Rising Sunday

Rising Sunday

Matthew 26-28  Mark 15-16  Luke 23-24  John 18-21

Leviticus 17:11  Matthew 26:28  Isaiah 61

 

The First Hour

The weight of Jesus’s crucifixion was an iron weight on Mary’s heart. As bad as things had ever been for her in Magdala, what with the torment of demons and all, last Friday was worse. To stand there and watch the soldiers spike Jesus’ hands and feet to a cross with no more regard than plucking a chicken? Aagh! Her hatred for them knew no bounds. And the high priests from Jerusalem’s temple, the way they stood, rubbing their hands together, their smirks betraying their triumph? She hated them even more.

Saturday’s shabbas had done nothing to allay the horror of Jesus’ death. Her mind, her heart yet spilled over from the hours she had stood alongside Mary, Jesus’ mother, their arms linked in hope, tensed with defeat. Cleopas and his wife, Maria, were there, as was Joanna, Chuza’s wife. Nearby, Miriam clung to her son, John.

John, John, faithful, dependable John. Jesus’ last words included him … John, behold your mother, Mother, behold your son, so kindly.

I am thirsty … a croak that said more than words … the psalmist’s plaint, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me leaked his despair. It is finished … what? What was finished? And finally,… Father, into your hands I commit my spirit” … Jesus’ words tore at her heart.

Saturday night, dream-like fragments of the horror revisited her … Jesus’ body struck from the cross by the soldiers … Mary, folding her son’s body into her arms … the sound of her wails, so strident, so grief-filled … enough to pierce God’s own heart.

Somehow, John found water, brought it to Mary in a cup.

The skies had gone dark. When the earth shook, rocks split, she feared the world had ended. The curtain that kept the Holy of Holies from being defiled, lay on the ground like some inert beast. People fled, run, run, get away, get away. Cries of fear mixed with wails of sorrow rebounded from city walls. Mary watched a soldier stoop to gather Jesus’ cast-off cloak, clutch it to himself.

Indelible portraits flashed and swam, again. Again.

Death had come and struck his blow. Three men, three crosses, dead. All dead. When Jesus’ breathed his last, the crowd vanished as if they never were, abandoning the few faithful ones as if they were fastened to the earth, unwilling to leave their teacher, their friend. Each other.

She thought of Jesus, his dead body sprawled across his mother’s lap, Mary, holding him close, her eyes blind with tears. Somehow, Joseph, the pharisee from Arimathea, went to seek audience with Pilate. I shall ask permission to remove Jesus’ body and bury it in my tomb, he said.

Later, at the tomb, Mary and Miriam and Joanna washed Jesus’ body with water, then anointed him with myrrh and aloe. Their grief had swept over them like waves from the sea.

The anointing done, they wrapped him with strips of linen. As Mary placed the tallit cloth over his head, she gazed at his face, marred by bruises and cuts, and wondered how it could look at peace.

Joseph and Nicodemus and John rolled the golel, the heavy blocking stone, to seal the tomb. She wished she could weep but could not: her tears were long spent.

Friday’s shabbas came and went in a blur. The fragrance of fresh-baked challah was tempting, yet she could not eat. John recited the kiddush, giving thanks for the wine. She thought to take a sip, but her stomach rebelled.

That night, confusion swarmed in her head like angry bees, keeping sleep at bay. How could this have happened? After everything Jesus had said and done … he was their hope … the Messiah … wasn’t he? … the Messiah? Surely this Jesus was sent by God to deliver Israel from oppression … was that not what the Torah foretold? … the writings of the Prophets?

Saturday was endless and grey. She could not feel. She could not think. She could not eat. She could not weep.

Sunday morn’s first light brought a return of the angry bees. Mary shook Miriam awake. Miriam blinked her eyes. Joanna stirred.

“Yes? Mary, what? What is it?”

“Wake, Joanna, Miriam. We must finish preparing Jesus’ body for burial. We must go to the tomb.”

“Oh, Mary, dear one, we bathed him, anointed his body. Surely that is enough. Besides, who will roll the stone away?”

“We did not do enough. There is more aloe to anoint him with, more myrrh. I … we … we must go, complete our work.”

“Mary, I … I don’t know. The Lord will provide.”

“Come with me. Please.”

The soft light of dawn lit the way for the women. At the Sheep Gate, a pair of drowsy guards greeted them, nodded as they passed through. At the city’s outskirts, Jesus’ tomb was in view.

