The Weeping Chamber Page 7

  “But if we say it was merely human, we’ll be mobbed because the people think he was a prophet,” the elder continued, his high whisper such a ridiculous squeak that the Galilean peasant and His disciples could most surely overhear it.

  Caiaphas, forearm muscles roped with the stress of his clinched hands, wanted to slap the elder for his indiscretion. He closed his eyes. With incredible willpower, he held himself in a pose of indifference.

  “I have duties at the altar,” he finally said in a low voice to the elder. “You will remain and debate this among yourselves to keep Him waiting. Then finally tell Him that we don’t know the answer to His question.”

  Caiaphas did not wait for the elder to affirm his order. The high priest turned with great dignity and walked back through the delegation. As he walked, he made his face a mask of peaceful contemplation. But thoughts of murder—savage murder with his own hands—heated his mind.

  For Caiaphas could not fool himself.

  They—the rulers and great legal scholars of the temple—had challenged a solitary uneducated peasant-carpenter. And lost.

  Walking away was retreat.

  As he left the courtyard, Caiaphas silently vowed to use all of his wealth, power, and cunning to end this peasant’s life.

  Chapter Twenty

  I spent another two hours watching. Waiting. The crowds around the prophet grew larger. My view of Him was reduced to glimpses as He moved and spoke.

  I watched His unfailing patience and cheerfulness. Laughter. Compassion.

  From those gathered around, I saw adoration. Awe. Skepticism. Occasional ridicule.

  As entertainment, I could not think of a better way to spend my time.

  All the while, I let the seed of hope inside me take root and spread its branches. The reluctance I felt had gone. I no longer wondered whether I should approach Him but how.

  Still, I was in no hurry.

  But others were.

  **

  Oren, son of Judd, nursed anger and a sore leg suffered in the chaos of the market the day before. He limped toward the residence of Caiaphas the high priest, protected from the direct heat of the sun by the walls lining the street. The noise and bustle of the lower city were long behind him. Here, in the enclave of the wealthy in upper Jerusalem, overlooking the hectic confusion of the near slums below, little activity took place on the streets.

  The palace of the high priest stood directly before him. Just inside the western wall that enclosed the city, it overlooked King David’s tomb. It boasted an outer courtyard, an inner courtyard, a terraced garden, and dozens of luxurious rooms, including halls big enough to hold informal assemblies of the Sanhedrin.

  Servants guarded the gates. With faintly hidden distaste, they surveyed Oren’s flushed, sweaty face as they listened to him wheeze his visit’s purpose. At each successive gate, each servant hesitated unnecessarily before letting him through. As was the master, so were the servants—haughty and highly conscious of their status.

  Caiaphas met Oren in the garden. It was a clear indication of Oren’s standing that he had not been invited into the palace.

  “I know who you are,” Caiaphas said, imperiously waving away Oren’s introduction. “Let us not waste time.”

  The tall high priest stood in the shade of a fig tree.

  “It is the market,” Oren said. With the back of a fat, oily hand, he wiped sweat from his forehead. He had become acutely aware of his thirst, made deeper by the fact that Caiaphas had not sent a servant for refreshments. “The Nazarene has disrupted it completely.”

  Oren’s anger at the situation flared. He pulled up his tunic and twisted to point at the fat hairy calf of his right leg. The pasty flesh showed a deep purple bruise.

  “Yesterday,” Oren continued, “I was standing on my table to better see the confusion when an ox knocked it over and stepped on me. The commissions I send to you should be ample payment for protection.”

  “The peasant will be stopped,” Caiaphas said. “Even now as we speak, He is being challenged.”

  “Like this morning?” Oren asked, happy for the chance to poke at the high priest’s arrogance. “Word has spread wide that the entire ruling authority failed to move Him from the temple courts. It has only increased His popularity among the people. If this continues . . .”

  Oren was rewarded with a clenched smile from Caiaphas.

