be quaking in the presence of the single man in Judea with the power to order soldiers into instant war against the Jewish nation.

  And the man’s eyes—Pilate had to harden his own soldier’s heart against the gentle appeal of the prophet’s compassionate gaze. As if Pilate were the one who needed pity.

  Pilate shook off this unexpected softness by replying brusquely to Yeshua’s question. “Am I a Jew?”

  When Yeshua did not reply to Pilate’s implication that he could not understand Jews, the governor continued. “Your own people and their leading priests brought You here.” He pointed at Yeshua’s bound wrists. “Why? What have You done?”

  “I am not an earthly king,” Yeshua said. “If I were, My followers would have fought when I was arrested by the Jewish leaders. But My Kingdom is not of this world.”

  Pilate found himself in a quicksand he had never experienced. His world was the harsh competition of soldiers and politics. As a man excelled, so his rewards increased. It was a simple world.

  But there was a subtext to this conversation, a tugging at Pilate’s view of the world, that made him uneasy yet vaguely hopeful of some peace he could not define.

  “You are a king then?” Pilate said, glad that the words recorded by the scribe would not contain the texture of his near helplessness.

  “You say that I am a king, and you are right,” Yeshua said. “I was born for that purpose. And I came to bring truth to the world. All who love the truth recognize that what I say is true.”

  Pilate felt himself sinking deeper into the quicksand. He was not a man of philosophy. Yet as he grew older, he was becoming more conscious of his mortality. There, too, was his wife, Procula, who insisted on speaking of spiritual matters, as if a man actually had a soul.

  The soldier’s world was simple. These other matters were not. Perhaps the world was not as simple as Pilate wished.

  Here he was, the governor of Judea, a direct representative of Rome, engaged in conversation with a man persecuted by His own people for no crime that Pilate could see.

  Nonsense. Any soldier would call it that. Nonsense.

  Pilate also had the honesty of a soldier. The honesty to allow himself other questions. This near the pinnacle of his political career, what did he really have? Why did nothing really satisfy him? What was the hollowness that filled him when everything he possessed should have fulfilled him and brought him peace?

  Beyond this brief conversation and the thoughts whirling through his mind, Pilate sensed something out of his vision and touch and hearing. As if instinct were searching for a home he did not know. An instinct heightened by the man in front of him. What was it about this man? Who was this man?

  A man who claimed that everyone who belonged to the truth listened to Him.

  Pilate set aside his confusion and went for the safety of responding cynically. He reached for the only philosophical statement he knew. Yet as the words came out of his mouth, he heard more than the cynicism he was trying to posture. Pilate heard his own half plea of hollow despair. “You tell me,” Pilate said to the man before him. “What is truth?”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  I did not want to be overwhelmed by indecision as I walked through the city for the final time of my life, so I defeated it before it could strike.

  My face was resolutely set toward the countryside, and with the will that had vaulted me from poverty to wealth, I did not allow the sights and sounds and smells of the city to distract me from my purpose.

  Perhaps I was afraid that if I looked for beauty or nostalgia, I would change my mind. After all, I was my own executioner. If I wanted to turn back, I could.

  Across the city, however, another condemned man did not have that luxury. Nor did His executioner.

  **

  Back outside Herod’s palace, Yeshua stood beside the magistrate’s chair as Pilate made his announcement to the Sanhedrists. “I find nothing wrong with this man!”

  Pilate crossed his arms, defiant against the immediate uproar. He was aware of Yeshua’s continued calm dignity, as if He had no fear of death.

  This man was no rebel. Pilate knew it with certainty. And reflecting on their time alone in the chamber, Pilate realized how much he had revealed to the prophet, even implying a sort of homage by appealing to Him with the philosophical question of truth. Was it an accident that they were standing side by side as they faced the crowd?

  Caiaphas marched directly to Pilate. “Tiberius will hear of this,” he hissed above the crowd’s shouting. “The letter will present a case to show the man’s teachings have inflamed people from His beginnings in Galilee. Even to the point that tax collectors have followed Him. And you know Tiberius and his expensive habits well enough to know how he will react to that.”

  “What was that?” Pilate asked.

  Caiaphas repeated himself, this time so that others could hear. “But He is causing riots everywhere He goes, all over Judea, from Galilee to Jerusalem!”

  Pilate only heard one word. Galilee.

  Much as Pilate’s conscience had been stirred by the presence of Yeshua, he could not escape his political nature.

  Galilee.

  Herod, the tetrarch of Galilee, was in Jerusalem. With diplomatic genius, Pilate could place the troublesome issue in Herod’s hands and at the same time appear to be respectful of Herod’s territorial claims. Perhaps Herod would see this as a conciliatory gesture in light of their current strained relations.

  “Oh,” Pilate said mildly, setting the trap, “is he a Galilean?”

  “It will give me satisfaction to see you recalled to Rome,” Caiaphas was saying as he nodded affirmation to Pilate’s question. “Most surely—”

  “Take this man to Herod,” Pilate said.

  “Herod?” Caiaphas went from artificial outrage to calculation.

