Unafraid (17 page)

Jesus turned and strode from the Temple.

For a moment, there was complete silence, as though all life had departed with him. And then there arose angry voices. Men shouted at one another, shoving, pushing. Mary saw her sons withdraw. The women with whom she had been talking scattered, rushing to the pillars and trying to follow their Master.

Mary was cut off, bumped, shoved. By the time she made it outside, her son was gone.

Her children surrounded her when she arrived at Abijah’s home, exhausted and depressed. “I couldn’t find him. I walked to Bethphage and back, but I couldn’t find him.”

“If he’s wise, he’ll stay out of sight and leave after Passover,” Abijah said grimly. “No good can come of what’s happened. The leading priests and other leaders of the people are at the court of the high priest, Caiaphas, right now, talking about Jesus.”

“I thought the people would riot after Jesus spoke against the Pharisees and scribes,” Joseph said. “Everyone was shouting, one against another.”

“Where could he be?” Mary said.

“He’s probably lodging with one of his leper friends or a prostitute. Your son seems to prefer their company to that of his own family.”

James’s face reddened. “And if he did come here, would you welcome him, Abijah?”

“Not now! I’d sooner house a scorpion than him in my house. He’s offended every Pharisee and Sadducee and priest in Jerusalem!”

“May the Lord open your eyes and ears to the truth.” Mary covered her head with her prayer shawl and wept.

Mary slept fitfully, dreaming of Jesus in the Temple. He was crying and raising his hands to heaven as men shouted in anger around him. She awakened, her heart pounding wildly. The room was dark. She rose and went to stand outside, wondering if it was only her imagination that made her think she heard angry voices in the distance.

All was silent.

Yet, the sense of oppression increased.

Where was her son? Surely, a mother sensed when something was terribly wrong. She was afraid.
Oh, Lord, why will you not speak to me as you did to Joseph?
She covered her face. Who was she to make demands upon God? She should have gone with Jesus the day he left Nazareth. She should have walked down that hill with him and never left his side. She should have left James and Joseph, Simon and Jude, and her daughters and their husbands in the hands of God, rather than trying to convince them Jesus was the long-awaited Messiah.

Oh, Lord, don’t let it be too late. Help me find him.

Dressing quickly, she went out. She headed for the Temple, praying with every step that God would bring her alongside her son again. When she came up the Temple mount, a man ran by her, weeping loudly. She turned sharply, for she thought she recognized him. He was one of Jesus’ disciples.

“Judas!” She called out, retracing her steps. “Judas! Where is my son?”

He fled into the darkness.

Mary found a man dozing against one of the huge pillars of the Temple. When she asked him if he knew where Jesus was, he yawned and said, “They took him last night from the Mount of Olives.”

Her heart raced in fear. “Who took him?”

“They all went up after him: the leading priests, the other leaders, and a Roman cohort. They took him to Caiaphas and have been giving testimony against him all night. They took him to Pontius Pilate a little while ago.”

“But why?”

“Because they hate him and want him executed.” The man raised his head, his black eyes boring into her. “The Law requires that a blasphemer be stoned to death, doesn’t it? And since we no longer have the authority to kill our own, we must plead Roman indulgence to do it.”

Mary drew back from him. She had seen him before, but where? How long ago?

The man stood slowly, the movement reminding her of a snake uncoiling. “They will kill him, Mary.”

Her body went cold. “No.” She drew back farther. “No, they won’t. He’s God’s Anointed One. He is the Messiah.”

“He is the great I Am,” the dark man mocked. “And he is going to die.”

“Jesus’ disciples will stand with him.”

“His disciples?” The man threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing in the Temple. He looked at her again with a feral grin. “They all deserted him. They’ve run like rabbits and gone underground into their warrens.”

“I don’t believe you.” She shook her head, backing away from him. “I won’t believe you!”

“Jesus stands alone. Go see for yourself.
Go and watch the work of my hands.”

As she fled, she heard his laughter.

