The Making of the Lamb Read online

  They are now truly baptized in my death, and that is good. All can be baptized, and all are forgiven.

  Twice more he prayed. Twice more he went back to those sleeping disciples.

  The die is cast, as it was cast through all eternity. You command, Father, and I choose to obey. That is all that it comes down to. Not the Jews, not the Romans, not Judas, and not the disciples—just you and me.

  I cannot bear the pain of this hour. Spare both of us. Let this be over quickly for the pain of this garden is worse than what is coming on the cross.

  Joseph

  Joseph felt relieved as he made his way north from the city on his way home to Arimathea. He was pleased that he would be with his mother on her birthday, but he had been unwilling to leave until they told him Jesus was on his way to Gethsemane. It would be so much safer for Jesus and his followers in Gethsemane than in the walled-in Upper City, where they could have been trapped.

  Cursing the dilapidated state of the road, he kept his horse to a walking pace. A courier dressed in the garb of the Roman Legion galloped past, riding fast away from the city—an ill omen, to Joseph’s way of thinking. Romans in a hurry spelled trouble, particularly at such an early hour, and at Passover as well. Could there be some disturbance back in the city?

  Later, about midmorning, he had to draw his horse off to the roadside for a party of legionnaires marching the other way. The legions always had priority, requiring all other travelers to make way. These troops speeding toward the city added to his suspicion of some disturbance.

  As he resumed his journey, Joseph heard a shout from some distance behind. Another rider, this one in rags, approached at breakneck speed over that broken road. A vagabond? No, it was Thomas, one of the Twelve, coming after him.

  Thomas pulled his horse up short. “Jesus has been arrested!”

  “Tell me about it, and quickly.”

  “We were in the Garden of Gethsemane with Jesus.” Thomas, an unskilled rider, turned his mount awkwardly and pulled alongside Joseph. “Most of us were asleep. Suddenly great shouting awakened us. Judas led in a group of temple guards, and they arrested Jesus and hauled him off.”

  “Judas? But he is one of the Twelve!”

  “I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Was Jesus hurt?”

  “The guards treated him roughly, but I didn’t see any sign that he was wounded.”

  “What are they doing with him now?”

  “Peter sent me off to follow you two hours past midnight. They were preparing to try Jesus for blasphemy right then.”

  “They cannot try him in the middle of the night! All the members of the Sanhedrin must be present for such a trial, and we would need time to get there.”

  “That’s what Peter said, and some of the Sanhedrin said it, too. But Caiaphas said the danger posed by Jesus was too great. He said if they waited, his followers might gather in force and cause a riot, and that would bring down the wrath of the Romans.”

  Joseph cursed Caiaphas under his breath, kicked his horse into a gallop, and raced toward Jerusalem, leaving Thomas far behind.

  Weary from his frantic ride, Joseph approached Jerusalem in the early afternoon. From the outskirts of the city, he could see the Hill of the Skull, the site the Romans used for executions. On the summit of the hill, visible for miles around, three men already hung from crosses. At this distance they were only tiny figures, too small to identify with his eyes, but the shouts of passers-by left him in no doubt: Jesus was among the condemned.

  Joseph took a footpath, outside the city walls, the fastest route to the site. The steep climb to the hilltop left him winded and trembling, leaning heavily on his walking stick. What a windswept, forlorn, lonely place.

  At the top, the sight of his beloved nephew in such agony knocked his remaining breath away.

  Jesus’s blood flowed in thick streams, all down his nearly naked body—from the horrible wounds of his scourging, from the nails hammered through his wrists and ankles, and from the ring of thorns that rode like a mockery of a crown around his head.

  The nail through Jesus’s ankles must be the worst. With every strangled breath, he had no choice but to bear down on that nail. What pain it must cause him!

  A crowd had gathered to witness the proceedings. Some cried out for Jesus’s death. The sooner the better, they seemed to think, eager for this troublemaker to leave Jerusalem in peace.

  Roman soldiers were there, too. They were battle-hardened men, accustomed to scenes of horrible carnage. The crucifixion was nothing they hadn’t seen a hundred times before, and they showed signs of boredom.

