There was a hush in the room. Everyone knew that the real Lazarus had indeed returned from death to testify.
But Jesus continued with the story. “Abraham said to the tormented man, ‘They have Moses and the Prophets. Let your brothers hear them!’ But the rich man called out to Abraham, ‘No! My father Abraham! But only if a man from the dead goes to them, they will repent!’ Abraham replied, ‘If they will not hear Moses and the prophets, neither will they believe, even if a man should return from the dead!’ ”1
Silence descended upon the room as Jesus finished the lesson. The rich men were mostly Pharisees who had come from Jerusalem to challenge Jesus and see Lazarus with their own eyes. Now they stared at Lazarus and contemplated the purpose of Jesus’ story.
The death and resurrection of Lazarus was proof of the absolute truth of Jesus’ story. Even though a man had returned from death to bear witness of eternal life, the leaders of Israel refused to believe the five books of Moses and they rejected Lazarus, the living, breathing evidence of Jesus’ identity!
I considered the combined years of the elders of Israel who sat in the room. Surely their ages, if added together, would equal the years since Moses had parted the Red Sea. Yet they rejected the prophecies of the five books of Moses and were searching for reasons to reject Jesus. I was only a boy, and I believed that Jesus was our Messiah! Hadn’t my own rabbi told me his name and the prophecies of his coming? So why was Jesus so feared and hated? I remembered also that Joseph of old, dreamer of dreams, had been hated by his brothers and yet had saved them all. Hatred of a righteous one was not rational. Surely what men intended for evil, God meant for good.
I slipped my hand into the pouch and touched the cold silver of Joseph’s cup. I was sure that Jesus of Nazareth was the long-awaited Messiah, Son of David, the King of Israel! The books of Moses, all the prophets, and now Lazarus returned from the dead, all bore witness.
I glanced up at Joseph of Arimathea for his response to the teaching. He was, after all, a very rich man. His lips were tight, his face pale. A ripple of outrage swept through the wealthy in the congregation. Poor men grinned smugly, suddenly proud of their poverty. The crowd between us and Jesus was densely packed with knots of men arguing the point of the message. I saw Jesus slip out, surrounded by his disciples. Peter glowered over his shoulder.
Joseph clasped my hand and stepped back in the shadows into a small anteroom stacked with dishes, lest he be recognized by his friends from Jerusalem. Peniel followed us. Through the parted curtain I watched as some began to leave. They cast menacing glances at Lazarus as he followed Jesus.
Peniel inclined his head and said in a matter-of-fact tone to Joseph, “So. That’s Jesus. He has a way of tossing the cat among the pigeons, as the saying goes. He’s offended every rich man in the room, eh? And you. You’re richer than most of them put together. What do you think?”
“My friend Lazarus of Bethany is also a wealthy man. He was rich when he died. Rich when Jesus called him from the grave. This parable is flawed, I fear. So, what do you think?” he asked Peniel. “Will wealth cast a man into hell?”
Peniel laughed. “I was a poor, blind man who begged at the Nicanor Gate. I can close my eyes and recognize the bitter voices of many in this room. I tell you, after I was healed, they hated me and cast me out because I was blind and now I see. Jesus gave me eyes to see. But a dark heart is much harder to heal. My heart recognized the Lord before I ever saw light.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Nehemiah? What do you think, boy?”
I hesitated and tried to imagine what Rabbi Kagba would say. “I think . . . the parable isn’t flawed. What he said here tonight is true.”
Peniel nodded as a great man in luxurious purple robes swept past. I opened the curtain just wide enough for him to see me. His lip was curled in disdain. He looked down his nose at me and chuffed away.
Joseph frowned. “What’s Jesus want? That we give away our wealth? Live like paupers?”
“Not the point. You missed the point,” Peniel replied calmly. “Lazarus was wealthy, yet he gave of his wealth and ultimately risked his life to help the poor children of Jerusalem. Lazarus lived among the beggars—became one of them—while these . . . others . . . slammed their gates and stayed comfortably in their warm houses. They did not raise a finger to help. These fellows worship wealth and success. They have the prophecies about Jesus and reject them. Now even when they have proof that Jesus is the one we have waited for, they reject the prophecies and reject the testimony of Lazarus, a man who has returned from the dead. Nothing will convince them. That’s the point of the story. Not about going to hell because you have money. No. It’s about rejecting truth. Jesus is truth. My restored vision will not convince them. Look at their backs as they go. These are not men who will be embraced by our Father Abraham.”
