Bible portraits: Palm Sunday (Part 4)

It seemed to be no time at all before we were on our way down the slope of Mount of Olives, with the massive sun-bleached walls of the holy city facing us just across the valley. To our surprise there were people there to meet us. Some of them spread their cloaks out on the road for the donkey to walk on. Others had palm branches in their hands and were waving them wildly. There were exuberant shouts of “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” “Hosanna to the Son of David!” “Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!”

Now it was all coming clear. The colt, the cloaks, the palm branches, the shouts of “Hosanna!” It was finally happening. The Lord was going to set himself up as ruler of Israel. There had been attempts before to proclaim Jesus as king—I remember it had happened by the Sea of Galilee just after he had fed that hungry crowd of more than five thousand people. But he had always resisted them in the past. He had often talked about waiting for the right time. Perhaps now this was it. One of us (I don’t remember now who it was) reached up into one of the palm trees by the side of the road and tore off some branches. In a moment we too were waving palms and shouting along with the crowd, “Hosanna to the king!” It was a glorious moment.

In the midst of the crowd we could make out some whose somber expressions indicated that they were not prepared to take part in the celebration. Leaning forward from the crowd they tugged at Jesus’ cloak to divert his attention. “Teacher,” they protested. “Make this nonsense stop! If this continues into the city and the authorities see us, it will be the death of us. They won’t tolerate anything that bears even a hint of rebellion.”

But the Lord was not to be put off course. “I tell you,” he said—I haven’t forgotten the words—“I tell you, if they keep quiet, the stones will take up the chorus.” So it was that, laughing and cheering we continued our way down the steep slope of the Kidron Valley.

It was the happiest, most exultant of occasions, and we were foolish enough to think that it would never end. Of course it did. Within days those glad shouts of “Hosanna!” had turned to angry screams of “Crucify!” The bright sun of that Sunday morning gave way to the darkened skies which clung to Golgotha like a pall as the Lord hung dying on a cross. What shall I say about that day? How weak and short-lived is the voice of human praise! How shallow and fickle is our faith in the one we once hailed as our King!

We thought we had him figured out. Again and again we imagined that we knew his mind. Yet right to the last it was only he who really was aware of what was taking place, only he who knew that what he was riding to was not a throne of gold but a cross of wood. How far beyond our human reason is that love which led him to ride triumphantly to his own death! How inscrutable his compassion to offer up his life for one such as me! The praises we shouted on that day are but a faint echo of the joy which now rings in heaven and through eternity:

“Worthy is the Lamb who was slain
to receive power and wealth
and wisdom and strength
and honor and glory and praise!”

“To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb
be praise and honor and glory and power
for ever and ever!”
Amen.

Bible portraits: Palm Sunday (Part 3)

All of the day’s events were racing through our minds as we pushed on towards Bethany. There we stayed with Lazarus and his two sisters, Mary and Martha. Lazarus is a whole other story, and I don’t have time even to begin to get into that now. Martha could not be outdone as a cook and after the long walk from Jericho we were ready for a hearty meal.

As we sat down for supper, though, a strange series of events began to unfold. Mary brought out an enormous jar of expensive perfume and poured it out on the Lord’s feet till it dripped onto the floor. Then she began to wipe it with her hair.

We all thought this more than a little odd. But it was Judas who objected most strenuously. The fragrance had filled the room when he stood up in angry criticism. “Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? It was worth a year’s wages.”

“Leave her alone,” came the reply. Then the Lord said something very peculiar that sent shivers down our spines—something about the perfume being for his burial. Over the past few weeks we had heard him express these morbid thoughts about suffering and death. We always tried to put them out of our minds but I’ll tell you, it made us worry, and it was a long time before any of us got to sleep that night thinking about it.

The next morning the sun streamed into our room bright and clear. We were ready for a good breakfast, but the Lord had an errand for a couple of us to do. “I’d like you to go over to Bethphage,” he told us. “Just as you enter, you will find a colt which had never been ridden. Untie it and bring it to me. And by the way,” he added, “if anyone asks you why you are untying it, tell him, ‘The Lord needs it.’”

By now we were accustomed to the Lord asking us to do unconventional things, so we didn’t ask any questions. Bethphage was only a few minutes’ walk away and sure enough, there we found the young donkey, just as he had said, right next to its mother.

As we were untying it, someone came out and asked us what we were doing. “Uh, the Lord needs it,” we replied hesitantly and no more questions were asked.

Moments later we were back in Bethany where we found the rest of them waiting for us. They were ready to leave. There was no time for us to have our breakfast. We quickly threw some of our cloaks over the donkey’s back, helped Jesus on top and began the last leg of our journey, the two or three miles to Jerusalem.