  “Herod. It is a case within his jurisdiction.” Thinking it through, Pilate was satisfied. Both for how it saved him from trouble and because it would probably save the innocent man beside him. Herod would be extremely reluctant to judge Yeshua guilty. Not after the trouble he’d faced for beheading the other popular prophet, John the Baptist.

  “There is ample legal right for you to preside over it yourself,” Caiaphas said.

  “Herod,” Pilate repeated. “Your charges have religious overtones within Jewish law. He is far better qualified to judge than I am.”

  Pilate stood and motioned for his attendants to return the magistrate’s chair to the inner courtyard of the palace. He ignored Caiaphas and gave a slight nod of acknowledgment to Yeshua as he retreated from the crowd.

  As far as Pilate was concerned, there was nothing left in this affair to trouble him.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  I did not carry a purse or valuables as I headed to the countryside. I had stripped myself of jewelry before departing.   I did not fear the possibility of bandits here on the lonely highway; rather that possibility was part of the reason I had chosen the countryside, for it would have been much simpler to return to the city wall above the Kidron.

  I did not know how long it would be before my body was found. But I wanted to be shorn of v
aluables, leaving the easy conclusion that I had been robbed and killed, discarded over a cliff.

  My death must not appear self-inflicted. My beloved wife, Jaala, had already faced so much grief that my suicide would have little extra significance for her. But I didn’t want her or my daughter to have to face questions. If others accepted my death as one at the hands of bandits, they would have no occasion to wonder or gossip about why I had killed myself. After all, to the world, I had everything.

  But, as I had discovered, everything tangible can be nothing. I am certain I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to learn this.

  **

  Knocking at the door roused Herod from a restless sleep. He couldn’t even remember getting beneath the blankets.

  “Go away,” he groaned.

  “Worthy Tetrarch,” a voice from the other side said, “a delegation from the Sanhedrin has arrived to see you.”

  “Castrate each of those pompous fools and send them back to their mothers.” Herod ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced. The taste and texture were as if a small animal had crawled into his mouth and died. When, Herod asked himself, would he learn not to mix wine and beer in such great amounts?

  “They insist on seeing you. It is a delegation sent from Pilate.”

  “Unless you leave me in peace,” Herod shouted, “you will be castrated with them!” Herod immediately regretted his foolhardy exertion. His head throbbed at the slightest movement.

  “Worthy Tetrarch . . .”

  Herod vowed to whip the servant himself, even if the man had served the royal family for three decades.

  “Go away!” Herod tried to spit on the floor but could not work any moisture into his mouth. “No! Bring water!” He owned an entire kingdom yet suffered hangovers like any mortal man. What justice was there in that?

  “They have with them the prophet from Galilee.”

  Herod pushed himself upright. Blankets fell from his massive belly. “Yeshua?” Herod asked, wobbling for balance on the side of his bed. “That prophet?”

  “Indeed, worthy Tetrarch.”

  “Tell them I will see them as soon as I am ready,” Herod said. “Then hurry back and help me dress.”

  **

  Facing the delegation of elderly Jews from his throne, Herod wondered if their faces would crack and bleed the next time they smiled.

  So arrogant, so self-righteous. Herod had half an urge to order them to stay and watch his dancers. Then he’d see just how much their rules and regulations meant to them. All except the most withered, Caiaphas, who would probably collapse with shock at the flash of the first wiggling navel.

  It was Caiaphas who started to rattle off a long string of accusations against Yeshua, and his passion surprised Herod. Maybe the old man did have some life in him.

  Herod listened as long as he could bear it, then waved Caiaphas to be quiet. “Bring in your prisoner,” Herod said. “I’m quite familiar with your complaints.”

  Too familiar. It was all these rabbis did, moan and complain. They weren’t happy unless everyone around them shared their misery. Parasitic fools.

  As Herod waited, he eased his throat by drinking from a goblet. Let the fools think it’s water, he thought. But it was a hearty red wine—much needed to get his blood coursing at this early hour.

  Herod’s guards escorted Yeshua to the throne.

  “Finally,” Herod said to Yeshua. “I’ve been wanting to see You for some time.”

  The wine had heated Herod’s veins, and he found the energy to lean forward with interest. “I have heard of Your exploits for years. The great healer, You have been called. Then those stories about fish and loaves and feeding the thousands. Truly amazing. Perhaps You heard I actually sent soldiers out looking for You. But never to harm You, despite what You might have heard about John the Baptist. After all, he never performed a single miracle. . . .”

  All this talk scratched Herod’s throat. He drank deeply and sighed. “Would You grace us with a miracle right now? Nothing spectacular. It is early, and I wouldn’t want You to tax Yourself too much on my behalf.”

  Aside from Yeshua, twenty men crowded the throne hall. Five were the limited delegation allowed. Fourteen were Herod’s soldiers. And, of course, Herod.

  Forty eyes stared at Yeshua. Caiaphas and the other Jews with some dread, for they feared a miracle. Herod and his soldiers with curiosity and expectation, for they hoped for the miracle.

  Yeshua merely closed His eyes as if lost in deep thought.

