When Jesus Wept - By Bodie Page 0,92

it look like the act of a thief or a Zealot. Or they might bribe one of your guards to kill you himself.” Nicodemus shuddered.

Bowing my head in thought, I said, “We need to know what’s going on inside the Council. Who can we trust to bring the news?”

“Already allowed for. Our friend Peniel can easily travel among the beggars of Jerusalem. He can go and come without exciting notice.”

“Isn’t he also a target?”

“Not anymore. Not since you have given them a much bigger, more important one.” He stood and replaced the hood, then grasped my hand. “You must believe me.”

Solemnly I promised, “I’ll pray it through tonight and send you word tomorrow. Thank you, my friend. You are also taking a risk by coming here.”

Chapter 32

It was the dawn of a gorgeous, late winter day. A bright yellow sun rose over Bethany on the morning after Nicodemus’s visit. The air was scented with the promise of spring. Passover was not far off, when a million pilgrims would converge on the Holy City.

The vines of Faithful Vineyard were budding. There was some small threat that a late season frost would damage the new growth, but I did not expect it.

In fact, the morning was so perfect I had difficulty taking Nicodemus’s warning seriously. Surely he was exaggerating the danger. Lord Caiaphas and his minions postured and threatened, and they were bullies and cowards, but would they attempt assassination? Looking at the orange, red, and yellow poppies springing up between the vine rows, and at the pastel-blue-tinted sky, I could not believe it possible.

The contrast between night and day left me torn in my spirit over what I should do.

Before the nocturnal visit from the good Pharisee I had planned to visit the Temple this morning. I had the tithe from a recent sale of wine, and I was eager to offer it to God.

Grabbing a hasty breakfast, I almost managed to get away from my home unchallenged, but not quite. “Brother,” Martha said, catching me by the sleeve, “Porter says Master Nicodemus was here late last night. Is that true?”

“Yes, very late,” I admitted.

“And he was in disguise?”

“Not exactly a disguise,” I argued. “You know how the curious want to question me and everyone who knows me. He just wanted to avoid any delay.”

Despite my attempt to make light of the circumstances of Nicodemus’s visit, my sister was not convinced. “But what did he want that made him come so late? Why couldn’t it wait until today?”

“He is concerned about Jesus’ safety,” I confessed. “He heard of a plot and thinks Jesus should avoid Jerusalem for a time.”

I was never able to hide anything from my sister. “And the plot names you as well, doesn’t it? He could have gone straight to Jesus’ encampment in the fig grove, but he came to you.”

“You’re right,” I admitted, then hurriedly added, “but I’m sure he’s wrong.”

“Brother,” Martha said sternly, with the voice of sisterly authority I had disliked for decades, “he’s right. You have no idea how much darkness hates the light and will do anything to quench it. You and Jesus must both leave today. At once!”

Gently chiding her, I said, “Martha, I am going to the Temple. I will pray and reflect on what you say, but look … ” Spreading my hands wide, I motioned toward the breathtaking view of the mist hanging in the vale below Faithful Vineyard and the dark green mass of our fig trees.

Martha was unmoved. “You must go with him.”

I nodded. “I will tell you something. I don’t ever want to be away from him. Wherever he goes is where I also want to be.

Not just today, but forever. That’s what I’m going to pray about. How can I leave my responsibilities here? Yet if he is leaving, how can I remain behind?” Leaning forward, I kissed the worry lines of her forehead. “I’ll be back soon.”

At Martha’s insistence I had two of my sentries accompany me into Jerusalem. I admit I chose men well known to me and trustworthy. Having been up most of the night patrolling the orchards, they yawned and grumbled. They were in no mood for conversation on the brief hike over the Mount of Olives.

I deposited my tithe in the trumpet-shaped mouth of the offering box, then went into the inner court to pray. Some worshipers recognized me and crowded near. Their expressions suggested that rubbing elbows with me would improve the answers to their prayers.

I tried not to