  Searching through the crowd, Joseph located his niece, Mary, standing with Mary the Magdalene, Martha, and the young disciple John.

  “Oh, Joseph, God be praised for bringing you here,” exclaimed Mary. Tears spilled down her face. “Once again, you arrive at the hour of our greatest need.”

  Joseph’s quivering legs gave out, and he fell to his knees. “I would happily give my life to relieve Jesus from his pain, but all we can do is watch as his life slips away.” Tears streamed from his eyes. Oh, Jesus—is this really the Father’s will?

  Mary knelt next to her uncle and said, quietly but urgently, “There is one thing yet to be done for Jesus—and for me as well. Only you can do it, Uncle. When the time comes, we must obtain his body and give it a proper burial. The Romans will not hear me, because I am only a woman. As next of kin, you must ask for the body.”

  Joseph, exhausted from the long horseback ride and the climb up the hill, simply nodded.

  John, Martha, and Mary the Magdalene talked as if they still expected Jesus to free himself. Joseph and Mary exchanged knowing looks. They knew that Jesus could do that if he so chose, but that he would not.

  In a pain-wracked voice, Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

  Joseph shivered with a chill not due to the sweat cooling on his back. Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? The twenty-second Psalm.

  Jesus opened his swollen eyes and looked down at his mother. “Ma’am, here is your son.” His eyes turned to John. “Here is your mother.”

  John nodded, and placed a hand on Mary’s shoulder.

  Jesus moaned, “I thirst.”

  A Roman soldier lifted a sponge with hyssop to his lips.

  The long hours of the afternoon passed slowly.

  At one point, Jesus forgave his tormentors.

  At another moment, he turned his head toward the dying thief on the cross beside him, and he promised the man he would join him in Paradise.

  Finally, with storm clouds gathering, Jesus commended his spirit into the hands of the Father. He spoke no more.

  Soon the sun would set and Sabbath begin. Joseph watched one of the priests speak to the Romans. He knew what was coming. He had seen this before. To end things quickly, the Romans would break the legs of the victims, denying them the means to support their weight and draw breath. Sure enough, soldiers swung their heavy spears and crushed the bones of the other two victims. But the one who approached Jesus exclaimed that he was already dead.

  The soldiers debated what to do. Then one of them stepped forward. He looked about the same age as Jesus, and he seemed oddly familiar, but Joseph could not place his face. The soldier placed the iron tip of his spear against Jesus’s side. “Where is your almighty God now, Jesus?” he snarled, and then he plunged the spear in.

  Joseph’s breath stuck in his throat. The Roman soldier. He’s Longinus.

  Blood and water flowed from the wound and spattered upon Longinus. As the other soldiers mocked Jesus, Longinus suddenly wailed, “We have killed a god!”

  Mary screamed in anguish, such a heart-wrenching cry.

  What power that precious blood and water possessed! Joseph hobbled forward as quickly as his old, weary legs would carry him. He had with him two fine cruets he had intended as gifts for his mother; he used them to collect what he could of the spilling bloo
d and water. How Joseph wished for a funnel. So much of it spilled into the ground and was lost.

  Pilate

  In his palace, Pontius Pilate was in a foul mood. Not because he had condemned a man to death. He was used to that. Not even because he knew the man whom he had condemned was innocent. Pilate liked to think of himself as a man who was firm but fair. He took no joy in shedding innocent blood. Sometimes it was necessary, but that was not the cause of his trouble, either.

  Caiaphas had played him for a fool, and Pilate knew it. Pilate had condemned Jesus simply to placate the mob that Caiaphas had manipulated.

  Eventually, Pilate would have to show Caiaphas who ruled this province. To spite Caiaphas, he had written a plaque identifying Jesus as “King of the Jews,” over the objections of the temple priests. People might take that as a mockery of Jesus rather than as Pilate intended, but no matter.

  Adding to his troubles, his wife Claudia had locked herself in her room and was not speaking to him. Why did she not understand? This Jesus was nothing, just another charlatan prophet. Would she have him risk everything for the sake of one crazy man? Did she not know that if a riot had broken out and word got back to Tiberius, Pilate would be blamed?