  “It will not continue,” the high priest hissed. “Even as you and I speak, a new trap is about to be sprung.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I continued to stand patiently among the crowd, leaning against a pillar at the side of the court, content to listen to the ongoing arguments and discussions. I had no need to strain to look over the crowd at the man named Yeshua.

  The voices carried to me clearly; like me, none of the spectators engaged in idle conversation, and any noise from the crowd came in whispered reactions to points of debate, then stopped as all waited to hear the counterpoint. We were like an audience at an athletic event, except much less boisterous.

  Occasionally, however, I did stand on the tips of my toes to see if any of the scene had changed. At first glance, the contest seemed overwhelmingly unfair.

  On one side, lawyers and scribes—white-bearded, white-clothed Pharisees armed with scrolls; Sadducees dressed in the wealth that comes with success in politics; fresh-faced students in black robes, eager for the chance to show their verbal skills. Jerusalem’s intellectual elite had gathered in full force.

  Facing them—alone—was the carpenter from Nazareth. As if His unassuming clothing did not give enough indication of His lack of status, every word He spoke in His rough Galilean accent reminded the audience of His lack of formal education.

  “Didn’t you ever read this in the Scriptures?” Yeshua continued. “ ‘The stone rejected by the builders has now become the cornerstone.’ ”

  “Yes, yes,” one of the students called, “from the book of Psalms. By excellent use of a pun, the author implies that the cornerstone is also a leader. As part of a victory celebration, the author undoubtedly meant to exhort the people to song.” The student smiled at the crowd, proud of his feat of immediate recall.

  Another spoke to Yeshua in the thrusting manner of debate the pack of intellectuals had been using. “It is only a fragment of Scripture. What does this have to do with a tale about the tenants of a vineyard who kill the landowner’s son when he arrives to collect the grapes?”

  “What I mean is that the kingdom of God will be taken away from you,” Yeshua replied, “and given to a nation that will produce the proper fruit. Anyone who stumbles over that stone will be broken to pieces, and it will crush anyone on whom it falls.”

  “No!” one of the white-bearded men shouted, his voice surprisingly powerful. “No! You cannot speak to us like that!”

  Yeshua raised His eyebrows as reply. His quiet defiance brought murmurs of shock and worry and even some muted laughter from the crowd, for few of the poorer pilgrims missed the implications. These Pharisees and the rest of the elite felt Yeshua was speaking directly to them as the tenants who rejected the son; their guilty consciences had been pricked to immediate anger.

  Some of the older Pharisees turned away, seething with frustrated rage, grumbling for the man’s arrest.

  Everyone else in the crowd stayed, however. Never before had one of them—one of the lowly—tweaked the ears of the high and mighty.

  Yeshua turned to answer some questions quietly, and the rest of the crowd began to talk in low tones, marveling at Yeshua’s poise.

  It was during this pause in public debate that I stepped forward.

  **

  Earlier, I had made my decision to speak with the red-bearded man named Peter.

  His wide, young face made him appear approachable despite his scowl. From his simple clothing, I assumed he would be easily impressed. And the fact that he kept his hand on the hilt of a half-hidden sword showed me he was the one who watched guard. He, then, was the one wh
o could get me into the inner circle.

  Peter was at the edge of the crowd surrounding Yeshua. I moved closer to him, greeting him with “Shalom.”

  His eyes narrowed as he appraised my expensive clothing and neatly trimmed beard and hair. I hoped he would see what all others did in dealing with me: a man of even features despite my scar, tall enough to be imposing, with a smile to offset any intimidation rendered by my size.

  “Are you another of the Pharisee spies?” Peter asked. “Testing to see if I tire of following the teacher? Looking for someone to betray Him?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You dress like one of them.”

  I removed my cloak and set it on the shoulders of a beggar near me. He turned to me in surprise, and I waved him on, indicating that he could keep the cloak.

  “No longer,” I said.

  “What do you want?” Whatever sympathy I might have gained was offset by Peter’s suspicion of my generous gesture. The cloak was worth a month’s wages for a laborer.

