“Lord! Save us!”
Jesus approached the vessel at the bow. I reached out my hands and helped him into the boat. He sat down calmly between me and Matthew. The sea grew still as we blinked at him in astonishment. We were afraid to speak. Peter and the others silently set to the oars again.
Within moments we came to shore. The wind had fallen away. The moon reflected on the silver surface of the sea.
I remember someone drawing the boat onto the sand. Exhausted from terror and exertion, we fell asleep.
Chapter 14
The next morning Jesus was up before us all. A fire was crackling not far from the boat. There was fish, roasting on sticks, and warm bread heaped on a stone as we staggered out of the boat.
Boatloads of people began to arrive from Tiberias and across the Sea of Galilee as word got out that Jesus was on the far shore. Others, by the hundreds, came on foot.
Commoners, paid by Temple officials and assigned the task of spying on Jesus, started to question him.
“Rabbi, there was only one boat on the shore, and you did not leave with your disciples. How did you get here?”
All of us who had been on the boat the night before knew the truth of what had happened. We were witnesses that not even a troubled sea could stop Jesus from traveling with us. But we did not speak. We did not dare ask, “How?”
Nor did Jesus answer their question. “There’s no doubt that you came looking for me, not because you witnessed many signs, but because you ate the bread and were filled. Don’t labor for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to everlasting life. The Son of Man will give this freely to you, because God the Father has set his seal upon him.”
Then they asked, “What shall we do, that we may work the works of God?”
Jesus did not hesitate. “This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he sent.”
There was a stirring of resentment. I felt it, like the first breeze over the water before the great storm last night.
“What sign will you perform?”
“We want to see a sign so we can believe you.”
“What work will you do?”
A Pharisee chimed in: “Our fathers ate the manna in the desert. It’s written, ‘He gave them bread from heaven to eat.’ ”
Jesus fixed his gaze on that man, who should have known the full meaning of the words written in Torah. “I tell you, Moses didn’t give you bread from heaven. But my Father gives you the true bread from heaven. For the bread of God is he who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.”
I knew Jesus was speaking of himself. He was the bread sent down from heaven; Jesus was the bread that gave us life on our journey.
They believed he was speaking of the miracle of multiplying physical bread. “Lord! Give us this bread always!”
Then Jesus stated flatly, “I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never hunger. He who believes in me will never thirst. You’ve seen me … and yet you don’t believe. Everyone the Father gives me will come to me. And the one who comes to me I will never cast out. I’ve come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me. Of everyone the Father has given me, I won’t lose even one. I will raise them up on the last day.”
The questioners began to mutter among themselves, “Who does he think he is? How does he know God’s will?”
“He will raise us up from death on the last day?”
“Who does he think he is?”
Jesus replied, “This is the will of my Father … that everyone who sees me and believes in me may have everlasting life. I will raise him up on the last day.”
The seas of opinion begin to stir. The Pharisees mocked him, and the mocking spread among the crowd.
“Isn’t this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know?”
“He says he is the bread that comes from heaven!”
“Son of Joseph …”
“How can he tell us that he comes down from heaven?”
Jesus let the storm of opposition build and then answered. “No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws him.”
I noticed that Jesus was making a particular point when he said for the third time, “And I will raise him up on the last day.”
I pondered his words. Surely Jesus was speaking of the resurrection of those who had died. Yes, I had witnessed the return to life of Jairus’s daughter, but she had not been dead long. She had not been laid in a tomb to decay. How could Jesus raise to life those who were long dead and decayed?
Jesus continued, “It’s written in the Prophets, ‘And they shall all be taught by God.’ That means that everyone who has heard and learned from the Father comes to me. Only I have seen the Father. This is truth … anyone who believes in me has everlasting life.”
A gasp went up at Jesus’ claim that he had seen the Father. Everyone understood the significance of this claim. God the Father was surrounded by a thick cloud called the Cloud of Unknowing. To enter it meant instant annihilation. Only the Angel of the Lord came and went from that cloud—doing the will of God the Father, speaking only the Word of God the Father. Jesus had just told us all that he was the Angel of the Lord … the visible manifestation of the Almighty. Jesus was the one who dwelt within the Cloud of Unknowing and came out to proclaim the Word of the Almighty. There was no mistaking that Jesus clearly told us that he was the Word, the tangible expression of the Word of God. Jesus was the only knowable form of a God so powerful that none in heaven or earth had ever seen him. I believed the miracles of Jesus bore witness to this. How could mere man do the things Jesus did?
I heard them whisper, “Blasphemy!”
Jesus heard it too, but he did not draw back. Instead, he brought the lesson full circle: “I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they’re long dead … I am the living bread which, like manna, came down from heaven. If anyone eats this bread, he’ll live forever. The bread that I give is my body. I give it for the life of the world.”
The storm of the onlookers increased to violent fury. “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?”
