When Jesus Wept (24 page)
As I bathed, the tempo of the music increased outside. Laughter spilled over the walls and splashed through my window. I glanced at the western sky. In the distance, Jerusalem crowned the mountain. I remembered my own wedding day. No day ever like it before or since. I imagined what it would be like when Messiah, the true heavenly Bridegroom, set his foot upon the Mount of Olives as the prophets foretold. The lion would lay down with the lamb. The Lord would teach our children in the streets of Jerusalem. Our oppressors would be cast out from us. Surely I would live to see that day.
I emerged into the twilight. The wedding preparations were complete. Children adorned the wedding canopy with flowers, and petals were strewn around the grounds. In the distance I saw Samson bringing the rabbi to our celebration.
I remembered Jesus at the wedding in Cana, blessing wine he had created from water.
“Blessed are you, O Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, Creator of the fruit of the vine …”
It was Jesus who created the fruit of the vine that night. My thoughts leapt at the meaning of the miracle and the significance of the words of the prayer of thanks. “Blessed are you, O Lord … Creator!”
Wine from water? Impossible for mere man. But the light had shown upon Jesus when he recited the blessing and passed the chalice.
Without Jesus, water was just water. When I tasted the wine Jesus made, I knew his vineyard, like his kingdom, could not be of this earth.
As Patrick and I had returned home, in joy, I fully believed in the meaning of Jesus’ miracles. No doubt remained in my mind.
Jesus was the True Vine. Jesus was the heavenly wine. Jesus was Messiah, the true Bridegroom of Israel, come down from heaven to redeem his people.
Martha was the commanding general, organizing all parts of the wedding with military precision. Never mind that Patrick and Adrianna were Gentiles by heritage. Martha ordered that the nuptials be executed like any Jewish wedding. There would be no mistakes. No dish underdone. No lamp unlit. No musician faltering in his song. It was understood by all that the festivities would be perfect and filled with joy … or else.
Patrick asked me to stand for him as groomsman beneath the chuppah. As the vows between Patrick and Adrianna were sealed by the rabbi, women wept. Men smiled behind their beards, and I noticed that Adrianna no longer looked plain and plump. Love, it seemed, had made her beautiful.
The wedding feast went on for hours, with dancing and song and many, many toasts.
At last the celebration culminated in the presentation of the dowry and gifts.
Samson swayed a little as he raised his glass in the toast to his daughter and new son-in-law. “And finally”—he was misty-eyed as he spoke—”for the little girl who came to us with such a kind and loving heart. Our precious, beautiful, sweet, intelligent, well-spoken, and … beautiful Adrianna. Our dear daughter. Yes. So. Where was I?”
Delilah chirped, “Hurry up! The sun will come up soon!”
Samson raised his index finger as though testing the wind. “Ah. Yes. As I was saying. Adrianna. Dear, kindhearted, and precious girl. Leaving my home for another. So. Her mother and I wish to present to the couple … the gift of …” Samson spread his arms wide and waved his hand at Carta, who waited in the shadows. “Come on, then!”
A little off cue, Carta led out Samson’s favorite wine-red donkey. There was much applause as the creature stepped forward and nuzzled Samson affectionately. “No. No, I say. You don’t belong to me any longer.” He stroked her ears. “You are a pretty little thing. The color of a fine glass of wine.” He smiled at us. “Don’t you think she is a pretty little thing? Served me well. Her name is Happiness. Now here is a double blessing. Happiness is pregnant and will soon bear a fine foal for the happy couple. Along with Happiness, I pray my son-in-law will do his duty so that many grandchildren will bless my dear Delilah and myself. May Happiness always be with you, my daughter, dear Adrianna.”
Applause. Amens. Another ten toasts. And so happiness came at last to Patrick. Just after midnight, he lifted his bride onto the back of the beautiful donkey. We plucked our torches from the ground and began the procession to deliver the couple to their new cottage among my grandfather’s ancient vines.
“My beloved has gone down to his garden,
to the beds of spices,
to feed his flocks in the gardens,
and to gather lilies.
I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine;
he feeds his flock among the lilies.”
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We serenaded beside the ancestor vine at the head of the path. Patrick bade us
shalom
and carried his bride into the house. He kicked the door shut.
“My dove, my perfect one, is the only one.
The only one of her mother.
The favorite of the one who bore her.
The daughters saw her and called her blessed.”
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M
y sister Mary brought Jesus and his disciples to stay with us in Bethany for a time during the season of Omer. Peniel, the boy Jesus healed of blindness, was with us, full of joy and constant wonder.
For seven weeks we marked the days from the escape of the Hebrew slaves from Egypt until the revelation of the law at Mount Sinai. Our hearts commemorated the journey from slaves of Pharaoh to servants of the Lord. Seven times seven days from Passover to Pentecost; it was a holy number. Each of the seven weeks represented a patriarch and the divine attributes of that man:
Abraham —Grace, Love
Isaac—Severity, Respect
Jacob—Beauty, Compassion
Joseph—Foundation, Loyalty
Moses—Victory, Efficiency
Aaron—Glory, Aesthetics
David—Majesty, Surrender
I had witnessed and come to believe that Jesus summed up all these divine attributes of God. But unlike our Fathers, there was no vice or weakness in Jesus to taint the perfect purity of his spirit. He was truly the only one without sin among us.