Bible portraits: Palm Sunday (Part 2)

Just down the road, not far inside the gates of Jericho itself, another surprise awaited us. Suddenly, for no reason that any of us could think of, the Lord stopped again. We were under a huge sycomore-fig tree which had obviously stood in its place for many long years. He just stood there, staring up into its vast, spreading branches. It was far too early in the season for there to be any fruit on it, so what was the point of looking for any? Then we began to see what he saw. There was one branch of the tree where all the leaves were shaking. When we peered in a little harder, we could just make out someone sitting in the crook, just where the branch joined the trunk. It was a grown man!

“Zacchæus,” the Lord said to him. (To this day I can’t figure out how he ever knew his name.) “Zacchæus, come down from there right now. I’m planning to spend the afternoon at your house.”

You should have seen the way the little man managed to make his way down the thick trunk and onto the ground. “It would be an honour, sir,” he said, bowing low before the Lord and dusting the bits of leaf and bark off his clothes. “Let me lead the way.”

Around me I could hear mutterings of discontent. This Zacchæus, it seemed, was the local tax collector. He had made most of his wealth by soaking the local people for all they were worth in the name of Rome and then keeping most for himself. If it were not for his squad of Roman guards (or should I say goons?) his life would not have been worth a denarius. What, they asked, was Jesus doing with this turncoat, with this oppressor of the Jewish people? They had heard that he always stood up for common folk. I must admit I shared in their puzzlement and was kind of disappointed that Jesus did not at least take time to explain his interest in this tax collector.

It did not take us long to reach Zacchæus’ house. There we were all treated to a feast fit for a king. From the other end of the table I could see that the Lord had engaged our host in an animated exchange. Over the happy roar of all the other conversations in the room I was unable to catch more than the occasional word or two. Yet I could see on Zacchæus’ face alternating expressions of annoyance, surprise and finally what could not be mistaken for anything but pure, inexpressible joy.

In a moment he was clapping his pudgy little hands. “Quiet, everybody. Quiet, please! I have an announcement to make…” He said some words about what a deeply lonely unhappy a man he had been and about how he had learned what little satisfaction was to be found in money. Then he turned to Jesus and said, “Look, Lord! Here and now I give half my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.”

You could literally feel the hush that followed. It filled the room. No one knew what to say. People just stared at one another in amazement. It was the Lord himself who broke the silence. “Today,” he said, “salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a child of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to sake and to save what was lost.”

To seek and to save what was lost. That was why he had come. And what we learned that afternoon was that it was just as possible to be rich and lost as it was to be poor and lost. Whether you were a blind beggar sitting by the roadside or the owner of a mountain of cash or somewhere in between, we all need what Jesus came to bring. We had seen it with our own eyes, seen people totally changed, and nothing gives me more joy than to talk about it.

Bible portraits: Palm Sunday (Part 1)

It will forever be etched in my memory, that day when we entered Jerusalem for the last time. The heat of the spring sun beat down upon us as we made our way up and down the slopes along the steep, winding road to Jerusalem. As we approached the great city a sense of anticipation, of exhilaration, surged through our veins.

Looking back on it all, I cannot put my finger now on what we were really expecting. The days past had certainly had their excitements. There had been the blind man just outside Jericho. How will I ever forget his pathetic cry, just barely audible over the stir of the crowd? “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Some folk tried to shut him up, but he refused to pay any attention to their threats. He just cried all the louder, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

I knew what the Lord would do all along. He never was one to pass by a person in need. When he heard the man’s voice he stopped dead in his tracks, and all the crowd with him. “Bring him over here,” he said to us. And so we went over and helped the man to his feet. We could hear his knees crack as they straightened out. With his bony hand he grasped onto my arm and haltingly we half-walked, half-stumbled our way over to where the Lord was. “What do you want me to do for you?” he asked, as he looked deep into the man’s lifeless and impenetrable eyes.

“Lord, that I may receive my sight…”

“Receive your sight,” he said to him in a manner that seemed so matter-of-fact, as though it were nothing unusual. “Your faith has healed you.” Even as the words were still on his lips I could see the opaque dullness of the man’s eyes melt into a sparkle. The look of absolute wonderment spreading across his face was enough to tell us all that a miracle had happened.

The next moment we were all praising God for what had happened to the blind man (or I should say, the man who had up till that time been blind). He himself couldn’t stop jumping up and down and coming up to each of us and staring for a moment or two into our faces as though he had lost hold of his senses.