But what is this? The stone … it has been rolled aside … how can that be?

A tremor shook the earth. Mary staggered. From the tomb’s lintel, a stone split and fell.

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A rooster crowed. Dawn. Peter was awake. He wished he wasn’t. Relentless, unwanted memories of the night of Jesus’ arrest festered in his heart like maggots on bad meat. He wanted to hunt down the rooster and kill it.

He thought of their last meal together. Jesus broke bread and poured wine, then raised the cup and said, “This cup is my new covenant in my blood, poured out for you,” Peter wondered what that meant.

There was more. “Prepare your hearts for a trial the likes of which you have never known,” Jesus warned. “This night, the Son of Man will be brought before the Sanhedrin, there to stand trial. Under Annas’ and Caiaphas’ fists, the elders and chief priests will conspire to find me guilty of crimes I did not commit. Before tomorrow’s sun sets, I will have been crucified.”

Shock hit like a stone wall. Denials tumbled like stormclouds. “No, Lord! … Rabboni, this cannot be! … Why, Lord? … What is this about? … We will stand by you, protect you, defend you … No! … No! … No!”

But what did this mean? … What was Jesus talking about?  Peter’s shout rasped his throat. “No, Lord! Never will I allow this to stand! Should these men fall away, I will not! I will stand at your side!”

Peter felt Jesus’ hand on his shoulder, as soft as his words. “Peter, this very night, you will deny me three times before the rooster crows.”

Retaliation flared to Peter’s lips, lay stillborn by the sting of rebuke.

Jesus spoke, “Take heed, dear friends. These things must happen. Have I not told you of what has been written about the Son of Man? Truly, this very night and the next day, the writings of Moses and the Prophets will be fulfilled.”

Peter’s jaw clenched, his eyes widened.

“Dear ones, take heart, for after three days, I will rise again. Thisis my promise: I will not leave you as orphans.”

“Come now, let us leave,” Jesus said. “The prince of this world is coming. I wish to go to Gethsemane to pray, to prepare.” Like ducklings, eleven men trailed after their master, arriving at their glade on the Mount of Olives.

Jesus called them to join him in prayer. Heads bobbed, eyelids yielded to sleep and their prayers were short-lived. Jesus alone prayed. And prayed. And prayed.

Not long after the midnight hour, they were awakened by the clatter and bang of the Shomrei HaSaph, the officious Levites ordained to serve as temple police, bearing swords and torches and disrespect. At their lead strode Judas, the one who had excused himself from their supper. Peter glowered at Judas; the very way he stood, chest out, head high was an affront.

“Erev tov, Rabbi. Good evening,” Judas said, even as he tarnished Jesus’ cheek with a kiss.

Judas turned to Nahash, the Levite captain. “This man here,” he said, “the one whom I kissed? He is the one you seek.”

Peter’s rage broke loose. Intent on parting Judas’ head from his neck, he drew his dagger but stumbled mid-stride, slicing the ear of one of the officers.

Ever quick to mercy, Jesus touched the man’s ear and stanched the blood. “Put your dagger away, Peter. Do not be a stumbling block to the Father’s work.”

Jesus asked, “Tell me, Nahash, does it look like I am leading an uprising with this handful of men, a rebellion that calls for your armed response?”

Nahash suddenly found something about his feet to command his attention.

Jesus said, “Do not doubt that my Father can send twelve legions of angels to my aid. Know this, you men: the words of Moses and the Prophets are being fulfilled this very night. I am the one you seek. Let my disciples go. Now, Nahash, you and your Shomrei – do what you must.”

Torches wavered, flames flared. Swords rattled in their scabbards. The Levites pressed around Jesus. Two men bound his hands as Jesus’ disciples withered into the darkness.

Bloated with hollow pride, the shomrei escorted Jesus down the hillside, into the city and through the gateway to Caiaphas’ home.

Unwilling to abandon Jesus, Peter and John followed the men into the courtyard,  keeping to the night as Jesus was relinquished to the hands of a priest. As the Levites gathered about a charcoal brazier for warmth, Peter joined them. John sat on the stairsteps outside the hall where the trial was in process.

Standing near the fire, one of the police said to Peter, “You! You were with Jesus on the Mount of Olives!”

Peter, his mind aspin like a dreidel, yelled, “What? No! I was not! You are wrong. Who’s this Jesus, anyway? I don’t know the man!”