A throng was gathered before the judgment seat of Rome. Mary saw the Pharisees clustered together like black crows near the front, talking among themselves. Pilate was sitting on the judgment seat, speaking with one of his officers. He waved his hand impatiently and the doors were opened. Mary drew in a sharp gasp when she saw her son and another man hauled forward. Jesus’ face was battered and bruised, his mouth bleeding. He stood looking out at his people, his wrists chained together like a criminal. Sobbing, Mary tried to push her way through to him, but was shoved back. “Jesus!”

Pilate spoke loudly to the multitude, explaining that it was the Roman custom to show clemency to one prisoner of their choice during the festival season.

“Which one do you want me to release to you—Barabbas, or Jesus who is called the Messiah?” The guard nearest the governor leaned toward him in protest, for Barabbas was a notorious Zealot and enemy of Rome who had ambushed and slain Roman soldiers.

The crowd cried out, “Barabbas!”

“Jesus!” Mary cried out.

“Barabbas! Barabbas!” others shouted.

“Jesus! Jesus!”

An officer came out to Pilate and whispered in his ear. The governor frowned heavily and looked at Jesus.

The leading priests and other leaders turned to the crowd, moving among them. “Jesus is a blasphemer. Will you let him live? You know what the Law requires, what God demands.”

“Barabbas!”

Pilate waved the officer away and stood, holding his hands out for silence. “Which of these two do you want me to release to you?”

“Barabbas!”
They wanted violence and bloodshed. They wanted rebellion and hatred against Rome.
“Barabbas!”

Pilate held out his hand toward Jesus. “But if I release Barabbas, what should I do with Jesus who is called the Messiah?”

“Crucify him!”

“Why? What crime has he committed?”

“Crucify him! Crucify him! Crucify him!” The multitude was turning into an angry mob, and Roman soldiers moved into position, waiting for Pilate’s command to disperse them. But he didn’t. He motioned for his slave, who carried a bowl of water to him. Then the Roman governor washed his hands, mocking the assembly of Jews who took such pains to remain clean. Drying his hands, he called out, “I am innocent of the blood of this man. The responsibility is yours!”

And Mary heard those around her cry out angrily, “We will take responsibility for his death—we and our children!”

“No! Don’t do this!” Mary sobbed. She reached out toward Jesus as the Roman guards turned him roughly away.

The angry crowd milled around, waiting to see the crucifixion, cheering when the doors were opened again and Jesus and two others were ushered out by Roman guards. Mary felt the blood drain from her face, and her chest tighten with anguish. A crown of thorns had been shoved down on his head, causing rivulets of blood to run down his face. His face was ashen with suffering; his back was bent over beneath the weight of the cross he dragged down the steps.

“Blasphemer!” People spit on him as he passed, their faces twisted and grotesque with hate. “Blasphemer!”

“Jesus!” Mary cried out, and saw her son tilt his head slightly. He looked straight at her, his eyes filled with compassion and sorrow. “Jesus,” she sobbed and tried again to get closer to him, to reach out to him through the crowd. He passed by, whipped by the Roman guard when he stumbled and fell to his knee and struggled to rise again, and jeered by the mob eager to see him suffer and die.

“This can’t be happening,” Mary rasped. “This can’t be happening . . .” She tried to keep pace with him, pushing her way through the throng that lined the street. She wanted her son to know she was there, that she loved him, that she would not turn away. “Jesus!” She cried out again and again, knowing he would hear her voice.

They took him outside the walls of Jerusalem to a place called Golgotha, near the main highway for all to see. The hill was in the shape of a human skull. Another man had shouldered Jesus’ cross and was shoved aside after dropping it on the ground. A Roman guard gripped Jesus’ shoulder and flung him to the ground. Another leaned down and offered him something to drink, but Jesus turned his face away. Two guards stripped off his garment and cast it aside. They took him by the arms and jerked him on the cross, lashing his arms tightly to the beams with leather straps.