On this anniversary of Eliza’s passing, the Lord walked with me as the sun set over Faithful Vineyard. “Tell me, my friend, what has changed in your heart since last year?”
I thought a moment, then expressed what I knew but had never put into words. “I’m stronger now. Like Isaac. Even without my beloved. I’ve grown stronger through this long, lonely winter. Efficient like Moses. I have even surrendered to my loss … like David. But still not where I want to be, not altogether filled with the righteous attributes of the Fathers as I wish. Especially not filled with love, like Abraham. No compassion, like Jacob. So very far to go until I become …” I hesitated, feeling his gaze locked on me, listening.
“Until you become … what?”
“Until I am like you. All the positive qualities.”
We walked on together.
In the swale, where it was cooler and less exposed to the sun, the Lord paused beside a leafless vine. “Lazarus, there are no leaves. No sign of life here. Is this vine dead?”
“No, Lord. It’s alive but still sleeping. Its blood is only beginning to stir.”
“But to look at it, it looks dead. To someone who doesn’t know, it looks like something to be uprooted and burned.” He laughed.
“The warmth of the sun will wake it up in a few days. The vine is waiting for the warmth of the sun,” I answered.
“What will happen then?”
“Bud break. The vine will push out new growth.” I pointed to the vines higher on the slope. “You see?”
Jesus strode up the hill to the place where green buds had just emerged. “Well, here. Yes. I see it. Tiny leaves. Knobs of growth no bigger than my thumbnail.”
“The higher we go into the light and warmth, the more advanced the growth,” I said, flattered that Jesus wanted to learn from my experience.
“But how do you know these bits of green will ever become leaves?” he asked.
I motioned toward the top of the hill. “Because. It will happen. I know it will happen. When you’ve lived among the vines … well, the vines always bring forth buds, then leaves, then fruit, then … every year it’s the same. They grow. There … look.”
Jesus set out ahead of me. Near the top of the hill, where the sun shone brightest, the vines had blossomed with new life. “Lazarus.” We paused by a vine whose buds were a few days old. “What do you see?”
“Bud break. Leaves and tendrils. See there …” I pointed. “By the end of summer, if I care for it properly, that will be a cluster of fruit.”
“And by next year you will pour it into my cup,” Jesus said. “What about the dead-looking vines in the valley?”
“A few days in the sun and they will look like this vine. They’ll put out buds, then leaves, then clusters of berries … then wine.”
“Faith.”
“Experience.”
“Yes. Faith … ”
“Ah. Yes. I see what you mean. I believe what’s coming. Bud break. Fruit and harvest. Even though it’s a long way off.”
Jesus clapped me on the back. “That’s faith. Can anything keep the ripening or the harvest or the wine from our cup?” He touched the new leaves as though he could visualize the full, rich berries ready for harvest.
“Yes. Oh, so many things, Lord. A big wind might come along and blow away the buds. Or a late frost could burn them. Or drought. Too many cloudy days. Not enough sun. Or disease. Or insects. Grape growing is full of worries, you see. At every stage. It’s never a sure thing until the wine is in the cup. And the cup is at your lips.”
Jesus studied the infant buds. “So is the human heart in the care of the Father.” He drew a deep breath. “What in your life prevents you from bearing the most excellent fruit? Is there anything that will prevent you from ripening to perfect sweetness … becoming a wine worthy to be drunk at the King’s supper?”
It was an easy question to answer. The image of Bikri beside the pool came to my mind. “Yes. There’s a wicked man, a man who has done great harm to my family.” Tears brimmed as I remembered all the wrongs that had come to my dear ones through the deeds of Bikri.
Jesus did not reply for a moment but waited for me to fully think through what I felt but had never expressed. Then he asked, “Lazarus, why do you weep?”
I continued angrily as tears streamed. “The hand of God’s judgment rightly came upon him. He was struck down … a cripple. And he’s been a beggar, alone and friendless, beside the Pool of Bethesda for many years.”
“What is that to you?” His voice was gentle.
I rattled off, “I rejoice in his misery. I celebrate his suffering. It comes to me sometimes when I go to the Temple to bring my offerings and I go to look at him. Just to look at him—loath-some, flies buzzing around his head, shriveled legs, unable to move.”
“Surely he deserves his punishment? Not like Peniel, the cheerful blind boy you brought me to last year.”
“Yes. Yes. Lord, this fellow deserves … every calamity.” Tears of rage continued to spill over.
Jesus asked, “Then what is it?”
“I hate him so deeply! And … it’s a blight on my leaves. I can’t seem to let go of the wrong he did to us. The betrayal.”
“So his sin continues to hurt you.”
“Yes. I have no compassion for him. I can’t forget—can’t let go, let alone forgive. You say to love my enemy. To pray for those who despitefully use me. You command it, but I can’t. Hating this man is a dark cloud that keeps the sun from ripening the fruit. I rejoice, you see, in his unhappiness. And so my fruit is unripe and bitter, setting my teeth on edge.”
“What can be done, Lazarus? To end your suffering? So only sunlight shines on your heart?”
I inhaled deeply, knowing the answer. “Look. The sun is setting.
Shabbat Shalom
, Lord. Will you be going to the Temple in the morning to teach?”
As the sun rose the next morning, I walked to Jerusalem with Jesus and his disciples. The city was quiet, the marketplace empty because of the Sabbath.