Bible portraits: Lazarus (Part 3)

It was four days after the funeral that we noticed an unfamiliar figure walking towards us along the path. I watched as Martha caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. Without a moment’s delay she rose and ran out towards him.

They were just out of earshot, so I can’t tell you anything about the conversation that transpired between them. Yet I could see Martha gesticulating with her hands and I could tell that she was angry. Then I saw him put his hand gently on her shoulder and speak to her, and immediately she became calm. When the conversation had ended, she came back and spoke to Mary: “The rabbi is here…”

So, I thought to myself, this must be the one I have heard so much about, this Jesus fellow from Nazareth. I watched with increased interest as Mary got up to go to him, and a few of us followed her along the path towards the tomb. Poor Mary crumbled down onto her knees before him. Through her sobs she managed to blubber, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” It was evident from the drawn expression on his face that this Jesus was deeply moved by what was happening. He must have held Lazarus in great esteem, yet we couldn’t help wondering, if that was the case, why he had not come earlier.

He said to Mary, “Take me to the tomb.” As he stood in front of it, I could see the tears running down his cheeks, glistening in the afternoon sun. His whole body was trembling with emotion. I have never seen anything quite like it. If I had had any doubts about the reality of his grief, they vanished in those brief moments. Then he said, “Take away the stone.” “But Lord,” Mary protested, “what good will that do? His body will already have begun to decompose.” “Move it,” he repeated with a firmness and an authority in his voice that I have never heard in anyone before or since. The words were barely out of his mouth before several of us were heaving the rock away from the entry to the tomb. Jesus stood directly in front of it and lifted up his hands in prayer. Then he spoke into the tomb: “Lazarus, come forth!”

I could hear in his voice the same authority that had been there before. Somehow all of us knew almost beyond doubt that something (we had no idea what, but something) was going to happen. In dumb silence we all gazed into the dark entry of the tomb. Peering into the shadows we saw the impossible happen. Still tightly wrapped in his shroud the dead man came forth. All of us were paralyzed with a combination of terror and amazement. Through our numbness we could hear Jesus say to us, “Unbind him and let him free.”

Chills still run down my spine as I think back on that day. It may seem strange to you, but the image that remains with me most is not the figure of Lazarus emerging from his tomb. It is the tears on Jesus’ face and his sobs of grief. Somehow I knew that those tears were not like mine. Jesus was not weeping for himself. He was weeping for me and for each of us who stood outside Lazarus’ tomb that day. He wept for our sorrow, our helplessness, our desperation, our death.

Little more than a week elapsed before Jesus met with his own death. He was dragged before a mockery of a court and hanged from a cross, the death of a common criminal. Since then I have come to be one of those who believe that in his death Jesus did what I began to see him do at Lazarus’ tomb. There he took upon himself not merely our sorrows but all that keeps us from knowing the life that God intends for us—our sins and even our death. As Jesus wept for me in Bethany, so I believe died for me at Calvary. In the words of one of our prophets, “He was … a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief… Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows…”

Gracious God,
how can we thank you for sending Jesus into our world
and into our lives?
How can we thank you for his tears shed for our sorrows
and for his death for our sins?
Help us to know him truly as the resurrection and the life,
and that whoever believes in him will not die
but have life eternal.

Bible portraits: Lazarus (Part 2)

Days passed and Lazarus’ condition grew only worse. When we had begun to lose any hope of his recovery, someone—I think it was Mary—came up with the idea of trying to contact a traveling preacher who had become known for his ability to heal. His name was Jesus, and he came from (of all places!) Nazareth, up north in Galilee. “Who ever heard of a prophet coming from Galilee?” I had to ask myself. Yet in recent months we had begun to hear all kinds of stories about him enabling lame people to walk, the blind to see and the deaf to hear, even of his turning water into wine at a wedding reception and feeding five thousand people with just a handful of loaves and fish. Passover was not far away, so perhaps he would be coming through these parts anyway.

The two sisters sent off a message as quickly as they could. A day passed, and another, and another. With each of them Lazarus’ condition only worsened until finally the inevitable happened. Lazarus was dead. Martha and Mary were beside themselves. They had done everything they could to help their brother and more. And it had all proved to be of no avail. Somehow it all seemed so wrong that such a good man, who had done so much to enrich the life of our little village, should be taken away from us. Yet what do the Scriptures say?

As for mortals, their days are like grass;
they flourish like a flower of the field;
for the wind passes over it, and it is gone,
and its place knows it no more.

