Daughter of Jerusalem (35 page)

A little light came into her swollen, tear-stained face. “It will be so good to see him.”

It would have been even better to see him four days ago.

But I didn’t say that. I knew Jesus would have come if it were possible. I knew it wasn’t his fault that he was too late. And I knew that he would help Martha.

She slipped out the door, and I went back to the women.

Time passed. It was stuffy in the crowded front room, but hospitality forbade me from leaving. My eyes were glazed over, and I was half asleep sitting up when a village boy came in and whispered in my ear, “You must come quickly, my lady. The Master is just outside the town.”

I jumped up and ran out of the house, leaving all the women twittering behind me. I ran through the village and up the road. As I ran, others began to run after me.

Then I saw him. He was standing on the road next to Martha, and his face looked tense and drawn. I didn’t notice anyone else. I didn’t think. I just threw myself at his feet and began to cry uncontrollably.

“Where have you been?” I sobbed through my tears. “If only you had been here, my brother would never have died.”

I felt his hand rest on my bare head—I hadn’t even stopped to put on my veil. “Don’t cry, Mary,” he said. “Have you lost your faith in me? Your brother will rise. Don’t you remember? I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will have everlasting life. Lazarus believed that—don’t you?”

I raised my face to look up at him and was astonished to see tears flowing down his cheeks. My heart contracted in grief for him. He felt dreadful that he had been too late. “I do believe Master,” I said.

It was the truth. I did believe, and I understood what he was telling me. I understood that he couldn’t raise a man who had been dead for four days. He’d raised people to life before, but they had been the newly dead. Lazarus was alive, but only in the Kingdom of God, not here in Bethany.

Jesus reached a hand to help me to my feet. “Where have you laid him?” he asked, making no attempt to stem the tears that continued to flow down his anguished face.

Martha, who was standing on his other side, said, “It’s this way, Master.”

The three of us walked along the narrow path that led to the cave where my brother lay. The disciples followed behind us, and behind them came the inevitable crowd from the village. As we drew near the tomb, Jesus slowed. It was a warm day, but I could see he was shivering as if it were midwinter.

He turned to John and said, “Take away the stone.”

Martha’s breath caught. “He’s been dead for four days, Master! There will be a stench.”

I pressed my knuckles to my mouth to keep from speaking. I didn’t want my memory of Lazarus tainted by the foul evidence of his death, but I trusted Jesus.

We were standing just behind him, and he turned to face us. The shivering had stopped, and he was sweating. His face had gone white, and the sweat mixed with his tears. “Didn’t I tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?”

I put my arm around Martha’s shoulders and said, “Go ahead.”

John was able to roll the stone away by himself, and once the opening was revealed, Jesus raised his eyes to the heavens. When he spoke, his voice was clear and composed. “Father, I thank you for hearing
me. I know you always hear me, but I wish these people to hear me also, so that they may know who I am and believe.”

I felt Martha’s whole body trembling. Then Jesus walked into the tomb entrance, and she whimpered.

Jesus called into the darkness, in the same clear, composed voice, “Lazarus, come forth.”

I stopped breathing, and we waited in absolute silence.

First we saw a shadow in the doorway of the tomb, and then a figure stepped out into the sunlight. He wore the winding sheet we had wrapped him in, and when he slowly reached up to remove the cloth that covered his face and stood blinking in the sunlight, we all recognized my brother. My healthy-looking, perfectly intact brother.

Lazarus had been raised from the dead.

I felt him in my arms, warm and vibrant and alive. I looked into his brown eyes, and they were the same. I laughed. I cried. I laughed and cried at once. It was impossible, but it had happened. Jesus had raised my brother from the dead.

The crowd was hysterical, and we had a difficult time trying to leave. The disciples once more turned themselves into a military guard and managed to get us home. Once we were inside the house, Peter barred the doors. We didn’t dare go out into the courtyard, where we could be seen from the street. Instead we all huddled together in the front room, where only a short time ago I had been the center of a group of mourning women, and stared at my brother.

“I’m hungry,” Lazarus said.

Martha leaped up and rushed into the kitchen. I just sat on the floor looking from my brother to Jesus and back again.

The Master wasn’t fully recovered from the emotion that had overtaken him at the tomb; he was tired and quiet.

We all wanted to know what it was like to be dead, but Lazarus didn’t have many details. For him, it had seemed but a moment in time from when he died to when he had awakened in the tomb. All
he remembered was being filled with joy and enveloped in a beautiful light.

“Did you see God?” Thomas asked.

“No.” Lazarus shook his head in bewilderment. “I can’t believe I was dead for four days. It went by so fast. I must have been in a place of waiting.” He turned to look at Jesus, who was sitting by the high window, with the sun streaming in on his head. “Your Father must have known that I would be coming back to life again.”

Jesus didn’t reply.