Another of the Levites called out, “Yes, it was you! I was there. I saw you. You’re the one who drew his dagger and sliced off Malchus’ ear!”

Peter cringed. His voice wavered like a goatskin of soured milk. “No! You are wrong! That was another man!”

A servant girl passed by and said, “Your accent! Of course you are one of them! You are from Galilee!”

Peter’s lie rang across the courtyard. “No! I am not! No!” The men around the brazier watched with scornful eyes.

As he ran from the courtyard, Peter’s footfalls were marked by a rooster’s song.

That night, Peter took shelter under a portico near the Pool of Siloam, his sleep ruined by bouts of shivering and furtive dreams. Facing the others at the inn? No, not an option. Not after denying Jesus.

Come dawn, dark clouds shuttered Jerusalem’s skies, damped the city with chilly mist. Peter had but a single thought: Jesus, the one he believed to be the Anointed One come to deliver Israel from Roman oppression was under arrest, destined for crucifixion. Jesus said as much in his own words.

He felt much as if he was back on his fishing boat, cut loose from all moorings, drifting … no destination … no purpose.

Mid-morning, Peter buried himself in the crowd on the Gabbatha, the stone pavement at Pilate’s palace, listened as the High Priest Caiaphas levied charges. His voice thick with self-righteousness, the man said, “The Sanhedrin had made its deliberations, we have found …” What followed were accusations, condemnations and lies, lies, and more lies.

Pilate, his face as grim as an axeblade listened, then tried to appease the irksome priest by ordering a centurion to haul Jesus away to the praetorium. “Scourge this man soundly.”

An hour later, the legionaries brought Jesus back to Pilate, stamping their feet in time to their chant, “Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum! Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum!” as they marched.

Jesus’ only covering aside from his miknacan undergarment was a shabby purple cloak apparently retrieved from a trash heap. His head was adorned with an ill- fashioned crown of thorns. His face was stippled with blood. Jesus, King of the Jews, indeed.

A breeze shifted the purple robe. Peter caught a glimpse of Jesus’ back, turned away as if he’d been slapped. What he saw was a mass of raw meat.

Wanting only to be done with this ordeal, Pilate addressed the mob. He looked at Caiaphas standing at the head of the crowd, wondering which were clenched more tightly, the priest’s fists or his jaw. He looked at Jesus, pale, silent, dripping blood. He looked back to Caiaphas, hollered at him, “I find no offense in this man. You have your Jewish law, take him and judge him youselves!”

Caiaphas, his grey beard a curious contrast with his red face, shouted, “This man has blasphemd! By our law, the penalty for blasphemy is death … yet Rome restrains us Jews from the right of execution. Therefore he is yours to crucify!”

Caiaphas turned aside, exchanged words with a knot of fellow priests, then returned his attention to Pilate. “This man claims to be a king! By Roman law, whoever makes such a claim opposes Caesar! Tell me, Governor, does not such a claim require death? This man must be crucified! Do your duty! Crucify him!”

Pilate whispered a prayer to Zeus for recourse, found no answer. He was done quibbling with this pestilential Jew. His command to his centurion came more easily than he anticipated. “Take him to Golgotha. Crucify him.”

Then, with his stare burning on Caiaphas, he said, “Priest! This is your doing. I wash my hands of it.”

The crowd that had gathered at the Gabbatha – the godly ones, weeping loudly, the godless nabals yapping like jackals, followed Jesus as he plodded along Jerusalem’s winding streets and out the Judgement Gate. He came to a halt at the site of Roman execution. On the ground, blood stained the soil. Already, two men hung limply from their crosses. Thieves, it was said. Rome’s soldiers had a busy morning.

Peter watched brutish legionaries hold Jesus against the wooden crossbar, pound a spike through each of his wrists. They laid one heel over the other and pinned them to the wood with a single spike. Hours passed. Jesus’ life dwindled. Finally, a legionary no longer willing to wait for death’s arrival, took up a spear and pierced Jesus’ side.

Jesus’ blood flowed. Jesus’ plaintive cry, “Abba, into your hands I my spirit,” slashed at Peter’s soul like a surgeon’s blade. Jesus’ eyes closed. His head sagged. His breathing ceased. Peter could not run from the crowd fast enough.

That night, Peter returned to his refuge at Siloam, only to have his sleep savaged by dreams of angry men armed with hammers and spikes, intent only on eradicating every living Jew within their reach.