I knew all that in my head. Yet in my heart it seemed wrong. The week of mourning that would now begin, wearing harsh, coarse sackcloth next to the skin, our heads covered, and no shoes to protect our feet from the harshness of the rocky ground, would help to express our sorrow, our feelings of deprivation, and the wrongness that death is. However it would not console us; it would not subtract from our sense of injustice; and it certainly could not bring our beloved Lazarus back.

Like many of the men of Bethany, I shaved off my beard as a visible reminder of the loss that Lazarus was for all of us. For seven days none of us would wash or anoint our bodies or even eat. As Lazarus had been a man of considerable means, professional mourners were hired to chant the traditional dirges. However, their wails were not the only ones heard in Bethany that week. All of us joined in their lament with its shrill, rhythmic choruses of “Alas! Alas!”

If there is one thing we Jews know how to do, it is to mourn. The centuries of pain that are our history have ingrained that into us. I think of the weeping of our ancestors as they labored hard during their cruel years in Egypt—of men who endured the lash as they slaved under the hot sun, of women who lived in constant fear that their infant sons would be put to the sword before their very eyes.

We can still hear the echoes of the cries of those who watched on as our sacred city of Jerusalem and its Temple were torn down stone from stone and burned to the ground by the Babylonians, with thousands being dragged into captivity hundreds of miles away. To this very day we sing the words our poets wrote as they languished there: “By the rivers of Babylon—there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion…”

Now we in Bethany found ourselves weeping once again, for dead Lazarus and for his two sisters, Mary and Martha. Or was it for ourselves, and for the deep loss we all felt in the knowledge that Lazarus would be a part of our lives no longer, but only a memory? Never again would we join with him in his laughter, or sit around his table, or hear his words of wisdom, or be the beneficiaries of his innumerable kindnesses. The thought passed through my mind more than once as I helped to carry Lazarus’ body, tightly wrapped in yards of linen and fragrant with pounds of exotic spices, to its resting place just outside the village, as I grunted to help move the heavy stone across the entry to his tomb, and during the days of deep mourning that followed.

Bible portraits: Lazarus (Part 1)

Bethany is not a large community by any standards. Sometimes I think the only way people know we exist is that we are the first stop on the winding road that leads from Jerusalem to Jericho. I suppose you could hardly say we are a stop, located as we are a mere two miles from Jerusalem, just the other side of the Mount of Olives. Although, when Jerusalem is especially crowded as it very well can be at times such as Passover, Bethany can be a handy spot to hang your hat.

Many people consider that the best feature of Bethany—its closeness to Jerusalem. I suppose it is convenient to know that just half an hour away you have all the amenities of a large city. Yet for me and for most of us who live here, what we like most about Bethany is its smallness. None of the anonymity or the dirt or the crime of the city here! Bethany is small enough that we can all know one another, and as a result there is a great deal of caring that goes on. In many ways we are more like a large household than a village. Besides that, nearly all our families have lived here for generations, so that most of us are related in one way or another.

Nothing can happen here without someone finding out about it pretty quickly. So it was, when one of our most prominent townsfolk, Lazarus, was confined to bed, everybody knew about it. For many of us it did not come as a surprise. We had noticed for a while that Lazarus was not looking himself. Normally he was robust and cheerful, full of energy, the life of the party. He always had time to listen and he would never withhold his help when someone was in trouble or in need. Yet recently he had become withdrawn. He seemed tired, and the color had gradually drained from his face. No one knew what the matter was. And you don’t like to ask in those situations for fear of appearing nosy or intrusive. So we watched as Lazarus gradually went downhill, not knowing what to think or say or do.

Of course his two sisters cared for him wonderfully. Martha has to be the finest cook in town. There is nothing that can equal her fatted fowl or broiled fish with vegetable and herb broth. One of the greatest pleasures was to be invited to Martha’s home for a meal. You knew you would leave more than satisfied. And when Martha cooked for a festival or a social occasion the whole village would be permeated with the delicious aromas that emanated from her kitchen.

Lazarus’ other sister Mary was a total contrast. She was hopeless around the house. Yet she was universally respected as a woman of prayer. Long before anyone else had arisen and long after most of us had retired for the night, you could see the glow of the little oil lamp in Mary’s room as she stood before the Lord in prayer. Mary’s prayer life was such that there were many who, if we had a particular need, would come to her and ask her to pray for us. And we knew that she would pray tirelessly, unceasingly, and bring our needs before the throne of the Lord. If anyone’s prayers in our village were heard, they had to be Mary’s.

So Lazarus could not have been in better hands with his two sisters, the one making sure that he was properly fed and cared for, the other praying for him night and day. Nevertheless, when we heard that he had become too weak to rise from his bed, we began to realize that what was wrong with Lazarus was something that even the best care in the world could not alleviate.

