The Weeping Chamber Read online

  Caiaphas, in his official high priest’s robe, stood at the side of the great hall. He watched with satisfaction as Pharisees and elders and teachers took their seats. At least twenty-three were needed for a quorum of the Great Sanhedrin; it appeared that all seventy had arrived.

  Israel had three tribunals. The lowest—consisting of three judges—held limited jurisdiction in towns with a population of fewer than one hundred and twenty men. The next highest—for larger centers—consisted of twenty-three judges, whose authority, while still somewhat limited, gave them jurisdiction over some capital causes. Finally the seventy men of the highest tribunal, Jerusalem’s Great Sanhedrin, presided over all matters and met in the temple’s Chamber of Hewn Stones under the direction of the seventy-first man, the high priest, called Nasi, “prince.” There were no greater powers of authority in Israel.

  As the men took their places, there was little noise beyond the rustling of clothing. Part of the silence stemmed from the lateness of the hour. As well, each man had been warned to expect the meeting and thus knew the seriousness of the matter.

  **

  When they had seated themselves, Caiaphas strode to the front to face them. Two court scribes, also facing the tribunal, prepared to note the speeches.

  “As you have heard,” Caiaphas said without preamble, “the rebel has been placed under arrest. He will be brought before us shortly.”

  Immediately an ancient Pharisee named Jochanan, whose long bone-thin neck was wattled with loose skin, stood. “There are legal difficulties with this,” Jochanan said. His fanatic adherence to rabbinical teachings was notable, even among Pharisees. “I would like it recorded that I have made formal protest to this.”

  Caiaphas smiled to hide his irritation. Jochanan, in his fanaticism, hated Yeshua deeply. Which meant Jochanan was playing politics. It was his not-so-secret intent to one day act as high priest; he probably hoped this evening would also end Caiaphas’s career.

  “What is your protest?” Caiaphas asked.

  “This trial grossly violates every tenet of Jewish law and order.”

  “How so, venerable judge?” Caiaphas had not risen to his position by letting challenges appear to intimidate him.

  “Rabbinical law dictates that such a case as this be tried only in the regular meeting place in the temple. Furthermore, capital punishment may only be pronounced in the same place.”

  “Capital punishment?” Caiaphas responded. “Surely you are not suggesting—” Caiaphas bared his teeth—“that you have determined the outcome before listening to the testimony of witnesses. Such prejudicial leanings are not fitting for a Sanhedrin judge.”

  Jochanan gave himself time to think by losing himself in a coughing fit. When he recovered, he said, “If the Nasi had let me finish my sentence before reaching such a quick conclusion, the tribunal would have heard me add a simple phrase—capital punishment—if necessary.”

  “Thank you for that clarification.” Caiaphas bowed, reveling in Jochanan’s brief humiliation. “Please continue.”

  “According to rabbinical law, no process of trial shall begin at night. Or even in the afternoon. Nor may trials proceed on Sabbaths or feast days. As the court scribe will note, it is well past midnight on the Passover, a highly unusual and unprecedented occasion for a tribunal gathering.”

  Caiaphas watched Jochanan’s large bald head totter on his impossibly skinny neck and enjoyed the thought of hearing those bones snap. He observed the shifting and muttering of the rest of the tribunal and realized the impact of the man’s words.

  “Last,” Jochanan said, “in all capital causes, the judges must obey an elaborate system to warn and caution any witnesses. I do not see any outside witnesses, and I wish to ask for the record whether normal trial procedures will be used to safeguard the accused.”

  Jochanan sat, smugly happy that he had trapped Caiaphas, who would lose face if he sent the tribunal home after his urgent messages to set up this night gathering. Yet if Caiaphas continued, Jochanan could sanctimoniously protest Yeshua’s inevitable death sentence, keeping the moral high ground while seeing both Yeshua and Caiaphas suffer.

  Caiaphas pounced immediately. He wanted the entire tribunal to realize how easily Jochanan could be outmaneuvered.