Saturday’s daybreak found Peter sitting, his back to a wall, arms embracing his knees, stunned by sorrow. Drowning in shame. He knew but one truth: Jesus was dead. His body, lifeless, lay sealed in a tomb.

His thoughts wandered. Was it only three years ago that Jesus spoke to the fishermen at Bethsaida, said, follow me and I will teach you to be fishers of men … we followed him from town to village … heard him teach about the Kingdom of God … saw again and again how he healed the sick, cleansed lepers, cast out demons … with simple words of grace, he restored broken hearts, ruined lives … none of us had any doubt that Jesus was the Son of Man … the Messiah … the Son of God!

Did he not say he would not leave us as orphans … hah! I am worse than an orphan … he is dead and I am a failure … a coward … a betrayer of trust given me by the man I revered, loved above all others.

What now is there for me to do … heal the sick, the lame, the deaf and blind … fish for men? … hardly.

He is gone … I am left here with my failure … all hope is stricken from me … Sunday, Monday, perhaps, I will return to Bethsaida, my wife, children … I will do what I know … fish for fish … amen and amen.

 

Second Hour

Joanna and Miriam waited at the tomb’s entrance while Mary entered the tomb. She touched the talith, wondered at how it was so neatly folded, why it was separate from the tachrichim, the grave clothes. Perhaps the earth tremor had caused Jesus’ body to fall from the platform … there are other niches, platforms … was he placed on another platform, have we become confused? … no, no, there is no sign of Jesus’ remains … the tomb is, empty … save for the burial clothes.

At the doorway, her shout startled her friends. “Joanna! Miriam! What has happened? Where is he? Where is Jesus?”

Impatience shaped Joanna’s tongue. “Obviously, Mary, he is not here.”

Mary stammered “I … I cannot understand this. We anointed him with myrrh and aloes. We wrapped him so carefully. But where …?”

Miriam said, “Mary, I am frightened. Please, let us leave. We must return to the inn, tell the men that Jesus’ body is gone. They will know what to do.”

As the women turned from the tomb, they were met by two men dressed in linen garments were of uncommon whiteness. One man leaned against the stone, his hand held high in a gesture of peace. “Be not afraid. We know you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, the crucified one.”

Standing to the far side of the tomb’s entrance, the other man said, “Here, you see where he lay, how only the grave clothes remain. The tomb is empty. Pray, why do you seek the living one from among the dead?”

Mary thought, what a curious question, yet her heart leaped. Hope smiled on her lips. “He is alive? Jesus?”

Trembling with joy, awash with confusion, the women stood still, waiting for … what?

From behind, came a voice … a familiar voice. “Dear women, why do you weep?”

A man they did not recognize stood on the greensward, his arms open in

welcome. Mary, thinking him to be a groundskeeper, said, “Oh, sir, we have come to finish burial preparations for our Jesus but soldiers, they must have come, taken him away. But if you, sir, have carried him away, tell us, please, that we may finish preparing his body.”

Clouds parted. Sunlight broke on the garden. The moment the man spoke her name, “Mary,” her heart was enfolded in joy and peace, for she knew who this was.

With a glance, Joanna and Miriam looked again at the man and knew –

Yes! It was Jesus! He is alive!

Mary cried, “Rabboni! Teacher!” as she knelt on the ground and embraced his feet.

“Ah, dear Mary,” he said, “pray, it is not the time to cling to me. I have yet to ascend to my Father. Dear ones, instead, go to Peter and the others. Tell them you have seen me.”

And with those words, Jesus and the two men left their presence.

The women hurried to the city, making their way to the rooms where the disciples were lodged. Mary’s knock on the door, urgent and loud, drew Peter to answer.

Annoyance edging his eyes and voice, Peter said, “You women! What is it now?”

Breathless, Mary could hardly speak the words, “Simon Peter! We … we have seen the Lord!”

“Yes!” echoed the women. “Yes! He is alive!”

 

The Third Hour

An hour before dawn, Peter had slipped into the inn where his companions were lodged. Since his hour of betrayal in Caiaphas’ courtyard, the weight of his failure jangled his thoughts like bells of cheap tin.

Once Jesus was struck from the cross, Peter’s gorge rose in his throat. He decided there was nothing to be gained by remaining at Golgotha. For a time, he wandered Jerusalem’s streets, hoping for solace, finding none. Clots of anxiety barraged his heart … do my fellow disciples know of my betrayal … my cowardice … my failure? … John was there, surely he knows … will he tell the others? Bursts of fear raddled his soul. Time and again, he thought to pray but could not find the words.