Bible portraits: Nicodemus (Part 3)

Months passed. We heard from our informants that, not long after we had been there, John had identified the one to whom he had pointed. It was a cousin of his, a young carpenter from Nazareth named Jesus. It was not long before we heard stories about him as well.

His message, apparently, was not very different from John’s. But there were other stories as well: of his healing people, some of whom had incurable diseases or who had been disabled for years; of changing water into wine at a wedding reception—and more disturbingly of his offering divine forgiveness to people; and most recently of his striding into the Temple and causing quite a ruckus, turning over the moneychangers’ tables and setting free the sacrificial animals and birds.

Some of my fellow members on the council were scandalized by this and wanted to have him arrested immediately. I must admit that I was more fascinated than upset. To tell you the truth, I really admired someone who had the courage to challenge the corruption of the Temple authorities in the way he did. So through one of my connections I arranged to meet with him personally—privately, of course, as I did not want to do anything to jeopardize my standing on the council.

So it was that we met at night. In the moonlight I could distinguish the outline of his face and see the glisten in his eyes. Aside from all that I had heard already there was something in him that commanded my respect. I could not help but address him with deference. “Rabbi,” I said to him, “everybody is saying that you are a teacher sent by the Almighty himself. No one could do the amazing things I have heard about you without his divine power and blessing.”

It was almost as if he had not heard me. He looked at me and said, “Now listen to me and listen carefully, you will never see the reign of God unless you have been born from above.”

What did he mean by this strange language? What was he getting at? “Pardon me if I am missing what you are saying,” I replied to him. “But how can anyone be born when they are fully grown? Do you expect people to crawl back into their mother’s womb and go through the birth process all over again?”

“Listen again,” he said to me, “and listen carefully, for what I am saying is of eternal significance. No one can enter God’s reign unless they have been born of water and the Spirit. Don’t let my words about being born from above leave you in confusion. Think of the wind. You can hear it whistling in the trees, but you have no control over where it comes from or where it goes. So it is when it comes to receiving new life from the Spirit.”

I will not repeat to you the rest of our conversation. But I can tell you that when I came away my head was spinning. What did he mean by all this born again talk?

Slowly, as I thought about that night and as I thought about the time with John on the Jordan, things began to come together for me. As a Pharisee I had thought that we could make God’s reign a reality by our strict obedience to the Torah. John’s ministry had begun to make me wonder if there were not a better way, through repentance, through allowing God to wash away your defilements in the waters of baptism. But this Jesus was saying something more, that God’s reign is not a matter of trying to be good. It is not even a matter of being baptized. It is allowing God himself to breathe his Spirit into me and bring me life.

Since then this man Jesus has come twice through my life. It was not very long afterwards that his name came up at a meeting of the Sanhedrin. It seems that there were some who were hailing him as a Messiah, which put him on our list of dangerous characters. Some of them wanted to bring him to trial immediately, but I sought to persuade them to meet with him and hear from him in the same way as I had.

My attempt at reasonableness did not prevail. Soon he was being dragged into a mockery of a trial, where he was sentenced to the most humiliating death, the death of the most common criminal, death by crucifixion. One of my fellow council members, Joseph of Arimathea, persuaded me to assist him in providing the hundred-or-so pounds of spices that would be needed if he was at least to receive a decent burial. Since then we have heard reports that his body was not to be found, and, more amazingly still, that he has appeared to a number of his followers.

As I turned that conversation, and all the events since, over and over in my mind I began to recognize what my problem was. What was keeping me from the kingdom of God was the very thing I relied on—my vain attempts to get there through my own effort. What I needed was not more rules and ceremonies, but God’s Holy Spirit to give me life within. It is certainly not my intention to be intrusive. So pardon me if I ask whether this might not be an issue for you too. And if anything that I have said this morning has touched your heart, perhaps you would be willing to take a moment to pray with me now…

Gracious God,
we thank you that you have not made it difficult
to enter your kingdom:
that you do not require of us
works of righteousness or ritual acts,
but only that we open ourselves
to the fresh breath of your Holy Spirit;
breathe your new life into us, we pray,
that, filled with your presence,
we may know the reality of your reign.

Bible portraits: Nicodemus (Part 2)

One of our duties, which we take very seriously, is to investigate anyone who claims to be a prophet or to speak with divine authority. So it was that it came to our attention that in a relatively remote location up the Jordan River there was a firebrand preacher who had been causing something of a stir through his controversial message. Such would-be prophets come and go all the time, and more often than not they seem to arise in out-of-the-way towns and villages.