  “Come on,” Herod said. “You are here because these great religious leaders want You dead. All I need is one miracle, and You can go free.”

  Yeshua opened His eyes.

  What Herod saw in his gaze was pity. “Listen,” Herod snapped. “I’m offering You Your life. Show me a sign from God, and I’ll bow down before You and Him. One miracle is all I need.”

  Yeshua only smiled sadly.

  Angry, Herod gulped another mouthful of wine. “Make the rope drop from Your wrists. That’s all. I’ll know You are a true prophet, and we’ll send these Pharisees on their way.”

  Silence.

  Caiaphas cleared his throat. “Noble Tetrarch, there is a good reason He will not perform any miracles. He cannot. He is a false prophet. You are well within your rights to have Him stoned.”

  Herod’s headache returned with his loss of interest in Yeshua. “Don’t tell me what my rights are.” He focused his irritation on the high priest. “Word of this failure will become public, and the people will stop following Him. He doesn’t need to die to lose His power among them.”

  Unspoken—and both of them knew it—was Herod’s fear of stirring up more trouble by killing another popular prophet.

  “But He calls Himself the Son of God,” Caiaphas tried. “He is a heretic.”

  “Only an insane man would call himself such. You are to be pitied as much as He for giving His foolish claims attention.”

  “The Sanhedrin has found Him guilty,” Caiaphas said.

  “Take Him back to Pilate. You can continue the trial with Him where you left off.”

  “Pilate?”

  “You will notice I have not set this prophet free. Push me further and I will acquit Him immediately.”

  Caiaphas gaped briefly, almost protested, and thought better of it.

  Seeing the high priest at a loss was the first moment Herod had enjoyed since hearing the knock on his door.

  Herod carefully set his goblet on the armrest of his throne. He stepped down. With two painful, gout-slowed steps, he reached Yeshua. “If You can’t perform a miracle, at least talk. Let me hear You tell me You are the Son of God.”

  The satisfaction Herod had felt in humiliating Caiaphas dissipated when he saw the strength in Yeshua’s eyes. The knowledge and power there brought Herod’s insecurities into focus through his wine-deadened senses.

  “You have my apologies,” Herod said sarcastically. He removed his elegant robe and draped it over Yeshua’s shoulders. “Guards,” Herod called, “here is your king. Bow down. Worship Him. Then take Him to Pilate.”

  Herod’s guards pounced on the opportunity for fun. They blew trumpets in Yeshua’s ears. They dropped to their knees in front of Him. They taunted Him with vulgar comments about His ancestry.

  Not once did Yeshua show any sign of discomfort. The laughter began to die.

  “Enough,” Herod said. “On your way.”

  The guards began to push Yeshua forward.

  “Wait!” Herod called. As ordered, the procession stopped.

  “Galilee man,” Herod said, holding his goblet aloft. “Turn this water to wine!” Herod shook the goblet as if a great force were taking hold of it.

  Seconds later, with the goblet a few inches above his mouth, Herod poured the remainder of the red liquid into his mouth. “Look, look,” Herod laughed. “It has become wine! A miracle!”

  Fat and wheezing, incapable of enjoying his wife’s favors, wearying of exploring luxury and sin more with
each passing year, he did not feel like a king.

  Moments later, when all had left, Herod leaned against the throne in defeat.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  I walked through the northern part of the city, through the Tower Gate, unaware of how soon Yeshua would follow the same route. I barely noticed the houses built beyond the second wall of Jerusalem.

  Bezetha, the new city, was growing rapidly past the underground quarries and the timber market, where wood was stored away from the dense inner city as a safety precaution against fire.

  North, there were plateaus and small cliffs, which I had observed from the highway on my travels into or away from Jerusalem. These would suit my purpose. While I did not have a specific site in mind, I anticipated that I would know it when I saw it.

  The highway was quiet. It was early on the morning after Passover. I had my solitude and my resolution to find final peace.

  It wasn’t until I passed the public execution site at the Hill of the Skull that I thought, for the first time that morning, of the man of miracles and the fate that awaited Him.

  **

  Herod had sent Yeshua back to Pilate.

  Because of it, the governor faced the Sanhedrists and the crowd again. Some of those gathered near the back were drunk and amusing themselves with fistfights. In the middle, hundreds of ordinary Jewish citizens—residents of Jerusalem, not pilgrims—massed together to show their support at the request that had been put forth by their religious leaders. At the front of the crowd, Caiaphas stood proudly and visibly among the priests and elders.

  As for those who might have supported Yeshua, it was so early and this trial had convened so quickly that none of the many who followed Him even knew of the trial.

  Pilate assessed the people. Yeshua’s words echoed through his mind: “But My kingdom is not of this world.”

  Pilate had smelled this tension before among the frantic Jews. It was a supercharged sweat of heated emotions, of people unified in the unreasoning passion of a mob. As Caiaphas had reminded him earlier, three other times the Jews had pushed Pilate almost to the point of bloodshed: the riot in Caesarea, the aqueduct riot, and the removal of the golden shields. This gathering, too, had reached that boiling point, and Pilate wondered if he would have to call for soldiers.