That night all the wealth and position of my master were unable to purchase a room in the crowded caravansary. One night’s lodging cost as much as a week’s would have cost. Friends and enemies of Jesus all slept in bedchambers beneath the same roof.
There was not one bed remaining in the establishment. Jesus and his disciples took up an entire wing.
Joseph again asked Peniel, “I have traveled a long way to meet Jesus, and so has the lad. Please, go tell my friend Lazarus I’m here.”
Peniel hurried to the sleeping quarters of Jesus and his band. When he returned, he shrugged cheerfully. “Peter is on guard duty tonight. If it was James or John . . . maybe. But the followers of Jesus are not men to be trifled with. As the Lord sleeps, they draw their swords and post themselves as guards across every entrance lest an assassin creep in and . . .” He drew his finger slowly across his throat. “These are dangerous times. Your friend Lazarus paid for tonight’s lodging for all of us. Most everyone’s asleep now. Sorry.” He yawned. “As for me, my quarters are in the stable with the rest of the boys. Sorry. You’ll have to wait till morning.”
My master slept on a cot in a tent, hastily pitched on the roof of the inn. I saw the glint of moonlight on the blade of his sword as he unsheathed it. I was given a thick fleece on the floor as my bedroll. Lying down just inside the tent flap, I could see the stars. I longed for my mother and father and our mountain home. The story in the constellations was the same no matter where I lay my head.
I wondered what Rabbi Kagba must have felt the night before he learned of old Herod’s plots and warned the parents of the newborn King of Israel to flee from Bethlehem to Egypt. More than three decades after that time, constellations still shone brightly in heaven, telling the story of the Messiah and the great battle for mankind’s redemption. On earth, the son of Herod the Butcher King had taken his father’s place and still sought to destroy the Redeemer.
I studied the starry cup of salvation, which hung between the Virgin and the Lion of Judah. The Atonement star, the one Rabbi Kagba referred to as the Heart of the Virgin, was poised directly above the outline of the cup. Keeping pace with their passage across the heavens was the distinctive outline of the Lion of Judah.
My fingers closed around the cup, and I quietly whispered the portion of Jeremiah that had been read on the day of my circumcision.
“The word of the LORD came to me saying,
‘Before I formed you in the womb
I knew you, before you were born I set you apart!’
‘Ah, Sovereign LORD,’ I said, ‘I am only a child!’
But the LORD said to me, ‘Do not say, “I am only a child.” You must go to everyone I send you to and say whatever I command you. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you and will rescue you!’ ”2
I was unafraid as I fixed my gaze upon heaven’s goblet. I was certain that my journey and my role as cupbearer had been preordained like the path of the stars, long before my life on earth had begun. I did not fear the assassins of Herod Antipas, who were surely lurking very near. I was unafraid of the Pharisees, who envied the love of the people for Jesus, or the Romans, who feared his power and plotted his d
estruction. God’s plan was written in the books of Moses and inscribed above me in the stars. My name, Nehemiah, cupbearer to the King of kings, and Joseph’s name were woven into the story too.
An owl hooted from a tree in the courtyard. Pilgrim fires beyond the walls of the inn burned to embers. The whole world was waiting for the dawn when the rightful owner of Joseph’s cup would be crowned as Israel’s true King!
I closed my eyes at last. “I am not afraid, heavenly Father,” I prayed as I drifted toward sleep. “I know that my King Jesus rests beneath this very roof. Nothing can turn back your purpose. What men intend for evil, you intend for good . . . to save the lives of many. And I am nearly at the end of my journey.”
