“Son of . . .”
“David!”
“Hosanna to the King!”
“Hosanna in the highest!”
Now the human flood was a river rushing on the road to meet the King. Had it been like this when King David had danced for joy before the holy ark as it entered Jerusalem? I wondered. Rabbi Kagba had taught me that when the ark containing the Torah, the very Word of Almighty God, arrived in Jerusalem, there was a mighty celebration.
Had it been like this on that occasion? Or was this greater still?
Palm branches stripped from trees were raised to welcome the Son of David.
All the poor of Jerusalem had light on their faces that day. It was well past sunrise, but it seemed that, all around me, every countenance shone with the blaze of dawn.
Here and there a Levite priest scowled or a scribe ducked into a doorway and slammed it forcefully to show his disapproval.
But not the people of the Land.
“He is . . .”
“ . . . on the Mount of Olives!”
The faces of Pharisees displayed shocked anger and, I thought, fear of what was coming.
Who could resist such a force as Jesus?
We were carried down the road in the flood.
Just outside the eastern wall two tides met—heaping torrents of cheering, shouting people. The noise and the spectacle rivaled any ocean breakers I had seen at Joppa’s shore. We who flowed out of the Holy City crashed into the current arriving from the Bethany road.
Red and Jesse snapped up palm fronds and waved them furiously. Red handed me one, and I shook it as if to make it seen back in Amadiya. “Look! There!”
“The Lord our Banner!” men shouted.
Down came the shirts and the tunics plucked from the wash lines. They fluttered to the ground with the colors of a thousand autumn leaves. They and a myriad of cloaks were spread on the ground before Jesus as the little donkey climbed the road to the Eastern Gate.
“Look! He comes!”
“Hosanna in the highest!”
“Hosanna to Jesus our King!”
As they came closer, we five scrambled up the embankment onto a boulder. From this vantage point I recognized Lazarus and the twelve disciples. Their faces beamed with pride and delight. And behind them was the old shepherd, Zadok, with Peniel, Avel, Emet, and Ha-or Tov! Jesus’ mother was surrounded by women who sang the song of David:
“Give praise to the LORD, proclaim his name;
make known among the nations what he has done.
Sing to him, sing praise to him; tell of all his wonderful acts.”1
I waved my palm branch and shouted and laughed as he approached.
“Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”
The silver chalice left beneath my pillow came to mind as the crush of humanity parted for him. I could not turn back to fetch it! Oh, why had I not carried it with me as I had done every other day?
“I know those boys in the procession,” I shouted to the Sparrows over the tumult. “Look there—it’s Peniel! And Emet, with the little bird riding on his shoulder. And that one there is Avel . . . and Ha-or Tov, with the red hair! Their father is old Zadok!”
“Praise to the Lord!”
The song of the women was joined by the multitude. I roared the lyrics off-key, but it didn’t matter. Every phrase was broken by gales of laughter as we sang.
“He remembers his covenant forever,
the promise he made, for a thousand generations,
the covenant he made with Abraham,
the oath he swore to Isaac.
He confirmed it to Jacob as a decree,
to Israel as an everlasting covenant.”2
As the procession neared us, Jesus spotted me on the rock. He locked me in his gaze for a long moment. His eyes were filled with sadness.
How could he be sad at such a moment? The sight shook something deep within me. Was it because I had not brought Joseph’s chalice to him?
I cupped my hands around my mouth and called, “I have your Kiddush cup, Lord! Don’t worry. It’s ready for you, all polished up! I’ll bring it!”
I thought Jesus heard me. Was that a nod of acceptance? He turned his face to the walls and yawning gate. Then the moment was past.
The crowd closed on the road behind him, and Red jumped from the boulder.
Timothy studied me with new respect. “Hey, Nehemiah, I think he was looking at you. I mean, he seemed like he was staring right at you.”
My smile faded at the haunting impression of sorrow. I answered quietly, “Yes. I think so too.”
