Free When Jesus Wept by Brock Thoene, Bodie Page B

to come? Make her leave, David.”
    Mary was camping in a grove of trees outside the town. It was before her tent, as it was being erected, that I confrontedher … quietly. I led her away from ears eager to absorb and tongues eager to repeat gossip. She was angry and resentful, but I also saw a flicker of fear in her eyes when I told her that if she stayed, the people would publicly shame her for the harlot she was and drive her away. They would make an example of her; it was already agreed to by the elders. I begged her not to stay—not to do this to herself or to Martha and me.
    At last, as I gazed at her with sorrow—she still was my sister, after all, though she had humiliated all of us—she agreed to leave.
    I returned to the feast, all my good feeling soured. Even Martha’s praise for me did not relieve the sense that the evening, in fact the entire trip, had been spoiled.
    It was then I had my next encounter with the rabbi from Nazareth.
    “You were at the riverside with John,” said a pleasantly resonant voice behind me.
    Brown eyes containing dancing golden flecks regarded me as I turned. “Yes … I … his message is powerful … perhaps, too powerful … dangerous.” I felt myself babbling. My friend Judah had been with me at the Jordan when we saw the Baptizer, and then he had been arrested and carried off to captivity and likely to his death. Unreasonable, I know, but in that instant I somehow blamed John for what happened to Judah.
    That resentment spilled over into a sudden distrust of the Nazarene.
    “A true prophet,” Jesus said with certainty. “There is no one born of woman greater than John.”
    “He … he speaks well of you also,” I replied, scratching my beard to cover some confusion. Having heard the man in front of me identified as “the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world,” how was I supposed to respond?
    What were my choices? Did Jesus of Nazareth believe himself to be the Chosen One, the Deliverer? In that case, he was either a charlatan or a lunatic … unless …
    Martha scuttled up to me, peered askance at Jesus, and plucked at my sleeve. “David,” she urged. “They’ve asked you to offer the blessing over the wine. Come with me. The chuppah is ready and the bride is coming. Hurry!”
    Jesus smiled at me as I let myself be hustled away toward the ceremony.
    The groom, dressed in spotless white kittel , was already in place. Accompanied by her mother and her soon-to-be mother-in-law, the bride was conducted seven times around the groom while the cantor sang a passage from the Song of Songs:

“My dove in the clefts of the rock,
in the hiding places on the mountainside,
show me your face,
let me hear your voice;
for your voice is sweet,
and your face is lovely.
Catch for us the foxes,
the little foxes
that ruin the vineyards,
our vineyards that are in bloom.” 1
    O Lord , I breathed, how I miss my wife, my beloved . In that moment I believed no one in the world had ever felt such grief and loss as I experienced.
    Soon after I was called for, I shook myself out of my reverie. Handed a brimming cup of my own special wine, I held it aloft and recited: “Blessed art thou, O Lord God, King of the universe, who brings forth the fruit of the vine.”
    As I completed my duty, I caught Jesus of Nazareth watching me intently, as if my words contained a greater meaning than I perceived. It made me uncomfortable again. What was it about this mild-seeming man that provoked uneasiness in me?
    The rabbi conducting the ceremony took up the thread and again pulled my attention away from Jesus. “Marriage,” the rabbi said, “is like wine. When properly regarded and carefully matured, it goes through a miraculous transformation to become something wondrous that brings joy and flavors life with gladness.”
    “Well said, Rabbi,” I heard Jesus acclaim.
    The blessings continued with the new couple sharing the cup: over the new family being formed, over their future together,