  “An audience with your master,” I said.

  “He makes time for everybody.”

  Why was this man impatient with me? Usually the lesser privileged treated me with deferential respect.

  “I wish to see Him privately,” I said.

  Peter pulled his own cloak back to further expose the hilt of his sword. “How do I know this is not a trap?” he demanded. “Men like you want Yeshua captured. It is a simple matter to pretend you need healing.”

  “No,” I said quickly. This was not going as I intended. “I mean Him no harm. I merely wish to speak with Him . . . to ask Him something.”

  Peter stared at me, yielding no ground.

  I felt the stirring of desperation. Without servants around me to establish my importance, I was failing quickly in my efforts to impress this man.

  “It’s my daughter,” I said. “She . . . she . . .” I drew a breath. “She needs help. I have nowhere else to turn.”

  The sun-beaten wrinkles around Peter’s eyes softened. His hand fell away from the hilt of his sword.

  His obvious sympathy came as such a relief that I pressed on. Stupidly. “I have gold,” I said. “Tell Him I will give generously to His cause. Whatever price He names.”

  Had I slapped the man, the change in Peter could not have happened faster.

  “The teacher cannot be bought.” Peter’s shoulders tightened. His face became a mask again. “Take your gold elsewhere.”

  “But my daughter . . .”

  “Go,” Peter said. “If you offer payment, it is obvious you do not understand.”

  “But—”

  Peter put his hand on my shoulder, ready to push me away. Before we could argue further, something compelled me to turn toward the prophet. The crowd had parted slightly, and I saw that He was looking directly at us.

  Peter had also turned to look. He caught his master’s gaze and dropped his hand.

  Again, I was held by those eyes. Compassionate. Gentle. Eyes that drew me forward. I even took a step toward Him but was stopped by sudden muttering from within the crowd.

  Important-looking men had begun to push their way through the crowd.

  “Herodians,” someone near me whispered. “I have seen them arguing politics in the plaza.”

  “Herodians with Pharisees?” another asked. “What has brought them together?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Herodians. A political party determined to see Herod rather than a Roman governor rule. They were hated by the religious authorities, who knew that Herod would strip them of their power at his first chance.

  Their politics were in direct conflict with the Sanhedrin, who, as much as they despised Roman rule, despised Herod even more. After all, his tyrannical father, Herod the Great, had not only replaced the high priests at whim but had also murdered many of the great sages who dared protest his acts.

  Herodians joined with Pharisees. The cause that had brought them together, I knew, would prove interesting.

  I stepped back again, not wishing the attention that would fall on me if I persisted in trying to reach Yeshua at this moment.

  Once again at the back of the crowd, leaning against my comforting pillar, I noticed something that did not bode well for Yeshua.

  Temple police—discreetly waiting among the columns at the rear of the courtyard.

  **

  The Pharisees Elidad and Gaal—both handsome elderly men with the dignity of fully white beards—expected this to be their finest public moment. Even so, Elidad’s legs trembled, and he hoped his tunic hid the movement. Gaal stood with his chest puffed, secure in the knowledge that they had been sent by Caiaphas, who had assured them that the peasant would recognize neither of them. So certain were they of success that they had brought along temple guards.

  Each man made a great show of bowing in respect to Yeshua. When He acknowledged them, Elidad began, speaking with the greatest sincerity he could muster. “Teacher, we know how honest You are. You are impartial and You don’t play favorites.”

  Yeshua had a habit of cocking one eyebrow in an expression of gentle inquisitiveness. His face was set thus as He waited for the men to continue.

  “Yes,” Gaal said, with his hands stretched and open in welcoming friendliness as he had practiced, “You sincerely teach the ways of God.”

  At that precise moment, a flock of pigeons passed overhead, their shadows rushing away like disappearing fish. One, however, left more behind than the quick dappled movement of shade across pavement; it had deposited a large sticky pellet of white directly into the center of Gaal’s open right hand. He closed his fingers over his palm quickly, hoping no one in the crowd had noticed, for if anyone drew a symbolic conclusion about the pigeon’s judgment of their speech, the laughter would never cease.