“Hurry up! Come on, boys. He’s going into the city!” The flood of humanity swept toward the gates.
I locked arms with the Sparrows. We shouldered our palm branches like soldiers marching to war and followed the triumphal procession through the Eastern Gate and into Jerusalem.
“Who is he?” someone asked.
“It’s Jesus, the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee,” came the reply.
A litany of miracles followed.
“He fed five thousand with a few loaves of bread!”
“Free bread?”
“I was there in the field! Best bread I ever tasted.”
“It was like Moses and the manna!”
“He turned water into wine at a wedding in Cana. Such wine—like nothing you ever drank!”
“We’ll never be hungry or thirsty again with such a man as our King.”
“I was deaf, but now I can hear!”
“I was blind, but Jesus gave me sight!”
“He brought a dead girl back to life in Capernaum. I know her mother, and the story’s true!”
“Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“And surely you’ve heard of Lazarus?”
“He healed a paralyzed man who begged beside the well of my city for years.”
“I’ve seen it. Lepers . . . completely restored!”
“I was lame and now . . . look. I can walk!”
The question on the mind of every man, woman, and child in the crowd that day was, “What can Jesus do for me?”
We clung to one another and fought to remain standing in the irresistible surge of seekers. I wondered how I could bring the chalice to Jesus with such a multitude surrounding him. Then my longing turned to my mother. If Jesus had opened the ears of the deaf and given sight to the blind, surely he could heal my mother’s lameness.
We burst through the city gates and someone shouted, “This way! The prophet Jesus has entered the Temple!”
“Come on!”
“Let’s see what miracle he’ll do now!”
There was no chance for me to turn to the right or the left. No way I could go home and fetch the chalice or give my mother and father the news that the great Healer was at hand. My friends and I were caught up, swept toward the Temple Mount in a relentless, dangerous current.
Lining the streets were Roman soldiers and Herodian guards. Their swords were drawn and ready as a warning that no rebellion would be tolerated. Faces were grim, mouths tight, and eyes fierce as they observed us. I thought, They must also be fearful of what might happen. If Jesus could feed his army with only a handful of bread, and heal their wounds, and even raise the dead, what chance did the armies of Rome have to oppose him?
A young man spit and taunted a Roman officer at the turning in the street. “Go back to your barracks and lock the door. Now you’re going to see something!”
The soldier raised his short sword and growled, “I’ll show you something, Jew!”
“Kill us, and he’ll raise us up alive again. You can’t fight that!”
The soldier’s lips pressed tightly as he appeared to consider the miracles Jesus had performed over the last three years.
I saw terror in the eyes of our oppressors as we swept past them. We were two hundred thousand strong that day, and the soldiers were only a few thousand. And no matter how many of us or how few of them, I was convinced Jesus by his power alo
ne could defeat every enemy!
I felt my wooden sword press against my leg. The inscription declared COURAGE. How brave I felt that day. The swords of mighty conquerors were nothing compared to the power of Jesus and the fierce love of the common folk who roared for him to be their king!
Red raised his fist and, in the fierce, breaking voice of a boy, proclaimed the thoughts of every Jewish man in the mob. “Hey, you Roman swine! If you kill us, Jesus will bring us back to life. He will feed us and clothe us, and we will fight you again until you’re all killed!”
We were still together when we reached the Temple Mount. Flocks of priests and Pharisees with scowling faces and crossed arms stood back indignantly as the throng swarmed into the courtyard crammed with booths of merchants and moneychangers.
The roaring of the human horde grew suddenly quiet. Instantly the pushing and shoving became still.
“There he is!”
“Look! It’s him! Jesus!”
“He’s talking to the overseer of the merchants!”
“What’s he saying?”
“His face! Look how angry!”
“He’s angry! Look at Jesus!”
I saw at once that something was wrong. A hush of expectance fell over us. Timothy and Red climbed onto the base of a column, then helped me and Jesse and Obed up.
