When Jesus Wept - By Bodie Page 0,4
despite dark thoughts of my own.
Evil, it seemed, was never completely vanquished. The demons merely disappeared for a time and then claimed another host willing to do their bidding. Just as King Ahab of old had located false witnesses against Naboth, Herod had carried out a similar plot against my grandfather, except that my grandfather died in prison before his trial.
Shaking off the grim recollections, I added, “People say old Herod went through many horrors before he died. And we all know what became of Bikri. Father took me to gaze down on Bikri twice a year as I was growing up. Passover and the Day of Atonement. We always stood on the parapet above the portico where Bikri lays. Father said to me, ‘Remember, son. Bikri is an example of God’s justice.’ I go there still when I am tempted to doubt God is a just and righteous judge.”
“Struck down in his prime before he spent half of the bribe money he received and now lives as a friendless cripple most of forty years,” Samson agreed. “God is just … at least in the case of Bikri. Still, I miss your grandfather. No bringing him back. And what he missed. The joy of watching his grandchildren grow up. I’m of an age now, dreams of grandchildren for me and Delilah. That’s my goal.” He patted the donkey and mused awhile as we rode. “It was wrong to steal his vineyard, wasn’t it, sir?”
We passed the time in silence, each of us trying to reconcile what we believed of a just and merciful God with the injustice and evil all around us. I saw Samson give me several sideways glances, as if regretting bringing up painful memories.
Finally, deciding to change the subject, Samson passed the remainder of his grapes to me. “Sir, have you considered what you will name this year’s vintage? In light of all that these vines have struggled with? All the hardship they have so faithfully endured to present you with such a gift as this harvest will bring?”
Until that moment, I had not considered what I would have stamped on the clay amphora that would hold this wine. “I will name it Eliza. There will never be another like her.”
“Excellent choice, sir. Most appropriate. This will be the finest wine ever made in the winery of the House of David ben Lazarus.”
As the grapes ripened and neared harvest, John the Baptizer preached about a spiritual harvest. He became more strident in his message. He called Herod and his wife adulterers and compared them rightly to Jezebel and King Ahab. As for the politically appointed religious leaders, the Baptizer told them to their faces that they were vipers and false shepherds who had betrayed God and his beloved people. Just like the prophet Elijah, John made enemies of many dangerous men that summer.
Judah again came to supper. John the Baptizer was on his mind.
Judah washed his broad hands and patted his muscled stomach. “I am full and happy,” he said to Martha. Then he turned to me. “So. When will you be ready to journey to the Jordan to see this prophet for yourself? Can we leave tomorrow, David?”
I trusted my sister and my steward with managing the vineyards and the fields in my absence. Martha was a woman of strength and good sense.
“All right, then. I am curious about this prophet … curious, if nothing else. A few days’ journey. Always best to see for myself.”
“It’s settled, then,” Judah concluded, acting as if I could not see the wink he gave my sister, acknowledging the success of their plot. “I’ll bring the horses round in the morning.”
Chapter 3
Martha prepared provisions enough for Judah and me to travel for five days. Dried figs and apricots, flat bread, and goat cheese were packed into a rucksack. I carried a wineskin so we could add wine to improve the water we found along the way.
As if afraid I might still back out of the pilgrimage, Judah rode up to my gates just after dawn. Seated on his splendid bay, he was leading a gentle, white mare for me.
I could not manage more than a perfunctory nod in reply to Martha’s cheerful “Shalom!” as we set out to join the stream of pilgrims moving eastward.
I turned my head slightly as we rode toward the narrow path that led to the garden and Eliza’s tomb. A pang of longing surged through me, but I set my face forward and squared my