I listened to the chatter going on around me and thought with satisfaction,
This will show Daniel and all the rest of the doubters. How can anyone not believe Jesus is the long-awaited Messiah, the Son of God, after this?

Those who had witnessed the miracle raced into Jerusalem to spread the word, and people started to come out to Bethany to see Lazarus for themselves. Passover was near, and Jews were already pouring into the city for the holy day. As soon as they heard about the miracle, they too wanted to see Lazarus.

And everyone wanted to see Jesus of Nazareth.

However, Jesus and the disciples had moved to Ephraim, a Judean town close to the eastern mountains. He told Martha and me he needed some quiet time before he returned for Passover. The raising of Lazarus had drained him, and I was glad to see him go. Bethany wasn’t a quiet refuge these days.

The one sour note in all the euphoria about Lazarus came from Nicodemus, Lazarus’ Pharisee friend. He came out to Bethany to warn us that the Sanhedrin had met, and Caiaphas, the high priest,
had told the assembly that Jesus was too dangerous to be allowed to go free.

So now the Master, who already had influential enemies in the scribes and Pharisees, had the priests of the Sanhedrin against him as well.

When Jesus returned to Bethany two days before Passover, I told him what Caiaphas had said. He shrugged as if the Sanhedrin was of no importance. I thought he was wrong, but I knew nothing I might say would keep him from going into Jerusalem.

That evening Martha served one of her wonderful suppers. We set up the long table in the front room, as it was too chilly to eat outdoors, and the girls who helped Martha passed around platters filled with fish, lamb, and fruits. Flagons of good wine circulated as well.

The conversation was cheerful and excited. The disciples were confident that Jesus would receive a rousing reception in Jerusalem. By now everyone had heard about the raising of Lazarus, and many were hailing the Master as the Messiah.

I was nervous, but I kept one reassuring thought in my mind:
Even if the worst happens and the Sanhedrin arrests Jesus, there is little they can do to him. Herod beheaded John the Baptizer because he has the power to execute in Galilee, but only Rome can execute a prisoner in Judea.

Rome wouldn’t intervene in Jewish religious affairs. I comforted myself with this thought. Even if the Sanhedrin should act, Jesus’ life would be safe.

As we sat around the table, the meal done, the conversation quieter, I slipped out of my seat and went to fetch the jar of nard I had purchased from one of the most expensive merchants in Jerusalem. I lifted the thin-necked alabaster container in my hands and carried the precious oil into the front room. I went up to Jesus and knelt before
him, the alabastron in my hands. I looked up, to see if what I was going to do would be acceptable, and he gave a slight nod.

I anointed his feet. It was usual to do this service at the beginning of a meal, but I did it at the end. I poured the scented oil lavishly, and when I finished I pulled off my scarf and dried his feet with my unbound hair. When I straightened up, my hair fell around my shoulders and down my back, and the room was filled with the fragrance of the oil.

We looked at each other, and what I saw in his eyes frightened me.

Judas said, “That oil must have cost a fortune, Mary. You should have spent the money on the poor.”

I opened my mouth to make a sharp reply, but Jesus spoke first. “Leave her alone. It is right for her to anoint me now. The rest of the oil must be kept for the day of my burial.” He turned to Judas. “The poor you will always have with you, but you will not always have me.”

His look and his words were like a sword to my heart. He knew that something dreadful was going to happen to him.

I returned the nard to its place with shaking hands. I would have given my life to protect him, but I knew he would not allow me to do that.

Jesus and the twelve went into the city early the following morning. We had decided that it would be best for Lazarus to stay away from Jerusalem. He would be mobbed if he should show himself. Martha, of course, would remain home with her brother, and I decided to stay in Bethany as well. Jesus’ mother was coming to stay with us for Passover and I wanted to be at home when she arrived.

Mary came late that afternoon, having traveled from Nazareth
with a group of friends, who then went on into the city. She looked smaller than I remembered, fragile, and weary. Martha fussed over her and fed her and sent her upstairs to rest.

While Mary was sleeping, Martha, Lazarus, and I sat in the courtyard, wondering what might be happening in the city. At least the crowds around our house had disappeared; everyone was in Jerusalem for Passover.

We were still sitting there when one of Lazarus’ neighbors, Joachim, saw us from the road and came into the courtyard. He raised his hands dramatically and said, “Why are you here today and not in Jerusalem? You missed the most amazing sight!”

“What sight?” Lazarus demanded.

“The Master entered Jerusalem in triumph! He sat on the back of a colt, and the people strewed his path with palm leaves. Some even threw their cloaks down before him! It started at the Mount of Olives and went all the way to the city gates. Everyone was crying out
Hosannah!
They were calling him the Messiah and even King of Israel!” Joachim beamed at us. “It’s all because of what happened to you, Lazarus. I don’t think there’s a soul in Jerusalem who hasn’t heard about the miracle.”