A semicircle of Pharisees confronted Jesus. His disciples glared back at the Temple authorities. The moneychangers who converted secular currency into Temple shekels cursed and shouted at Jesus, “Who do you think you are?”
“What right do you have to tell us . . .”
“This is the way we’ve always done it!”
Those packed around me buzzed, “Those crooks! Jesus must have told them to get honest scales for a change!”
“What’s Jesus saying?”
“What’s going on?”
“Quiet!”
“Everybody shut up!”
“I can’t hear what he’s saying!”
Clinging to the pillar, we boys heard every angry word. And then, suddenly, Jesus picked up a moneychanger’s table. He held it over his head and sent it crashing to the pavement. Coins flew everywhere!
Jesus roared in a voice that resounded in all the Temple courts, “It is written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer,’ but you have made it a ‘den of thieves’!”3
People cheered as Jesus ripped into the merchants, overturning their tables, opening the cages of the doves, and driving the crooks out.
I laughed and drew my wooden sword. “Courage! Look—he’s wrecking the place. Look what Jesus is doing!”
A cloud of doves rose up. The air was filled with the flutter of their wings. Once again the vision of the birds rising from the mulberry tree came to my mind. The flock was free! Jesus had told me I would know when he was coming!
Well, he had arrived. The smashing and crashing of stalls and benches flying through the air was a certain sign of his zeal. Like a prophet of old, he was cleaning the scum from the pure waters of righteousness!
The mob surged forward, scrambling for loose coins. Startled guards, terrified that this was the beginning of a dreaded riot, retreated with the moneychangers.
“Come on!” Timothy leapt from the column.
Red shouted, “Let’s go, boys . . . come on! Let’s get something!”
I hesitated for a moment, then thought of my mother. I remembered the cup beneath my pillow. “I’ve got to go back, boys . . . to get my mother!”
I did not know if they heard me. They vanished into the crowd. I scanned the crush for a way out. As everyone moved forward, I jumped into a clear space, clambered onto a portico, and began to run the opposite direction.
Jesus was taking possession of the Temple Mount. I imagined Romans locking the gates and shutting everyone in . . . or out. I had to find a way to bring my mother to Jesus so she could join the multitude of those who would be healed!
I sprinted toward a broad gate that led to the causeway and the ritual baths. Traffic through that gate was thin, and I had a chance to escape.
Behind me the chanting of the people increased:
“Hosanna to the King!”
“Hail Jesus, Messiah!”
“Hosanna to the Son of David!”
When I emerged into the city, the flight of doves circled above my head. I laughed out loud and sprinted for home.
Chapter 32
At my back, the voices of thousands acclaimed the arrival of Messiah. The Temple courts resounded like a giant coliseum filled with spectators, and still more pilgrims came.
I ran down the sloping street, pushing through the human tide that flowed inexorably up to enter the gates in hopes of seeing Jesus. Stretcher bearers carried the sick and the lame through the crush.
Panic seized me. What if my mother could not reach Jesus? Suppose I came too late and the way into the Temple was blocked? And what if the crowd gathered around him was too large for us to make it through?
Breathless, I came to the turning leading to the narrow Street of Weavers. The lane ahead was deserted.
“Mama!” I shouted. “Papa! Rabbi Kagba! Come—come quickly!”
Tools lay scattered in front of the new shop where the workers had dropped them. The door of the rented house was wide open.
“Papa, where are you? We must take Mama to the Temple! Jesus—it’s him! He’s here!” I flung myself into the house and stood panting as I scanned the empty room. “Mama!”
I dashed up the stairs, knowing they had gone without me. Had I passed them in the crowds as I had hurried down to fetch them?
Disappointment turned to hope. What if they were already there? I stood at the top of the stairs for a long moment, then scrambled back to the ground floor and out onto the street.
All was silent except for a single blind boy, about my age, tapping the paving stones with his stick. He groped vacant air. His path was like a jagged crack in a clay cup—going nowhere. “Who’s there?” the blind boy called. “Is someone there?”