All the world was asleep. A cool breeze stirred the fabric of the tent. Even in my slumber the sounds were familiar. I dreamed of my father’s sheep lying in the moonlight of our high mountain pastures. The smoke of pine and wood from the pilgrim fires blended with the familiar song of a nightingale on the rooftop. Was I in a village in Eretz-Israel? Or in my distant homeland? I could not tell. I felt comforted with the sense that my mother was asleep near me. She sighed and turned over on her bed. In the distance I saw the strong silhouette of my father standing watch over his flocks.
The wind carried his voice across the miles. “Nehi?”
“Here I am, Papa,” I whispered.
“Where are you?”
“Here. On the rooftop of an inn near Jerusalem, Papa. Apprenticed to a rich merchant.” My answer confused me. Was I not at home? “I’m dreaming,” I said aloud.
“You are Nehemiah,” noted a voice that was not my father’s.
“Cupbearer to the King,” I replied. I touched the ancient cup and opened my eyes.
The dream dissolved, and every detail of my journey flooded into my consciousness.
Someone was walking on the rooftop pavilion. My master did not awaken. Parting the flap, I saw a man standing on the parapet. With stars above him and watch fires below, he seemed almost suspended between heaven and earth. He looked out across the hills and valleys toward Jerusalem. In an instant I recognized him.
“It’s him. It’s Jesus,” I whispered, clasping the cup and crawling out from the warmth of my nest.
He turned his head slightly as I emerged. I knew he heard me. It was cold, and my feet were bare. Shoeless feet seemed proper, somehow. I remembered the instruction of God to Moses when he approached the burning bush: “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.”3
I approached slowly, holding the cup in both hands as an offering. I halted an arm’s length from his back. The moonlight cast his shadow over me. There were no clouds in the sky, yet the breeze carried the fresh scent of rain.
“Sir?”
“Nehemiah.” There was a pleasant smile in his voice when he said my name. I was not surprised that he knew me. I thought he probably knew everything. “You are a long way from home.”
“Yes, sir. From the mountains of Gan Eden, I came to find you. To bring you this . . . this gift.”
My reply seemed to satisfy him. “Well then, Nehemiah. Just where you are meant to be.” He turned then and smiled down at me with my outstretched hands and upturned face. His eyes seemed sad as he studied the gift for a long moment: the cup, Joseph’s cup, tarnished and neglected, waiting to be filled. “And how is my old friend, your teacher, Rabbi Kagba?”
“Alive when last I saw him. He wanted to come to you himself but sent me with this instead.”
He nodded, pressed his lips together, and touched the rim with his index finger. “In his place you will bear the cup into Jerusalem as I enter the city, Nehemiah.”
“Please, Lord. Will you take it from me now? It’s been a terrible burden. I almost lost it once. I dropped it in the woods with the Great Hart. And you see, I didn’t polish it. No one knows what it is. Who it belonged to. I was afraid of thieves, so I left it as we found it. Not even a thief wants an old tarnished cup. They couldn’t recognize it as it is.”
“But you, Nehemiah, you know what it means.”
“Yes, sir. The rabbi told me. And Joseph, son of Jacob, the Prince of Egypt himself, appeared to me in dreams. He told me it means something that your earthly father’s name is also Joseph, son of Jacob. And that you are called Son of Joseph.”
Jesus smiled. “Everything means something.”
I blurted, “Now I’m so close and I’m afraid I’ll lose it. Afraid I’ll fail you.”
“No chance of that.” He placed his hand upon my head. “You’ll have to carry the cup for me until it’s time for me to drink from it. You’ll travel with us now. A boy among the other boys, Nehi.”
I felt relieved. The burden was lifted. I had found Jesus. Or rather, I had searched and searched until at last Jesus had found me on the rooftop. I knew I would be safe with him. Joseph’s cup would be safe beneath his protection. “I am your servant, Lord.”
“There’s work to be done before Passover. It’s the duty of the cupbearer to polish the cup. I’ll need it shined up, inside and out, for our Passover supper together in Jerusalem. Hidden beneath the tarnish of the ages, you’ll find the pattern of the cup is quite beautiful.”
I was suddenly very tired. I drew the cup against my heart. “I was dreaming of my mother and father. Of my home.”
Jesus bent down until his eyes looked deeply into my eyes. “They are well, Nehemiah. You will see them when the time is right.”
