When Jesus Wept - By Bodie Page 0,80
the “destitute and dying” very grim indeed.
I told him the help was very welcome. “And, thanks be to the Almighty, the danger is past. The boys are all on the mend, getting better every day.”
Ra’nabel then informed me that our presence at the hospital was no longer required. “Lord Caiaphas thanks the House of Lazarus for its good service as you return to Bethany.”
“Return to … you’re ordering us out?”
“Lord Caiaphas, mindful of his responsibility to the poor of Jerusalem, wants to take personal charge of seeing that the contagion does not spread. We will take over now.”
In my foggy mental state it took a moment for me to comprehend these actions, and then it came to me. Word had reached the high priest, probably through one of the crones, that the Sparrows were improving as we worked and prayed in the name of Jesus of Nazareth.
If the boys had died, then Jesus could have been blamed, but he could not receive credit if they were made whole. The high priest had waited until a successful outcome was assured before seizing the credit for himself.
I started to reply to this takeover, suffered a sudden bout of coughing, and finally acquiesced.
When Mary protested, Ra’nabel’s features lost their ingratiating aura. “You would do well to keep silent! We know the man from Nazareth is a sorcerer. It has come to the attention of Lord Caiaphas that incantations have been performed using the blasphemer’s name. You are hereby ordered to gather your belongings and be out of here by tomorrow or be arrested for witchcraft.”
With a hand trembling with both illness and emotion, I penned the news in a note to my sister Martha. I also asked that she prepare the disused building behind the barn for me to occupy.
Mary, reading my words, protested. “Brother, you’re not well. When you get home you need your own bed.”
“No,” I countered. “I cannot be where I’m a danger to the others. I’ll be fine in the old cottage. But only you and Peniel can come see about me. Please make it clear to Martha that I love her, and there is no way I will expose her to this disease.”
Our departure from my boys was tearful. Laying hands on each child, we prayed in Jesus’ name for their continued strength and full recovery. “Remember what we say: there is true power in Jesus of Nazareth. Not another one of you has been lost. Who has ever heard of such a thing?”
Mary kissed each boy’s forehead … then we were gone.
By the time we reached my front gate, my head was throbbing. I could not open my eyes wider than a squint because the Judean sun was unbearable. My throat felt parched, yet when I tried even a mouthful of water I could not swallow without a great effort to overcome the pain.
Because I did not want to alarm Martha, I said nothing about any of my symptoms. A few days of rest and good food, I reasoned, and I would be on the mend. In my deepest heart I knew this was self-deception at best. I was afraid to admit the extent of my illness for fear Martha would insist on summoning Jesus to help me.
The thought of being the cause of his arrest … or worse … was something I could not permit.
I pretended to scratch my beard, complaining that Mary and Tavita had made the Sparrows more presentable than I was. In reality I fingered the line of my jaw, the glands underneath alarmingly swollen and hot to the touch.
Martha met us and would have swept me up in an embrace, but I fended her off abruptly. “Need rest and quiet,” I said brusquely. When I saw how my tone had hurt her, I added, “A few days … right as rain.” It was becoming harder and harder to speak at all. With every word either my throat seized up or I coughed, so all my phrases came between short pauses. “Fix your famous … lamb and rice. See how … fast I get … strength back. But not today,” I added. “Soup, today, please. Only Mary and Tavita should … come near me, Martha. They … had this illness … got well, but you … never had it.”
“Neither have you,” Martha murmured, alarm barely hidden behind a carefully neutral visage.
That night Martha prepared a savory broth. The steaming tureen of chicken soup filled the freshly scrubbed cottage with the aromas of cardamom