Jesus set the keel of truth deep and sailed on into the storm. “Unless you partake of the body of the Messiah and drink the wine of his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. For my body is bread from heaven and my blood is wine from heaven …”
A shudder and a howling gale increased among his accusers at his words.
He taught us that life-giving manna provided in the wilderness had come directly from God. A heaven-sent meal giving life to those who partook. Now Jesus had also fed miraculous bread to a multitude.
In a glimmer of recognition, I remembered again the wine at the wedding; extraordinary wine created by Jesus. He called himself the “True Vine.” Like the bread, the miraculous wine that had been offered to us had flowed out from heaven through Jesus.
Jesus nodded at me, acknowledging that I was beginning to understand. “He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me and I in him. As the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so he who feeds on me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven—not as your fathers ate manna and are dead. He who eats this bread will live forever.”
Many of his followers deserted him that day. I watched them leave, shaking their heads. I remained with the Twelve and a handful of others.
We walked along the shore of Capernaum. “Does this offend you?” Jesus smiled sadly at our inability to grasp the significance of his teaching. “What if you see me ascend where I was before?” He summed up the lesson. “It’s the Spirit who gives life to the flesh, not the other way around. The words I speak to you are spirit, and they are life. But there are some among you who don’t believe.”
I thought I saw a glance at Judas, who walked to the side, almost by himself. I wondered if Judas would leave Jesus as many others ha
d done.
Jesus asked us, “Do you want to go away too?”
Peter answered for those of us who remained, “Lord, who would we go to? You have the words of eternal life. Also, we’ve come to believe … we know … that you are the Messiah, Son of the Living God.”
Jesus walked on a few steps and remarked quietly, “Didn’t I choose you, the Twelve, and one of you is a devil?”1
I did not know then who he was talking about, but a cold chill passed through my heart. How could any one of us close to Jesus still not believe in him?
The season of Passover was upon us. Jesus told us that he would not be going to Jerusalem. He instructed us to go ahead of him. I left Galilee for home.
Chapter 15
The season from Passover to Pentecost, the giving of the Law on Sinai, extended for forty-nine days, and was called Counting the Omer. Each day as the season progressed, tradition called us to count the passage of days and recite this blessing: “Praised are you, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe who has sanctified us with his commandments, commanding us to count the Omer.”
Jesus returned from Galilee to stay at my house right before Pentecost. It had been about a year since Eliza and the baby had died. The vines were in full leaf and very beautiful, and I missed her more than ever. Perhaps the Lord knew that my grief was almost a sickness.
After supper Jesus said to me, “Come on. Let’s go walk in your vineyard.”
We set out together through the cool, broad leaves on the vines of Faithful Vineyard. The clusters of fruit were just beginning to set.
I was silent, lost in my own thoughts. Eliza had walked with me on this day of the Omer last year.
Jesus looked at the sun about to set in the west. “All your vines are planted running east to west. Tell me why.”
“The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. An arch overhead. As it passes over the vines, the grapes on each side are exposed equally to the sun through the day. Otherwise one side would only receive morning light and the other would be scorched every afternoon.”
Jesus touched a wild leafy tendril that shaded a bunch of berries. “What about this? No fruit on it. And doesn’t it keep sun from the cluster?”
I stepped into my role as vinedresser. It was good to be able to teach Jesus something he was unfamiliar with. “Good observation. You would do well in my vineyard.” I reached out and broke off the leafy branch.
Jesus smiled, “All show without substance, and it blocks the sun from the fruit, eh?”
“That’s it.”
He scanned the cloudless sky. “A long time ‘til rain. You water the vines one at a time?”
“Grapes are the only crop I know that need to be stressed to enhance flavor. I make my vines work a little harder. When I water, I pour the water just beyond the reach of the roots so they stretch and grow and set themselves deep.”
“I thought there would be more fruit on the vines.”
“I’ve thinned some fruit already, you see. Plucked unripe bunches that are set too low and so will never fully ripen. They only hold a promise of a good crop, but in the end they take away from the best. Now the vine is pouring all its lifeblood into the fruit that remains.”
Jesus nodded. “A beautiful vineyard, David ben Lazarus. You tend it with wisdom.”
I blushed at the compliment from one who seemed to possess the purest wisdom. “I see my workmen were too easy on this row. Too many fruitless branches left to grow without purpose.
And to the detriment of good fruit. I’ll send my men through a second time to thin the leaves and cut away the canes to expose the fruit. It will go on all through the summer right up to harvest.”
Jesus brushed his hand over the foliage. It almost seemed the leaves turned toward him as he passed by. I wondered what extraordinary wine would come from this vineyard because Jesus had walked through it.
I thought for an instant I smelled Eliza’s perfume and heard her laughter. Tears sprang to my eyes and trickled down my cheeks.
He asked me, “Lazarus, why do you weep?”
“You know, Lord. My wife. My baby. A year ago. Seems like a day and also like forever.”