  Caiaphas is sure to come barging in soon. Why is Jupiter trying me so much today?

  Pilate scowled at an approaching attendant.

  The attendant bowed. “Begging your pardon, Prefect. The noblis decurio Joseph, a merchant from Arimathea, is here to see you.”

  Pilate smiled. “Very well.” He ceased his restless pacing and moved to his seat. Of all the Jews in this accursed place, Joseph was the only one Pilate trusted. He gave sound advice. Most importantly, he understood Pilate’s perspective. The other Jews did nothing but complain. Yes, Pilate would happily grant Joseph an audience.

  But when the attendant brought Joseph into the private audience chamber, Pilate was struck by Joseph’s haggard appearance. The smile that typically brightened his face was missing. “You look terrible, my friend.”

  “I come on a matter of great urgency.” Joseph paused, seemingly at a loss for words. This was unusual. In a halting voice, he continued. “I’m here to claim the body of my great-nephew, who was crucified today.”

  So, that was it. Pilate hadn’t known that Joseph’s family had a black sheep. One of the robbers executed along with that crazy prophet. Pilate nodded. A simple matter. “I’m sorry I had to order his execution, but I must enforce the laws. I did not know he was related to you. Maybe it’s better that I didn’t know; it would only have delayed things and put your family through more pain.”

  Joseph stood there, weeping.

  Pilate rose from his chair and laid a gentle hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “We executed two robbers today. Which one is it? I will release his body at once and ensure no word of this gets out. There is no need to bring shame on your family.”

  “It was Jesus. He is my niece’s son.”

  Astonished, Pilate drew back.

  Joseph was a member of the Sanhedrin. It was inconceivable that his own family would have a blasphemer within its midst.

  Pilate cared nothing about the distinctions between the various Jewish sects, so long as they heeded the authority of Rome. “Jesus is a different matter. If he had stuck to teaching… .” Pilate sighed. “But that business at the temple the other day. Overturning tables, and… . Joseph, he ran the businessmen out with a whip! I couldn’t overlook such rebelliousness, especially during Passover.”

  Joseph nodded.

  “And his followers… .” Pilate stopped for a moment. “If he is buried anywhere but in the pit of criminals, his grave site might become a shrine.”

  “Jesus was innocent of any crime. You know this. So, if it becomes a shrine there is no harm in it.”

  Pilate’s job was to keep the peace and see to the collection of taxes; these Jewish sects could sort out for themselves what shrines were built. And Joseph was right, of course, about Jesus’s innocence. It would only insult Joseph’s intelligence to defend the charges against his kinsman. “I had no choice, Joseph. Caiaphas and the mob were threatening a riot—”

  “It isn’t for me to lay blame. Jesus’s death and sacrifice were the will of God. You were only his instrument.”

  “Caiaphas said that Jesus claimed to be the son of your god. You have a strange religion, my friend, if you worship a god who would sacrifice his own son.”

  “Jesus’s sacrifice offers salvation and redemption to the entire world.”

  “I guess I must have burned that bridge. I doubt that your god will save me after I condemned his son.”

  “The mercy of God has no limit.” Joseph pointed his crooked old finger at Pilate. “Just claim Jesus as your savior. God will forgive even the death of his only son. But without Jesus there is no hope of salvation.” His hand dropped.

  Pilate paced the floor, considering the matter. “Jesus was a fool, Joseph, and so are you. I have seen how he brings hatred to the eyes of your countrymen. Eventually, they will turn on you as well. I fear you must leave this province. I cannot protect you, and I will not have your blood on my hands.”

  “What about the body?” Joseph asked. “Under our law, it must be buried before sundown.”

  “Take it. I will send soldiers to protect you and to make sure he is dead. But remember my words. You must leave this province.”

  Joseph nodded, said his good-bye, and left.