Jerusalem was desolate, feeling as if a sheet of lead had fallen on the city. The temple grounds were barren and silent. The governor’s praetorium, vacant … Antonia Fortress, stilled … the homes of the chief priests, lifeless. Taverns, hushed. Brothels, comfortless.

In the great room where the disciples had shared their last meal, Peter sat on the floor, his back to the wall. He dozed.

And was awakened by hammering at the door.

Peter’s knees ached. His back was as stiff as a slab of oak. The pounding on the door continued. John came from the hallway rubbing his eyes. “Peter, what’s all that noise?”

Peter opened the door. Four women; Mary, Salome, Joanna, Miriam. Eyes bright. Smiles gleaming.

“Mary. Yes. What is it?”

The women’s voices tumbled, one over the other. “Peter! John! Jesus is alive!?” “We have seen him!” “At the tomb!” “The stone, it was rolled away by two men we never knew!” “He spoke to us! Jesus!” “He said for us to come here, to tell you, tell the others, he is alive!”

What is this nonsense? Why are not these women bowed with grief? Jesus is alive? How could these words be true? Jesus died, he is buried, everyone knows that! A gabble of geese would make more sense than these women.

John joined Peter at the doorway. “Ladies. Calm yourselves, slow down. Come in. Tell us what you have seen.”

The women repeated their story, but before Mary said, ‘Jesus is alive!’ again, Peter was out the door. John was close at his heels.

Through the Judgement Gate, there, the tomb! John, the faster runner, arrived ahead of Peter and cautiously touched the stone that had been rolled aside. He peered in, wondered at the linen wrappings lying on the platform, then Peter bulled past him into the tomb. There, niches, platforms for the Arimathean’s family, ossuary boxes on the floor. The platform where Jesus’ body had lain … head cloth here … linen strips there. Peter’s struggle to understand only brought more confusion. “John! What does this mean?”

“The women say they have seen Jesus. Alive, risen from the dead … just as Jesus prophesied. The only thing I know for certain is that Jesus is not here. More than that … I have no answers.”

“John, this cannot be. And yet it is. Let us return to the city, tell the others.”

“Peter, I must say this. I believe what the women have said is true. I believe Jesus is risen.”

“So? Where is he?”

 

The Fourth Hour

“Cleopas, I cannot wait to get to our home. I wish Emmaus was not so far. Weariness is like to consume me.”

“Only a few more miles, dear Maria. I, too, need to rest, to take nourishment. A soak in the hot springs, oh, that would be so nice. These past two days have taken such a toll on us. I am so … unsettled. Upset. I know not what to make of it.”

“Our dear Jesus, gone. We had such hope in him, we were so certain he was our Messiah. It was not that we hoped he was the Anointed One, in our hearts we knew it to be true!”

“Remember how we spoke of how he would soon loose the chains of injustice, lift the Roman yoke from all of Israel?”

“Aye, and usher in a new dawn of healing, of righteousness and justice, all to the glory of the Lord!”

“Oh, but what a shambles we are left with! Antipas, a Jew in name only, yet bows to Rome. Pilate, he has the character of a jackal! We were so caught up in Jesus  restoring justice once and for all. Bah! What we got was betrayal by our own high priests who gulled Pilate into hanging Jesus on a cross! The result? Rome tightens her fist, injustice swarms like locusts, Rome pours its contempt on our religion, our customs! Our people are mired in disrespect! How is it that our Messiah, if that is who he truly was, is dead and all of Israel is consumed with chaos!”

Maria looked at her husband. If outrage had a color, she thought, it would be red. Blood red. Futility, hopelessness? Colorless.

As they came to a bend in the road, a man came alongside. “Beg pardon,” he said, “but I heard you talking about happenings in Jerusalem. I take it there has been an event of some sort?”

Maria wondered, Why is this man so cheerful? How could he not know?

Cleopas blurted, “Man! Are you the only one who has not heard of Jesus’ trial, his execution? How he was arrested and taken to appear before those charlatan high priests who employed liars as witnesses so they could render a false verdict? How he was bound and beaten by Roman thugs? How Pilate ordered the execution of a man who was innocent of crimes, who never committed a single sin? Where have you been?”

