When Jesus Wept - By Bodie Page 0,3
sir. They struggle for water every season. Set their roots deep in search of every drop. Pull flavor from the limestone and thin soil. And their clusters are filled with passion for life.”
I agreed. “This south field will make our finest wine this year.”
“Every year, sir. I do admire the heart in these vines.” He held a deep purple grape up to the light. “Not like their brother vines, who have an easy existence growing on the opposite side of this same hill. Not so much flavor in the fruit. Grown from the same cuttings. Planted the same year. But an abundance of water and less harsh growing conditions in the northwest field has made the grapes … hmmm. If I may say, sir … the vines on the north produce more fruit but with much less character.”
I held another grape to my lips and sucked the juice. “I once heard my father say he would pull out these vines and plant something else.”
“Your father was a fig grower at heart. Not a winemaker, begging your pardon,” Samson suggested.
“You talked him out of that, if I recall.”
“I had to prove him wrong, sir, if I may say so.”
“And so you have done.”
Samson glanced toward the fading pastels as the sun rose above the horizon. “Vineyards. The only crop I know where a hardship in the maturing makes the end result exquisite.” He turned his face toward me. Behind his drooping eyelids I saw that he understood my hardship.
“What about a righteous man like my grandfather?” I challenged. “When Herod the Great took his vineyards?”
The old man leapt upon his donkey, then hesitated, considering his response. “There are hardships, some injustices, which only God can address. I am not a scholar of Torah as you are, sir, but I know the Scriptures pertaining to vineyards. If I may say, the case of what happened to your grandfather and the ancient vineyards of your family—is this not what the evil king Ahab did in stealing the vineyards of Naboth? In the time of the prophet Elijah, when Elijah preached against Ahab and Jezebel. And she had Naboth slandered and murdered in order to steal his vineyard.”
“I remember well the story. And its conclusion. Such an act brought God’s judgment on Ahab and his queen.”
Samson waited for me to ride on. “Do you recall all of it, sir?”
I recounted the tale. “Ahab and Jezebel killed Naboth, the good vintner, and ripped out the ancient vines in order to plant a vegetable garden.”
“And for murder and the theft and destruction of the vines, God’s justice was fierce against those two.”
“No bringing back the life of Naboth. Or replanting the vineyard.”
“Heaven, they say, is a very big place with many beautiful vineyards. The Lord once showed my heart that Naboth lives. Naboth is in heaven … alive and happy now. Naboth and his family tend ancient vines for the Ancient of Days. That heavenly vineyard produces wine we only dream of. But we who follow the words of the Lord will one day taste the heavenly wine.”
“Omaine. And I will look forward to that day.” I agreed with my lips, but my heart questioned that evil men like Herod could rip out my ancestors’ vines.
We rode west toward the village of Bethphage, the House of Unripe Figs, which stood between Bethany and Jerusalem. As we approached the western boundary of my property, I saw a familiar hill. The beautiful vineyard and fig orchard before us had once belonged to my mother’s father. Through injustice and treachery, it had been confiscated by old Herod the Butcher King forty years earlier and was now part of the royal estate of Herod Antipas. I knew what had provoked Samson to discuss ancient history, modern politics, and divine justice.
“Bikri,” I murmured. The vision of my grandfather’s betrayer, now a wizened, pitiful old cripple, rose in my mind.
“Bikri, indeed, if I may say so, sir. Falsely denouncing your grandfather, of blessed memory. Never was a finer man, nor a kinder, nor a more generous, than your mother’s father, whose name you bear.” Samson spat noisily and messily before wiping his chin on his sleeve. “Thrown in prison by old Herod on the word of a scoundrel like Bikri.”
“They say Bikri was afraid for his own life.”
Samson bristled. “Even so! He was supposed to be your grandfather’s friend! And it wasn’t just fear. It was greed! Now Herod Antipas holds title to what should have come to you.”
“Never mind,” I urged,