  Pilate smiled, smoothed his toga, and stood straight. His decision to release the body to Joseph could appear as a simple matter of discharging the law, but Jesus was supposedly a dangerous heretic with followers. Pilate could have delayed matters and manipulated things so Jesus’s body would be thrown anonymously into a common pit for criminals, as Caiaphas would have wished. Better yet, Caiaphas will surely know that. Best of all, Caiaphas will come to know that I know. Let the place become a shrine. It will serve Caiaphas right. He will think twice before threatening me with a mob again.

  Joseph

  One by one, once they realized that the vengeance of Caiaphas and the mob had been spent, most of the Twelve had returned from hiding and gathered at Joseph’s house. Judas was dead, and Thomas was still missing. Peter was the most distraught, still berating himself for denying Jesus three times—just as Jesus had foretold.

  Joseph lowered his creaking bones onto a cushion as he once again relived the evening of Jesus’s death in his mind.

  Upon returning to the Hill of the Skull, he had found Mary cradling the body of Jesus against her bosom. The soldiers on the execution detail were happy to let Joseph deal with the body, in accordance with Pilate’s command. Fortunately, Joseph’s friend Nicodemus, a secret follower of Jesus, was skilled in the art of burial. Together with Mary and some of the other women, they had carried Jesus’s body to the tomb Joseph had set aside for himself. Working quickly, they had prepared Jesus for burial, barely finishing the job as the sun set, signaling the commencement of the Sabbath and the cessation of all work. A group of Roman soldiers had arrived to guard the tomb; they rolled a boulder over the entrance. The resounding thud as it dropped into place still weighed on Joseph’s heart.

  They were all now sitting so quietly. That was a good thing, as Joseph had no desire to talk to anyone. Eager for a distraction, he fiddled with his thorn-wood walking stick. The smooth, spherical handle comfortably fit his palm. A small bronze ferrule protected the bottom. Vine-like swirls in the wood grain evoked the Celtic patterns in the wares he had encountered during his career as a traveling merchant. Joseph liked how the stick bent when he put his weight on it; that flex had always energized his gait. It feels alive, as if it might take root and grow if I plant it in the ground—but not in these parched Judean hills.

  Joseph had been unable to sleep. He ate and drank little.

  Finally, on this morning of the third day, he ordered a servant to bring him a cup of wine. He heard a few whisperings among the others as he lifted his cup. Why should an old man not be allowed the r
elief of a cup of wine? Then they all went silent.

  He did not care. He was thirsty. He was in a world of his own as he sipped the sweet wine from that old wooden cup. It was the first simple pleasure he had allowed himself.

  He began to shake. Throbbing pain wrenched his body. Is this death? Oh, rapture! Sweet death will bring me with Jesus once again. But the pain quickly ceased.

  Everyone in the room stared at him.

  “The spasms are ended. What are you all babbling for?”

  James, hands trembling, tipped the fruit from a polished platter and handed it to Joseph. Puzzled, Joseph peered at his own reflection. What? I have become younger! His hair was dark brown again, his skin smooth. The ravages of several decades—erased.

  John pointed to the cup. “Jesus said that anyone who drank from his cup would live forever.”

  Andrew and Matthew grabbed for the cup, fighting over it.

  The tumult shocked Joseph from his reverie. “You fools!” He leaped to his feet, his bones and muscles no longer protesting. He snatched the cup back and hurled it to the floor. “Why do you wish to abide in this world of sorrows longer than necessary? Don’t you wish to be with the Lord as soon as you can?”

  Peter bent down and picked up the cup. He handed it to Joseph, saying, “The Lord appointed this cup to you, Joseph. Keep it secret, for there is too much power in it. Keep it safe.”

  Suddenly, the door of the upper chamber burst open. Mary the Magdalene stood in the doorway, gasping for breath. All attention in the room turned to her. “He’s alive!”

  Over the next forty days, the risen Jesus remained with his disciples, preparing them for their task of spreading the Word to distant lands.

  One morning, on a hillside near Emmaus, Jesus appeared to Joseph alone. “Uncle, soon I will give my followers their commission. But for you, I have a more specific mission.”

  Joseph nodded.

  Even before Jesus spoke, he had known he must return to the island of Britain to fulfill a promise on Jesus’s behalf.