For one thing, the people there are less sophisticated than those in the city, and for another they are far less likely to be apprehended. Some of them make quite fantastic claims for themselves, deluding their simple devotees with messianic claims and firing them up to revolution. And that is the last thing we want. I am no lover of the Romans, but I am not looking for a bloodbath. And that is what it would be, I am afraid, if we ever attempted to rise up against them.

As it turned out, it fell to me to investigate this man John. I didn’t fancy taking the trip up to that part of the Jordan. The roads were not easy and, to tell you the truth, I prefer life in the city anyway. When we arrived, the scene was not altogether different from what I might have expected. A small crowd of poorly dressed, illiterate folk stood on the banks of the Jordan while this fellow John harangued at them unmercifully. He had sharp words of criticism for nearly everybody, all the way up to Herod. We tried to keep a low profile among the crowd, but it did not take long before he had spotted us, and I knew we were in for it.

“You brood of snakes,” he fulminated. “Who warned you to flee from God’s anger? Why don’t you start living as though you really believe what you profess? Just because you are Abraham’s descendants doesn’t give you any special right to presume on God. You are like a useless tree, plenty of leaves but no fruit. It won’t be long before you are chopped up and thrown into the fire.”

Frankly we were accustomed to this kind of criticism. We knew that our insistence on strict obedience to the Torah made us unpopular. So to take the heat off, one of our number stepped forward and asked him directly, “Who do you claim to be?” His reply was immediate. “I am not the Messiah, if that is what you are asking.” “Then who are you?” we pressed. “Do you think you are Elijah, the forerunner?” “No.” “Are you one of the prophets come back to life?” “Certainly not.” “Then who are you? We want to take an answer with us back to Jerusalem. Say something definite—anything—about yourself.”

By this time a silence had fell on the whole crowd. All eyes were on John. Slowly he looked up at us and said, “I am but a voice calling out in the desert, ‘Get ready, for the Lord is coming.’ ”

It all seemed harmless enough. Clearly this man had no plans to incite a revolution. We were about to go on our way when another of my colleagues asked, “If you don’t consider yourself a prophet, why the necessity to go about baptizing people?” Again all eyes turned on John. “I baptize with water. But at this very moment there is another whom none of you recognize, and I am not worthy even to take off his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.”

We stood by silently and watched, as a number of those simple folk, clearly touched by John’s message, stepped down the bank and into the river to be baptized by him. I will admit to you that I too was moved by that scene. By now it was getting into the afternoon and we needed to be on our way back to our inn.

As I lay in bed that night, I kept playing over the words of that strange preacher in my thoughts and seeing the people as they stepped down into the water. Try as I would, I could not get them out of my mind. I asked myself, what if people really learned to live by John’s message? Could it be that John’s baptism was the answer, that it could bring a higher righteousness than mere obedience to the Torah? Could it be that the Almighty was using this man to bring the day of his reign closer? And what about this one to whom John pointed, the one who, in his strange words, would come after him and yet was ahead of him?

Bible portraits: Nicodemus (Part 1)

Evenings in Jerusalem can be the most perfect times. The heat of the day has passed. The merchants have closed up their stalls in the marketplaces. The crowds have left the streets. And beneath the starry sky all is quiet, interrupted only now and then by the tromp, tromp, tromp, tromp of Roman soldiers marching in formation in the distance.

This particular evening was one that I was destined to remember. I had made an appointment to meet with one of the pilgrims from Galilee. But I move ahead too quickly. Allow me first to tell you something about myself before I share my story.

My name is Nicodemus. I am one of a brotherhood we like to call the chavurim, the companions. Perhaps you might know us better as Pharisees, the “separate ones”. No one really knows where that name came from and, while we did not choose it for ourselves, it suits us well and we wear it proudly. For we are determined not to be like the ordinary, run-of-the-mill people of this land, or like the Sadducees, who boast of their wealth and cozy up to our Roman overlords. By contrast, we strive to live by the fullest rigors of the Torah.

To join the chavurah you must stand before three witness and take a solemn oath that you will observe every detail of the Law. It contains more than six hundred individual commandments and we are careful not to overlook a single one of them. Not only that, in many cases we proudly go beyond the simple demands of the law, to ensure that we stand in no danger of contravening them.

So, for example, in the case of the Sabbath, we have spent years carefully defining what does or does not constitute work. To write two letters is work; to write one is not. To put up a building is work; to destroy one is not. To tie a knot to tether a camel or moor a boat is work; to tie a knot that can be undone with a single hand is not. I could go on and on, but I fear I would only bore or confuse you in doing so. Yet I want you to understand that for us this is more than a mere diversion. It is our life’s work. It occupies our thoughts and our actions day and night. It is our calling to keep our nation pure from the influences of the heathen. It has been said that if for one day every Jew could live in obedience to the Law the kingdom of heaven will come—and we in the chavurah yearn to bring that day to pass.