“You’ll see her again, my friend. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, Lord. On the last day, when all are resurrected. But for now, I feel like this leafy branch … cut off. Not much good to anyone. Not even to myself. I don’t know why God took her. And our son. I prayed and worshiped, and I offered every sacrifice according to the laws of Moses. But even righteousness could not save the ones I love.”
“You question God’s will?”
I wiped away my tears. “She’s gone. Plainly I can’t question that it is God’s will to take her. But I question why it should be God’s will? Why take from me the thing I hold most dearly in all the world?”
I studied his profile as we walked. Eyes forward, he seemed to see something far away at the end of the row. He asked, “What’s your answer?”
“I don’t have one. I was hoping you would have an answer.”
“When a good man suffers … perhaps it makes his roots reach deeper for the water?”
“I see that. Yes. The metaphor is perfect. The vine is stressed, and the berries grow with more character. But even so, Jesus, I am so alone. I am pruned down to the trunk and … without my love … without my friend. Why? What did I do wrong?”
“Through no fault of your own,” Jesus concluded.
“Not my fault? Then why has this calamity come upon me? I have been searching for the answer for a year. My sin? What is it?”
“Suffering comes to all men on the earth. It is a fact … from man’s rebellion and separation from the Lord in the Garden. It is written that one day you will see Messiah wipe away every tear—no more suffering and no more death. Meanwhile those who love God are not exempt from pain. But for the righteous man to suffer? Think of it! Only the wise vinedresser knows what will make the best wine. The vine is stressed—it reaches deep for the water, the shoots are pruned, the clusters are thinned, and in the end the fruit is richer and the wine is full of character and grace. Though the growing may be difficult, God will be glorified at the end of every righteous man’s story.”
I nodded, but the floodgates of my heart were open now and I could not be silent. “There is a young man, a beggar at the Nicanor Gate of the Temple. He’s been blind from birth. I heard some of my friends—religious scholars, not farmers like me—they discussed who had sinned to make this boy blind from his birth. They discussed this in his hearing as though blindness also made him deaf. It troubles me, this cheerful boy with his smiling face and his begging bowl. Jesus! I pray you answer my question! What purpose is served in their mocking and his suffering?”
Jesus smiled. “Shabbat shalom, my dear friend. Come with me to the Temple tomorrow.”
The Mount of Olives was packed with family groups gathered outside the walls of Jerusalem. The road leading past the Pool of Bethesda was jammed with worshipers going up to the Temple. They would celebrate Sabbath worship before returning to their camps to spend the night studying Torah, as was traditional.
The travelers coalesced around Jesus when he was recognized in the throng. “It’s him, I tell you,” I heard all around. “The rabbi from Nazareth. Let’s follow him.”
As the multitude pressed in, I was glad I had already mentioned Peniel to Jesus. It was getting harder to move with every step.
There were several locations on the Temple Mount where rabbis and other scholars assembled to instruct their disciples. A columned arcade called Solomon’s Portico was one such location. The Temple courts, which contained chambers for wood and spices, and containers to receive offerings, was another.
The building housing the Temple treasury was in the northeast corner of the Court of Women. It was on the top step of the entry to this structure that Jesus sat down to teach. Like waves spreading out from a rock dropped into a pond, concentric rings of onlookers knelt to hear him. The most eager shushed those
behind and urged the slower ones in front to sit down so all could see.
“I’ll be right back,” I called as I parted from Jesus.
The blind beggar, Peniel, could always be found on the steps of Nicanor Gate, at the far western end of the same court. Like a lone fish swimming upstream in the face of the living torrent of those moving toward Jesus, I fought my way through the crowd.
I knew it was a Sabbath. I did not think Jesus would want to incur the wrath of the religious authorities by healing on a Sabbath. I just wanted the two to meet. I was certain Jesus would do what was right for the young man.
I could not see through the press of the worshipers, tripled in number as it was on this, the eve of Pentecost.
Behind me I heard Jesus raise his voice and begin to speak: “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth and the truth will make you free.”
At last I reached the shaded niche where Peniel most often sat. The man in the alcove was an older beggar missing his right leg and waving a crutch at the passersby. “Where’s Peniel?” I demanded.
“Who?” he returned.
“Peniel, the blind lad who usually waits in this spot.”
“I don’t know him,” was the reply. “I just got here from Joppa. And a long, weary journey it was too, kind sir, on just one leg and a tree branch. Since it’s the Sabbath, I cannot beg, but if you are moved to help, sir?” The cripple thrust out a wrinkled palm.
“You have not seen a young man, perhaps seventeen or eighteen … blind, as I say … anywhere about this morning?”
The cripple reflected. “The last blind beggar I saw was outside the Golden Gate.”
“Oh, yes,” I returned, feeling relief. “How long ago?”
“An hour. But sir, that man was older than me and could not be the one you seek.” Again the hand flipped over and back, calling attention to the empty, outstretched palm.
I was disappointed and confused. I had felt so strongly that I was being urged by almighty God to bring Peniel and Jesus together. Had I been wrong, or was this a test of the persistence of my belief?