“Pray, tell me of these things.”
“Well, ah, this Jesus, he was a prophet, a teacher, a healer … he did such wonderful things, healed so many people, and his teaching, well, it was … different. Yes, different. He spoke with such authority, as if he had learned the Scriptures directly from God. He was so powerful, both in word and deed.”

“And he was our friend,” added Maria.

Cleopas rubbed is eyes. “You know, Jesus’ father, Joseph, was my brother. In Nazareth, Maria and I, we knew Jesus as a child.”

Maria said, “While he lived, we were so certain he was the King from the line of David, come to rule from Mount Zion.”

“This very morning, Mary, a woman from Magdala, and two other women went to the tomb. Well, they came running back to the inn where Jesus’ followers were lodged, telling everyone they had seen Jesus alive. John and Simon Peter, you can imagine how they could hardly believe this! They ran to the tomb to see if what the women said might be true. But all they found were the grave clothes.”

“And don’t forget, husband, the stone, it was rolled away!”

Eyes agleam, the man paused. “Dear ones, let not your spirits be charmed by the things of this world. Rather, recall how Moses and the Prophets foretold the Lord your God would raise up a prophet from Israel, how he would put his words in the Messiah’s mouth for all to hear? Recall the promise given by King David, that God will place His own King on the holy Mount Zion, there to proclaim the Lord’s decrees! This King of whom you speak? He is the very Son of the living God! Truly, did not the prophets reveal how the Messiah must suffer many things at the hands of the priests and elders? Is that not what has happened?

Maria marveled at the kindness of the man’s words … his eyes, as he said, “Take heart, dear friends, for what was written is being fulfilled, even at this very hour.”

As they walked, the town of Emmaus crested on the hilltop, warm and inviting in the late afternoon sun. The man said, “Dear friends, we must part our ways now, you to Emmaus and I onward to Galilee. I bid you grace and peace.”

“Oh, please, stay, do stay with us,” cried Maria. “You have encouraged our hearts. Will you not take the evening meal with us?”

“Ah, my, such a lovely thought. Indeed, I must admit that I am hungry. Please, lead the way.”

Cleopas and Maria’s home was small, clean and comforting. While Maria prepared a meal, Cleopas struggled to comprehend all that the man was saying in light of Jesus’ crucifixion. Maria set a platter of bread, olive oil, figs and dates on the table. A few small, dried fish lay in a basket beside a pitcher of water. Ripe purple grapes were enticing.

The man reached for the bread, bowed his head and gave thanks, his voice resonant with gladness. “Baruch atah Adonoi elohainu melech ha’olam, hamotzi lechem min ha’arets. Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe who brings forth bread from the earth.”

As the man broke the bread and handed a portion to Cleopas, then another to Maria, the oil lamp on the table flickered. Shadows rippled around the room. Then, as if scales had fallen from their eyes, Cleopas and Maria saw the man anew, enfolded in a gentle brightness, revealed as his true self. Jesus.

Like sparrows rising into the air, Maria’s hands rose. Her cry, “Master! Jesus! It is you!” was filled with joy. Tears coursed her cheeks.

Eyes wide, Cleopas, stunned but for a moment, shouted, “Oh! Oh! Baruch hashem! Hallelu Adonai! It is you, Jesus! You are alive!”
Jesus’ smile glowed with kindness as he took their hands in his. With words of reassurance and blessing in the wavering light, Jesus was gone from their sight.

“Maria! What … what just happened? Was this not Jesus who sat at table with us? Was it hot he who walked with us along the road? How is it we did not see him for who he is?”

“Husband, I do not know. But I do not doubt it was Jesus himself. Baruch hashem, did you not feel your spirit come alight as we walked together, as he revealed the Scriptures to us?”

“Maria, we must tell the others. We must return to Jerusalem this very night!’

 

The Eighth Hour

Weary at the edge of endurance, Cleopas and Maria finally arrived at the inn. Cleopas rapped on the door. John came to answer.

Tempered with fatigue, Cleopas nonetheless spoke with gladness. “John! John! We have great news! He is alive! Jesus! We have seen him, spoken with him. Our Lord is alive!”

Eyes wide, John bade them to enter. “Cleopas, Maria, come, come in, tell us of what you have witnessed!”

Leading them to the central room where the disciples had shared their last meal with Jesus, John saw to their needs: “Water? Wine? Something to eat?”