  “In answer to the noted protests,” Caiaphas said, smiling condescendingly at Jochanan, “this is not a trial, and I extend my pity to Jochanan for his inability to understand this. It is also unfortunate that he chose to waste the tribunal’s time by bringing up something already known to all.”

  Caiaphas directed his next words to the entire tribunal. “Obviously this is a matter of supreme importance. I cannot recall any other occasion that has merited the gathering of Jerusalem’s religious leaders on the holy Passover night. Your united attendance shows, however, the great danger facing us. If Yeshua is not silenced and stirs the land to rebellion, the Romans will have every excuse to slaughter thousands of innocents and remove all authority from this tribunal. Or perhaps Jochanan has also lost the ability to understand this?”

  Jochanan stared ahead stonily, knowing any answer would only add to Caiaphas’s victory.

  Caiaphas enjoyed letting the silence of triumph linger. “Let me repeat,” Caiaphas finally said. “This is not a trial. As learned men, we are simply gathered to determine whether Yeshua from Nazareth should be sent to Pontius Pilate for judgment.” Caiaphas gazed over the Great Sanhedrin. “Are there further comments?”

  None came.

  “Then we shall proceed,” he said. He motioned to attendants at the back of the hall.

  They brought Yeshua forward.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Near the fire at the gate, another one of the servants overheard Peter talking to John. She cocked her ear at Peter’s strong accent.

  She listened a little longer, then remarked loudly. Her observation became an accusation that those around him could hear. “This man,” the maidservant said, “was with Yeshua of Nazareth.”

  During his small talk with John, Peter’s mind had been on the first girl and his reply to her. He’d convinced himself he had done the right thing by maintaining anonymity. Peter was trapped firmly in one of the peculiarities of human nature; sometimes the more wrong a man is in his stance, the more strenuously he argues it, for a justification needs continued and further justification for the self-deception to survive.

  “I don’t even know the man,” Peter said now. He pushed up from where he was squatting and walked away from the fire.

  **

  An hour later, it was obvious to everyone that for Caiaphas, the sweetness of victory over Jochanan had faded. His frustration stemmed from two sources. The first was rabbinical law, which dictated that two witnesses must agree to support a given charge. Caiaphas had called witness after witness to bring evidence against Yeshua. No two, however, had been able to agree on the same charge.

  Some had tried exaggerating or distorting different portions of Yeshua’s teaching. Others had pointed to His acts of healing on the Sabbath—it was unlawful, but the politically shrewd Caiaphas had realized condemning Yeshua on that charge would also legitimize His miracles. It had reached the point where even the most ridiculous accusations were put forth, but with no results. The only thing proved by all of this was that Caiaphas had too hastily assembled the Great Sanhedrin and in his excitement had done little planning as prosecutor.

  The second source of Caiaphas’s frustration merely stood silently before the assembly, showing His canny understanding that He needed no defense; it was far better to let the false and contradictory statements fall by themselves.

  Caiaphas beckoned for one of the young teachers from the rear semicircle to come forward. Caiaphas had no great hopes of him, which is why it had taken him so long to turn to the least experienced of the Sanhedrin.

  The young teacher said, “This man said, ‘I am able to destroy the temple of God and rebuild it in three days.’ ”

  Hope flared in Caiaphas, and he marke
d the young teacher in his mind for reward later. Any threat against the temple was blasphemy that demanded the death sentence. Properly manipulated, this testimony could prove that Yeshua was a seducer of the people, calling them to tear down the temple while promising them magical power to rebuild it. It would not necessarily hold as a capital charge in Jewish law, but Caiaphas had no intention of making this an official trial. He simply wanted something he could take to Pontius Pilate so the Roman procurator could pronounce a death sentence. And most surely, if the Sanhedrin could show Pilate that Yeshua was calling for rebellion . . .

  Caiaphas called out, “Is there another witness who will testify for or against this?”

  “Yes,” another elder replied. “I heard Him say the same.”

  Muted conversation rolled through the gathering. They all understood the significance of this.