I inhaled and exhaled deeply as the grief of months vanished with his assurance. Peace flooded my heart. I had no doubt then that I’d see them again . . . somehow, somewhere. If Jesus could heal the suffering Tobit and the blind Peniel and bring the dead Lazarus back to life, surely he could accomplish the goal of reuniting me with my parents. My memory of the throat-slashing motion of Zimri that had announced to me their death now faded in the light of the clear truth in Jesus’ simple words. “Thank you, Lord.”
“Now, go to sleep. And tell no one about our conversation. Tomorrow you will join the boys who follow our camp.”
“How will I know when to give you the cup?”
“You’ll know. Very soon.”
He kissed my brow, and I returned to the warmth of my fleece bedroll. My head barely touched the pillow, and I was fast asleep.
Chapter 27
Morning came late and gloomy. A bank of dark thunderheads, low on the eastern horizon, blocked the sunrise.
I opened my eyes as someone quietly recited morning prayers inside the tent. I recognized my mother’s weaving in the prayer shawl wrapped around the man, but the voice was not familiar to me.
“Blessed is he who spoke and the universe came into being. Blessed is he who keeps the whole world going.”
Was I home in the shepherd camp of Amadiya? On the road? In Joppa? Jerusalem?
I sat up slowly, and my hand fell upon the cup. I remembered then. The inn. Jesus. Lazarus. Peter. Peniel, the cheerful scribe.
“Blessed is he who does what he says. Blessed is he who decrees and finishes.” It was not my father but Joseph of Arimathea who recited the blessing upon the day. “Blessed is he who has mercy upon the earth. Blessed is he who has mercy upon creation. Blessed is he who gives a good reward to those who fear him.”
My conversation with Jesus on the rooftop last night returned to my memory in a flash, as a dream returns to mind when one is fully awake. I stared at the cup and wondered if I had truly met Jesus here, or if the meeting was only a dream.
“Blessed is he who lives and endures forever. Blessed is he who rescues and redeems us. Blessed is his name!”
Rubbing my eyes, I stared at Joseph. He was a good man, searching for the truth like everyone else.
“Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the universe and our merciful heavenly Father, who is praised by your people and glorified by the tongues of your pious servants. We praise you through the songs of David, your servant, O Lord our God, with praises and songs. We glorify you and declare your Name a
nd your rule, O God; your great Name glorified forever and ever. Blessed are you, Lord, the King who is to be praised.”
I offered my small “Amen” at the end of my benefactor’s prayers.
“Shalom, Nehemiah.” Joseph removed his prayer shawl.
“Good morning.” I stood and yawned. I smelled baking bread, and my stomach growled.
“You’re hungry.” Joseph folded the prayer shawl I had watched my mother fashion so very long ago. “Throw on your cloak. Let’s go.”
I washed, dressed, and laced my sandals, then followed Joseph down the steep outside steps. As my foot touched the pavement, I heard the loud bang of the barn door and the angry shouts of a dozen boys. A brawl tumbled out of the stable into the courtyard. Like a pack of puppies, the tribe seemed divided into two factions.
Two boys about my age grappled and fell, then rolled on the ground. Punches punctuated the cheers and jeers.
“Get him, Avel!”
“Slaughter him, Davin!”
“Don’t let him get away with that!”
“Shut his lying mouth!”
“In the gut. Hit him in the belly!”
“That’s it. That’s it!”
Pious heads popped out of windows to observe. Pharisees, prayer shawls billowing like the wings of gulls, swooped into the melee.
Then I spotted Jesus, framed in a doorway. He observed the battle for only an instant, then waded into it. Grasping both combatants by the backs of their tunics, he separated them. Still they swung. Jesus held them out of reach of one another as they flailed, then finally gave up. They scowled at one another across the gulf of his arm’s reach.
The crowd grew thick—Pharisees, servants of Pharisees, and the men and women of Jesus’ band. They looked on in silence.
“Avel.” Jesus looked at the bloody face of the fair-haired boy in his right hand. “What’s this?”
Avel wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. “This . . . this cur—”
Jesus shook Avel a little. Avel fell silent. Jesus addressed the boy in his left hand. “All right, then. What’s your name?”