When Jesus Wept - By Bodie Page 0,70

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