  The Pharisee named Nicodemus stood. “It should be brought to the attention of the tribunal that those words could be interpreted as ‘the temple of the body.’ ”

  Caiaphas glared at Nicodemus. Spies had brought word months earlier that Nicodemus had sought nighttime audiences with Yeshua. Nicodemus was not raising his point as a matter of law to protect the Sanhedrin from a sentence that would not hold up under examination. Nicodemus was actually trying to protect Yeshua.

  The muttering grew louder.

  Caiaphas raised his voice to silence everyone. He turned to Yeshua. “Well, aren’t You going to answer these charges? What do You have to say for Yourself?”

  But Yeshua remained silent.

  Caiaphas felt his own heart pound against his ribs as his rage and hatred rose.

  Yeshua, showing the wisdom of an experienced scholar, was taking advantage of the very laws they were using against Him. No proven evidence had been laid forth in these hearings; legally, Yeshua did not have to reply.

  “Will you not answer?” Caiaphas demanded.

  All muttering stopped. The other seventy men waited. Even the scribes, who normally showed no interest in testimony, leaned forward.

  Yeshua said nothing. His head was bowed so the swollen upper lip that distorted His face was not visible.

  Attention shifted to Caiaphas as the elders and teachers of the Sanhedrin sensed a crucial point in the hearing. Unless a proven charge was introduced for their vote, the prosecution would have no case. They would have no choice but to set Yeshua free, making Him even more popular with the people and setting up extreme humiliation for the religious establishment in Jerusalem.

  Caiaphas felt his composure washing away to waves of hatred and rage. It had taken him months to get this detestable peasant in his grasp.

  He commanded himself to think. Did he want to ground an accusation on Yeshua’s claim to messiahship?

  No! Israel’s holiest and highest hope should not be exposed to mockery before the Romans.

  Yet . . .

  Yeshua lifted His head and smiled peacefully, as if at that moment He knew exactly what choice remained to Caiaphas.

  Caiaphas wanted to destroy Yeshua because the peasant was a false prophet preaching false doctrines, because He publicly abused and ridiculed Jewish religious authority, because of the great likelihood that Yeshua would lead a popular rebellion against the Romans, and finally, because He did not deny messianic claims.

  Over the last hour Caiaphas had not been able to build a case on the first three charges. Yet the fourth charge . . .

  Yes! Caiaphas told himself. There was a way to make Yeshua incriminate Himself. Caiaphas would not need to find witnesses to prove and bring to Pilate Yeshua’s claim to messiahship, not if Yeshua claimed it Himself.

  Caiaphas could find seventy witnesses! Right here!

  As his eyes met Yeshua’s through the uneven yellow light of the great hall, Caiaphas raised his right arm and pointed a long, craggy finger at Yeshua. “Are You the Messiah,” Caiaphas asked, “the Son of the blessed God?”

  Somehow, the previous silence grew even heavier. The question was genius in its formulation. Once Yeshua denied it, His popular movement would cease. The Sanhedrin could set Him free to do no more damage among the people. If He didn’t deny it . . .

  “Are You the Son of God?” Caiaphas demanded.

  “I am,” Yeshua said, speaking His first words of the hearing.

  A near roar went through the hall as the members of the Sanhedrin absorbed Yeshua’s reply.

  “I am.”

  The hallowed unspeakable phrase that only God could speak in reference to Himself.

  “I am.”

  Blasphemy!

  Yeshua turned to face the assembly. “And you will see Me,” Yeshua began, cutting short the babble, “the Son of Man, sitting at God’s right hand in the place of power and coming back on the clouds of heaven.”

  Son of Man.

  Sitting at God’s right hand.

  Coming back on the clouds of heaven.

  Claiming to be Messiah in itself was not blasphemous. Dozens had done so across the land over the previous decades. Significant as it was to speak against the temple, this too, was not blasphemy. But here, as Yeshua cited and applied and linked messianic texts in Daniel and Psalms, He essentially claimed authority over the temple, claimed He would share the very throne and glory of God, and that—by using a scriptural phrase for God’s judgment, “coming back on the clouds of heaven”—claimed Yeshua Himself would ensure God’s righteous vindication as these men were punished for their unbelief.