  “Now tell us . . .” Elidad said to Yeshua, unaware of what had happened to his partner. As planned, he let a dramatic pause hang as a prelude to his question, one that would end the peasant’s teachings.

  As Gaal felt the discomfort of the messy liquid seeping between his fingers, it crossed his mind that if Yeshua was the Messiah and capable of raising the dead, perhaps the pigeon’s gift had not been coincidence. Worse, it seemed Yeshua was enjoying a secret smile as he surveyed them both during Elidad’s dramatic pause.

  “. . . is it right,” Elidad resumed, “to pay taxes to the Roman government or not? Should we pay them, or should we not?”

  Silence. To Gaal, it was a wonderful silence, one that more than made up for the indignity of the pigeon’s droppings. Silence. The crowd was not whispering or laughing or cheering the prophet. Everyone understood the importance of His answer. No true messiah would acknowledge an earthly power. Answering yes, then, would destroy Yeshua’s power among the people.

  Yet if He answered no to keep His popularity with the masses, He would immediately be taken away and charged with sedition, for the Roman authorities only tolerated local religions to a certain extent. Nor could He decline to answer, not if He wanted to keep His reputation.

  The silence lengthened. The question, in its cunning, was masterful.

  Yeshua stood and moved toward the two Pharisees. When He finally spoke, He began so softly that all had to strain to hear Him. “Whom are you trying to fool with your trick questions?” He said, all humor gone from His face.

  Facing the full power of the man’s character, neither Elidad nor Gaal could stammer a reply.

  “Show Me a Roman coin, and I’ll tell you,” Yeshua ordered.

  Elidad patted his pockets. Gaal remained frozen with fear and the discomfort of his soiled right hand.

  Elidad finally found a denarius. He reached across the short distance and handed it to Yeshua.

  “Whose picture and title are stamped on it?” Yeshua asked them both, loudly enough for the crowd and all the intellectual elite to hear.

  “Caesar’s,” they both said quickly, feeling like delinquent children under full inspection.

  Yesh
ua turned. He gathered the hem of His robe, walked back to the steps, and with great dignity, seated Himself again. His deliberate, slow movements further chastised Elidad and Gaal, as it left them alone before the crowd, the center of attention.

  When ready, Yeshua flipped the small coin back toward Gaal, who tried to grab it with his left hand and feebly missed. The light clink of the coin on pavement was obvious testimony to the incompetence he felt in front of the teacher.

  “Well, then,” Yeshua said, “give to Caesar what belongs to him. But everything that belongs to God must be given to God.”

  The Pharisees’ stunned silence settled like a cloak of total defeat.

  And the crowd burst into delighted applause.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  In the tumult of amazement and laughter that followed Yeshua’s deft answer to a seemingly impossible question, He took opportunity to refresh Himself with food and drink, served by women from the crowd.

  I did not blame Him. As it was, His stamina impressed me greatly. He had spoken publicly for several hours. From the few political dealings I had had, I understood fully the strain and exhaustion of concentrating intensely under such pressure.

  Later, when Yeshua began to speak again, it was in parables—short, interesting stories that held simple yet powerful messages. The bulk of His audience were uneducated peasants. It was easy to see why they preferred His teachings to the dry, scholarly, legalistic lectures of the Pharisees.

  I, too, enjoyed listening but not without a degree of restlessness. I greatly wished to speak to the man alone but saw no good opportunity.

  Worse, when He had finished teaching, He retreated with His followers to another courtyard, requesting some time of privacy after promising to speak again in a few hours.

  I stayed back, like the entire crowd, out of respect. But I did not fall too far back. During our short few seconds of contact earlier, His eyes had spoken to me. I was determined to get my audience. So I trailed Yeshua and His followers from an appropriate distance.