I was still and silent, not wanting to be asked for help. I had to get away. Had to get back.
“I know you’re there. I hear your breathing. Please, answer me.”
I replied with an inward groan, “I’m Nehemiah. I’ve come back to find my mother. And my father and the rabbi too. To take them to Jesus, the Messiah, so my mother’s lameness will be healed.”
The boy cried, “Yes, the Healer! Oh, please, please, boy! They’ve all gone. Everyone gone but me. I can’t find my way. They all ran past me, and now I’m lost. Please, take me to him!”
Impatience and panic gripped me. “Where do you live? Where is your family?” I stared up toward the Temple walls. A squad of soldiers tramped by at the head of the street.
“I live with the Sparrows in the cavern. I can’t carry a torch, but they let me stay because my brother is there. They’ve gone, and I am lost. Please, Nehemiah, have pity on a poor, blind beggar. Lead me to Jesus, that I may be healed. Oh! What it will mean to me to see the color of the sky!” He leaned heavily against his stick. His free arm was stretched out as far as he could reach, the hand palm up like a beggar. His feet were pointed in the wrong direction. “If you don’t lead me to Jesus, I’ll never be healed. I have heard of him all these months. Though I have tried to find him, I always arrive too late. If you don’t help me, guide me, I will be lost in darkness forever!”
I shook myself awake. I wondered if a blind boy could run. “Yes. Yes. Of course, I will. My family has already gone.” I gazed at the boy’s blue marbled eyes. “What is your name?”
“Hallelujah is my name.”
From the Temple Mount I heard the crowds cheering for Jesus: “Hallelujah!”
“It’s a good name! A great name for this day.” Grasping his hand, I placed it on my shoulder. “Come on then, Hallelujah. We’ll be the very last to enter the gates, I’m sure. Everyone is already there. I pray the gates are still open. I bet my mother is with Jesus even now. Even now he is healing t
he blind and the lame. She is among those who will dance today! And you will be among those who see.”
And so, the blind Hallelujah gripping my shoulder, I turned back, forgetting to bring the chalice. Our progress was slow as every uneven flagstone caught the toe of the blind boy’s sandal. We picked our way carefully up the steep street, coming at last to the broad steps.
He tested the ground with his stick, tapping, tapping as we walked.
I wanted to cry, “Hurry,” but instead made myself speak his name in encouragement again and again:
“Hallelujah! Jesus is in Jerusalem!
“Hallelujah, Jesus will see you. And you will see his face today!
“Hallelujah, don’t be afraid.
“Hallelujah! Jesus will heal you if only you have faith in him.
“Hallelujah! We will not be too late.”
At last we came to the entrance of the Temple. The crowd seemed impenetrable. Ahead of us, as Jesus healed someone, we heard the repeated shouts of “Hallelujah! Blessed is the Son of David!”
A multitude blocked our way in through the gate. “Come on,” I urged. “Hold tight. Hallelujah! We’ll hug the wall and inch our way through the gate.”
Slowly, our faces against the rough stone, we slid past the mob and emerged in the sunlight of the outer court.
Another loud shout of acclamation swept over us, echoing against the walls and pillars. I aimed for a column, thinking I could climb up and have a look. Using the boy’s stick, I pried a path through the pilgrims and came to the base of a pillar at last.
“Here—put your hands on the column. Don’t let go. I’ll climb up and have a look.” His unseeing eyes gazed upward as I clambered onto the base and searched the human sea.
“Hallelujah! There he is!” I cried. Jesus, wearing the prayer shawl my mother had made, sat at the top of the steps of the treasury where the offerings for the poor were given. He was surrounded by perhaps two hundred sick and lame and blind, who all waited their turn to be touched and healed. I spotted my mother in the very front of the supplicants. A circle of hundreds of observers fanned out, filling every space in the court.
Jesus placed his hands over the ears of a deaf-mute girl and, raising his eyes to heaven, proclaimed that her ears be opened and her tongue loosed.