  This, unless it was true, was blasphemy of the worst kind!

  And Caiaphas would never accept it as true.

  **

  Rabbinical law dictated that when blasphemy was spoken, the high priest rip both his outer and inner garments, tearing them so completely that neither could ever be repaired.

  There was nothing judicial, however, about the manner in which Caiaphas tore his clothing. Fury animated him with such passion that no elder in the assembly had ever seen him show, and Caiaphas shredded his upper garments so completely that wisps of gray hair were visible on his bony, narrow chest.

  “Why do we need other witnesses?” Caiaphas shouted, releasing his months of brooding hatred. “You have all heard His blasphemy. What is your verdict?”

  Starting from youngest to oldest, so that the opinions of the elders would not unfairly sway the first votes, Caiaphas asked for each man’s decision.

  “Guilty,” the first man said. As did the second. And third.

  So it continued.

  When the first thirty-seven members had all agreed that Yeshua was guilty of blasphemy, Caiaphas permitted himself a small smile of victory. Only a majority of two was required; with only thirty-four votes left, Yeshua’s sentence had been pronounced. As Caiaphas continued polling the final votes, the only exceptions were the man named Nicodemus and another, Joseph of Arimathea, who each abstained, drawing glares from Caiaphas and whispers from the Sanhedrin.

  The final count showed sixty-nine votes of guilt and two abstentions.

  Technically, it had not been a trial, so Caiaphas did not pronounce a formal sentence. He would reassemble the Sanhedrin at first light at the temple for a second vote, which would legally seal the fate of the rebel.

  Which, for the grave offense of blasphemy, would be death.

  Still at the back of the hall, I waited for Yeshua to show everyone He was the Messiah.

  He did not.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  They began to beat Yeshua after the mock trial; I was sickened at the joy lesser men took in trampling one they had feared.

  This final injustice after the mockery of a trial I had witnessed pushed me to unreasoning anger. Perhaps I was looking for a way to vent my frustration, much as I had taken savage satisfaction in fighting the two men beneath the city earlier in the week.

  Ten men had gathered around Yeshua, vying with each other to swing at Him with fists or kick Him.

  I rushed in and tried to throw them away from Him. My efforts were useless. They briefly turne
d their fury on me. Three men tossed me to the ground. Others kicked at me until I managed to roll away.

  Two of the men made moves to pursue me, but Caiaphas stopped them. He looked down at me in scorn. “Leave this fool,” he told them. “He is the cousin of Pascal. We will hurt him as we hurt any wealthy man—by restricting his business.”

  I pushed to my knees and dusted myself, feeling powerless.

  I knew there was now no way for Pascal to associate himself with me by purchasing my estate while I lived. And, oddly, I began to feel relief at the only alternative left to me.

  When they tired of beating Yeshua, they placed Him in a small room above the courtyard to pass the final hours until dawn and His sentence of death.

  From there, Yeshua perhaps witnessed something that must have hurt Him far more than the blows, insults, and spittle of His enemies.

  **

  Peter was well to the side of the fire, conspicuous by his solitary outline. Intent on trying to overhear the results of the trial, he did not notice until too late that one of the servants had moved beside him.

  The man tapped his shoulder. Although it was dark, Peter saw enough to recognize the man. It was the servant who had complained loudly about the coward with a sword.

  “You must be one of them; we can tell by your Galilean accent,” he said.

  Before, anger had surged through Peter. Now it was fear. By the aggressive tone of the remark, Peter knew he could be mobbed and beaten badly if found out.

  Peter called a curse on himself to swear the truth of his words. “I swear by God, I don’t know the man!”

  As the words left his mouth, a distant rooster crowed.

  Yeshua’s words flashed through Peter’s mind: “Before the rooster crows, you will deny Me three times.”

  The horror of the accuracy of the prediction lifted Peter’s head. He saw the One who had predicted it. In the torchlight that had illuminated the trial proceedings, it appeared to Peter that Yeshua was staring directly back at him.