In recent months, however, I have begun to wonder whether our strictness can ever really bring that to pass. I wonder whether we might not be guilty of keeping men and women away from the kingdom of heaven rather than nearer to it. All these rules can be too heavy a burden for an ordinary person to bear—and even in us the result is more often the opposite of what the Torah is really intended to produce. It is written that Moses was the humblest man who ever lived. And the prophets instruct us that what the Almighty desires is that we should walk humbly with him. Yet so many of our brotherhood are puffed up with spiritual pride.

This may explain why we have never been a large group within Israel. We do not number above 6000 in all. Even so, our influence is far greater than our numbers might warrant. In recent generations we have been well represented in the Sanhedrin. For the past few years I myself have been one of its seventy- one members.

While the Romans may think they have us under their thumbs, most Jews see us and not them as their government. I will admit that our powers are considerably less than they were before the Romans took possession of our land. We may have no authority in political matters, yet we continue to be the supreme council in all matters of religion—and for all Jews, not only here in Palestine, but everywhere in the world.

Bible Portraits: The Tempter (Part 2)

I thought I might have nipped it all in the bud before there was any chance of a mishap, had my servant Herod not fouled it up and lost track of him. But, as I have told you already, I can be patient when I need to be and so I bided my time till the perfect moment should arise.

That opportunity came only a short while ago. Thirty years and more had elapsed. He had gone out into the wilderness, to be alone with the Lord God (he has the audacity to address him as “Father”) in fasting and prayer. They are such fools, these humans! To undergo such deprivation when it will get them nowhere!

There comes a point when your hunger can be such that the little round rocks on the desert floor can begin to appear as loaves of bread. That was the very moment at which I came up behind him and whispered in his ear, “If you really are God’s beloved child, sharing his power and like him in so many ways, surely he does not want you to starve like this? Why not command one of these rocks to become bread? Look! There are so many of them around. Do you really think God will miss one of them? Do you suppose he will mind you having a tiny snack out here? And if he does, what kind of god is he anyway? It all sounds rather sadistic to me. Surely God wants you to have some small pleasures in life? After all, if you don’t look after yourself, how are you going to be of any use to him or to anyone else?”

He did not even look around. Without a gesture, without a hint of emotion, he picked up one of those hot rocks, held it in his hand and said to me, “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” Clever response. I knew the words were not his own. Someone had done too good a job on him as a child, teaching him from that cursed book they call scripture. I had lost round one. But I know their “scriptures” as well as they do. And I have often used them to my advantage before.

So that was exactly what I did. I took him to the temple, to its very top. “Do you really believe those scriptures of yours?” I asked him. “Then how about this one: ‘He will command his angels concerning you’? Or this: ‘On their hands they will bear you up, lest you dash your foot against a stone’? Surely you are familiar with these? If you really believe them, why don’t you jump? Or maybe you don’t really believe that God will come through for you.” It’s not a line of argument I’d use with an ordinary person. A lot of them say they believe the scriptures, but when their so-called faith puts them in the face of danger or death, it invariably takes a back seat to self-preservation. Every once in a while, though, you come across a fanatic, someone who really lives what they believe. This one was clearly one of them. He was just the type to take the leap…

Or so I thought. Coolly he looked down on the hard paving stones below. Then he turned to me. There was a clarity and an honesty in his eyes that I had never seen in another human being. At that moment I almost began to fear. “It seems to me,” he retorted, “there’s a scripture you’ve ignored: ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’ ”

Appealing to his appetite hadn’t worked. Neither had challenging his faith. Clearly I had to take another tack. I took him up onto a mountaintop. It seemed as though the whole world stretched beneath us. So much of that world was mine already, but I will not be satisfied until I have it all, right to the very last wretched man and woman. As we gazed down into the valley below, I made him an offer that I thought no human being could refuse. For as I look into their hearts, I know that, like me, in their own pathetic ways they all want power of one kind or another. “All this I will give you,” I said to him, “if you will bow down and worship me. It will all be yours, to do with whatever you will.”

As he turned to me once again a shaft of bright sunlight shone into the valley below. There was no quaver in his voice. Nor did he did not shout. He merely spoke the words, but with such firmness and authority as I have never heard before. “Get away from me, Satan! For the scripture says, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve him alone.” I will admit to you that I was truly shaken. I have not seen such strength in a man. I had no alternative but to turn and go.