The room was spacious, large enough to accommodate a hundred, perhaps more. Three tables joined in a u-shape at one end looked rather forlorn in the scope of the room. Fragrance of bread and meat yet lingered there … and a trace of chocolate babka too? John invited them to sit. “I must summon the others,” he said.

Sleepy James, John’s brother, and Andrew straggled in with Philip in tow, then Matthew, little James, Thaddaeus, Bartholomew, followed by blustery Simon, who hailed from Canaan. Peter, still sullen and peevish, followed. All the disciples were present save Thomas, and, of course, Judas, the Kyriot.

John asked, “Are any of the women still here? They should attend as well.”

Bartholomew answered, “Joanna received word that her husband, Chuza, was not feeling well. She asked Miriam to go with her to her home. The Magdalene is here, resting. Would you have me rouse her?”

“Aye, please do. She should hear this.”

Bartholomew escorted Mary to the room. John said, “We are all concerned and, I must admit, not a little confused by what we have heard from Mary. Now, Cleopas and Maria bring us news that they, too, have seen Jesus, that he is alive. We make little sense of it, for none of us doubt that he was executed on a cross nor do we doubt he was entombed. That, I witnessed myself. Cleopas and Maria, pray, tell what you have seen.”

Cleopas began by telling of the man who met them on the road to Emmaus, how he spoke of the prophet’s words, how it was written that the Messiah must suffer and die lest he be denied His glory.

“We were so taken by his words, his very presence that we did not want to part company. When we reached Emmaus, we invited him to join us for our evening meal.”

Maria cheered, “Yes! Exactly so! Then the strangest thing happened. As if we were delivered from a strange blindness, this man revealed himself. Hinneh! Behold! It was Jesus, his very self! Friends, Jesus is alive!”

At the back of the room, Simon Peter raised his hand. His voice tinged with anger, he shouted, “Then where is he? This man, the one you say you saw, this Jesus who vanishes, if he is truly alive, why is he not here with us, the ones who put our faith in him, the ones who followed him? Why has he appeared to the women, to you and not us? So tell us, won’t you? Just where is your so-called Jesus?”

John smiled to himself, rocking back and forth. He mulled his thoughts like a dish of strong tea. Mmm … speaking of being alive, Simon … good to see you back again … what with the way you’ve been lurking in the dark, muttering to yourself as if you weren’t here … pleased to see you back to form, old friend … wagging your tongue before you think … as usual …

Mary, her eyes creased with indignity, returned Simon’s shout: “How dare you, Simon Peter! I know what Maria says is true, ‘twas the selfsame for me, for Salome and Joanna this very morn. In the garden! We, too, saw him there, at the tomb!”

Peter curled his lip in a sneer. “Again I ask: where is he?”

“I … I do not know. Just as he left Cleopas and Maria, he left us. He was with us, together there, in the garden … and then … he … wasn’t.”

“Really? He just vanished? And you expect us to believe this?”

John, aware that someone had entered the room, wondered how was it we did not hear the door open or close … Thomas, perhaps, returning … whoever it was brought a billow of … what? … well-being? … joy? … peace? … what … how …?

The voice was familiar to all. “Peace be with you, beloved friends.”

Instantly, John knew … It is Him! … Jesus! … He is here!

John searched the room. Peter scowled, trembling as he searched for the one who spoke the words, “peace be with you.”

Cleopas suppressed an urge to dance. Maria stifled a cry of joy. Both knew who this was, for how could they not. There, in their midst, stood Jesus.

Jesus smiled at Mary, at Maria, gave a nod to Cleopas.

Alarmed, then astonished, the disciples blinked, gaped at one another.

We have become a flock of owls, thought John.

The vapors of doubt and fear left their souls. Like fields of lilies in early Spring,

hope bloomed in their hearts

“Peace be with you, my beloved friends. Do not let your hearts be troubled.”

Jesus, arms open in invitation, entered their midst.

“Come, see my wrists, my feet, how they were pierced by the nails. Here, the wound in my side, touch it. Does a ghost have flesh and bones such as this? Come close, see, lay your hands on me, see what my Father in Heaven has done. Take heart, my beloved ones, for I have overcome the world!”

Swells of joy soared in their hearts. Jesus is here! … He is alive, just as he promised! … Hallelu! Hallelu!

Tentatively, the men reached out to touch him. Yes, his wrists, his feet bore the wounds, still raw from the barbarous spikes. Jesus lifted his tunic and there, in his side, a fresh wound, inflamed, red, crusted with dried blood.