Looking back for one last glimpse out the corner of my eye, I could see angels coming to his side. So that was the trick! The Lord God had his hand upon him! No matter! It only makes me all the more determined. Indeed I have only begun. He will see. I will come upon him with such fury that he will wish he were never born. I will make him curse the very god whom he calls Father, in whom he puts such trust. I will not be satisfied until I take the whole world as my prisoner, until I ascend to the tops of the clouds and make myself like the Most High, until I ascend to heaven and raise my throne above the stars. That is my destiny, and I will have it no other way. I will be God!

Heavenly Father,
our enemy the devil prowls about like a roaring lion,
seeking to devour us.
Protect us, we pray, by your mighty power,
that we may resist his wiles and stand against him,
and that we may be faithful to the One
who was tempted in every way as we are, yet without sin,
our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Bible Portraits: The Tempter (Part 1)

I am not accustomed to disappointment. By and large I like to think of myself as a patient individual. Yet I will frankly admit that there are times when even I can lose it—especially with those stubborn types who will not bend to my methods of persuasion.

However, let me begin at the beginning, and tell you a little about myself—so that you may lay your fears aside and see that I am not nearly as nasty a character as my detractors have made me out to be.

What you see now is not what I once was. I was the most beautiful and wise of all creatures. There was none that excelled me, none that could be compared with me. The most precious of gems—name them if you will, carnelian, olivine, jade, beryl, onyx, jasper, sapphire, turquoise or emerald—none of them equaled me in splendor. When I roamed the universe the stars would bow before me. The angels held me in awe. I was the very definition of perfection. I was a god.

One day as I roamed through Eden my eyes fell upon the Lord God (that is the incredibly pompous name he likes to go by) kneeling on the ground, sifting a pile of dust through his fingers. As he molded it, the dry dust began to take shape—a trunk, arms, legs, a head. Then, as I watched on, I saw him bend low and breathe into this creature of dust. What had been dry earth took color. Its chest began to heave. The eyes opened and looked about inquisitively. The Lord God took it by the hand and it rose to its feet.

I will never forget that moment, as the Lord God stood back and looked at the creature he had made. If you ask me, there was nothing special about it, rather ordinary, not much different from a baboon. Incredibly I could see in the Lord God’s expression a look of pride—no, far, far worse than that, of delight, of love. At that moment I knew that my position of supremacy was threatened. The Lord God was giving to it the glory and honor that were rightfully mine. It had none of the beauty or intelligence of an angel. Yet it, not I, would have authority over the creatures of earth—the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, the fish of the sea. What was I to do?

I chose my moment carefully. It was obvious to me that they were stupid, gullible creatures, yet I wanted to have every tactical advantage. Catch them off guard, subtly misrepresent the Lord God so as to undermine their trust in him, overstate the pleasures of doing what he had forbidden. It would not take any more than that for me to regain my position of superiority and disgrace those interlopers. Perhaps the Lord God would be so angry that before they did any further damage he would wipe them out altogether. After all, he himself admits that he is a jealous God.

In the end it went considerably more easily than I could ever have imagined. They fell for my line without objection, almost without a thought. And yes, the Lord God was every bit as angry as I had predicted. He cursed them and he cursed me—which is why I look the way I do, but I will overcome that. He threw them out of my garden. But here is what really annoys me. Before he shut them out, I saw him stop for just a moment and give them each an animal skin to cover their nakedness and keep them warm. There was a look of wistfulness, of sorrow, in his eyes. At that moment I knew that he still cared for them, still loved them, foolish, disobedient and vile as they were. And I knew that my task was still unfinished.

If the Lord God would not destroy them, I could find ways to make them destroy themselves. With Cain it was jealousy, with Lot greed, with Jacob his competitiveness; with Moses it was his fierce sense of justice, with Naomi her grief, with David his virility, with Solomon his riches, with Elijah his independence. I could name you ten thousand more, all favorites of the Lord God, and one by one I brought them down. Yet in spite of all their failures, their disobedience, their rebellion and sometimes even their outright hatred towards him, he continued to love them, to yearn for them, to desire them for himself. Now you tell me. Is that any way for a god to behave?

I share all of this with you because I am now in the midst of facing my greatest challenge. I have been watching him since his birth in Bethlehem three decades ago. From the beginning I knew he would be dangerous. His name alone was a giveaway—Jesus, Yehoshua, “The Lord is our salvation”. Ha! Little do they know! One day it will be to me that they cry for mercy. And let’s see if they get it!

More tomorrow…