John touched the wound, closed his eyes and fell to his knees. “Praise God, Father of Heaven and Earth.” Tears coursed his cheeks.

Peter thought, I cannot breathe … I want so badly to touch him, to look into his eyes … I cannot … not after …

Cautiously, tenderly, the men touched Jesus’ wounds. Tears, cries of gladness passed from one to the other as they brushed their fingers against Jesus again and again, as if to erase their failure of faith once and for all.

Head down, watching the goings-on from in back of the throng, Peter, heart aching to feel Jesus’ embrace, stood immobile, held fast by his shame.

“Peter.”

Oh, that irresistible voice. “Yes, Lord?”

“Come. Come to me.”

Peter looked, could not resist Jesus’ beckoning, open arms. Childlike, he stumbled into Jesus’ arms and wept as if he could not stop. Jesus softly hummed a psalm of David.

After a time, Jesus whispered, “Simon Peter, on the day I asked the disciples, Who do you say I am, do you recall what you said?”

“Yes, Lord, I said you are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God. But my faith has since failed me … it, I failed you … I … I abandoned you, betrayed … “

Jesus said, “Be at peace, Peter. Do you also recall my words to you?”

“Yes, Lord. I remember it clearly. You said, Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah, for this was not revealed to you by man but by our Father in Heaven. So I say, that you are Peter, Petros, the rock on which I will build my body of believers. Although now, Lord, I do not see how that is possible …”

“Peter, tell me, do you still believe I am the Messiah?
“Oh, yes, Lord. More than ever, yes!”

With smiling eyes, Jesus placed his right hand on Peter’s heart. “Peter, in light of

how our Father in Heaven has on this very day fulfilled what was written, receive now the gift of forgiveness. Because of your faith in me, you are redeemed.”

Fragments of Jesus’ life came together for Peter, falling into place like an elaborate mosaic. The parables … the miracles of healing … feeding hundreds of men and women, more, from a handful of bread and fish … calming the storm … walking on Galilee’s waters … delivering Lazarus from death … confronting the Pharisees and the scribes … even Judas’ betrayal. These things coalesced, made sense … he saw pattern and purpose – God’s purpose – in it all.

Did the sun shine more brightly … was the sky bluer … the air purer? … Peter’s heart … changed. He closed his eyes and for long moments, he felt as if his spirit had gone … somewhere?

Jesus spoke, “Peter?”

Peter came to himself, met Jesus’ eyes, reached to clasp his shoulders. “I understand, Rabboni. I am worthy only by what you have done, Master. Lord. Teacher. Rabbi. Achi, friend. I think I must sit down now. Lest I fall down.”

Jesus chuckled, then asked, “Does anyone here have something to eat?”

Andrew hurried to the kitchen, returned with a small tray of leftovers – broiled fish, bread, dates, olives. Jesus took a fish and some bread. Andrew looked at the basket as he passed it around … isn’t there more here than what I put in …?

“My beloved ones,” said Jesus, “Recall how, only last week, I told you that everything written about the Messiah in the Law of Moses, the Prophets and the Psalms must be fulfilled?

“The Spirit of the Lord has anointed me to usher the Kingdom of God into this world. No one comes to the Father but by me, for I and the Father are one. This is the year of the Lord’s favor, for I bring comfort to those who mourn, fill the broken hearts of the poor, and set captives free from darkness. Are not all these things, my beloved friends, to the glory of God?

“Whoever hears the words I have spoken, yea, whoever believes my Father who sent me has crossed over from death to life, for I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.

“Open your hearts to the truth of the Scriptures, beloved ones, for soon I will send you forth as witnesses to tell of my signs and wonders of all you have seen and heard. Go, tell the towns and villages, the cities and nations that the King of Heaven has granted eternal life and the forgiveness of sins to all who believe. Just as the Father has sent me, I am sending you to share this good news.

“But” – Jesus paused, letting his eyes touch theirs, one by one – “for the time being, abide patiently  here in Jerusalem. Just as I was baptized by John and by the Holy Spirit in the Jordan, the Holy Spirit will very soon come to baptize you and clothe you in power from on high.”

The door at the street level opened and shut. A man ascended the stairs, entered the room and looked around. “What … what is going on?”

John called out, “Ah, Thomas. Just in time. Look who’s here!”

 

Copyright © 2025 Peter K. Schipper