The Making of the Lamb Read online

  It was a promise Jesus had made many years before.

  Prelude

  St. Hilary’s Parish, Cornwall, A.D. 1997, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth II of England

  Dad grimaced at Ned’s flip-flops. Ned thought they were quite sensible, but Dad thought them too casual, even for the family’s summer holiday in the peaceful Cornish village.

  “Look, Mum,” said Ned. He had crouched for a closer look at a plaque at the base of a headstone. “Dad, I’ve found the strangest thing!”

  “Not so loud, Ned, we’re in a churchyard,” said Mum. “People won’t appreciate your disrespect.”

  Ned held himself back from saying the first thing that came to mind—that most of the folk in the churchyard were in no state to mind. “But Mum, this old headstone is so odd,” he said instead. “And it’s got a boy on it!”

  “Now Ned, what on earth are you fussing about?” said Dad. “And do control your voice. Your mother is right, we’re on consecrated ground.”

  As Mum and Dad approached, Ned read the words aloud: “F. T. O’Donoghue, Priest, died March, 18, 1881.” Although more than a century old, the polished plaque was relatively easy to read, in stark contrast to the more timeworn features of the headstone itself. “There’s a priest buried here, under a carving of a boy. Why would a priest have a headstone with a boy on it?”

  “Here, Ned, let’s be sensible,” said Ned’s father, with his usual knowing air. “This old thing is only a Celtic cross. Certainly they’ve told you about the Celtic church at that horribly expensive school we’re sending you to. Really, now, it is not a boy at all. It’s Jesus being crucified—simply a very old crucifix.” He turned to Mum. “Where does he get that insensible curiosity? I’m sure it’s not from my side of the family.”

  For his part, Ned thought he was being sensible. He might be only thirteen years old, but why shouldn’t he be curious? Such an odd old headstone presented a mystery that wanted solving. “It looks like a boy,” said Ned, “and he seems to be alive and happy. He’s fully dressed, too. Jesus on the cross is always mostly naked.”

  “That’s just because it’s so primitive,” said Mum. She always agreed with Dad.

  As his parents started to drag him away, an old priest rounded the corner and addressed them warmly. “So, I see you’ve found St. Hilary’s finest treasure.” The cleric’s face was timeworn and wrinkled, but he seemed to be getting around well enough.

  “Vicar, how do you do?” said Mum. “We’re so sorry to be such noisy tourists trampling around your peaceful churchyard.”

  “Yes, do forgive us,” Dad said, giving the priest a smile and a sensible handshake.

  “I am sure the dead love the noise of the living.” The priest winked at Ned. “I’m Father Michael Walters, vicar here at St. Hilary’s. I welcome you to our parish, and I hope you will join us for Mass tomorrow morning at 9:30.”

  “Oh, yes, Father, we do adore the simple ordered worship of these country parishes. We would be delighted,” Mum said.

  “We are actually somewhat high church in this parish. I hope you don’t mind a few smells and bells, as they say. Though we are still Church of England.”

  Following a bit of small talk, they settled into a silence. Ned took the silence as his chance. Looking from the headstone to the old vicar, he posed his question slowly, as if a show of deliberation might ease his parents’ annoyance. “Father Walters, is this a boy on this cross?”

  “Oh, hang it all,” muttered Dad.

  “Yes, it is our Lord as a young man,” said the vicar. “Right about your age, I would say. Such headstones are found all around this county.” Father Walters paused. Perhaps he had noted Dad’s displeasure. Nonetheless, he continued. “These tunic crosses, as they are called, date from around the tenth century. They remind us of a story many have forgotten.”

  Ned glanced his father’s way. “What story?”

  “Some people believe that our Lord’s great-uncle, St. Joseph of Arimathea, brought young Jesus to this land. These crosses are considered to be reminders of that visit.”

  “But, Vicar, that must be just a fanciful legend,” Dad blustered. “Invented in the Middle Ages by the church, to attract pilgrims and make a little money. Surely you’ll agree, it is important for us to differentiate between established belief and fanciful, as well as insensible, legend.”

  The vicar kept his silence, though Ned detected a hint of a smile on the vicar’s visage. Ned wanted to hear more, but he knew when his parents were through with a subject—and the vicar seemed to sense it, too.

  Saying something about a bread pudding in the refrigerator at the bed and breakfast, Mum walked away.

  Dad followed after, reminding her to douse the pudding with a bit of treacle.

  The vicar and Ned were left alone for a moment. “It must have been quite an adventure,” Ned said, “for Jesus to be here in this strange land with his uncle.”

  “It might have been life changing—or maybe even life making—for the young Jesus,” said Father Walters. “Scripture tells us nothing about Jesus’s life from the age of twelve to the onset of his ministry. Most people assume he spent those missing years in Nazareth, learning Saint Joseph’s carpentry trade and studying. Your father is right that it would have been an improbable journey to take in those days, but remember that nothing is impossible for God.” The vicar gave Ned a warm smile. “Never be afraid to ask questions, my son.”

  “C’mon, Ned,” Dad hailed from the gateway. “We mustn’t bother the kind vicar any longer. So nice to have met you, Father Walters. We look forward to seeing you tomorrow!”

  Father Walters walked back into the church.

  Ned paused, still examining the stone. He had more questions yet. He knew from school that the Romans did not invade Britain until well after Jesus’s death. If Jesus had traveled to Britain any time during his life, he would have encountered primitive Celts and pagan druids.

  Back then, no one would have made such a journey—all the way from the Holy Land to Britain, and back again—just for a holiday. What might have drawn young Jesus so far from his home, to travel among people who would have been so strange to him? And what is going on with this cross? If it was made in the tenth century as the vicar said, why is there a plaque marking it as a headstone for a priest who died in 1881?

  Ned turned to rejoin his parents. Yes, Dad is right. The vicar’s story really is quite insensible.

  But that boy in the cross puzzled him. He contemplated the carving again. The boy has his arms spread, just like Jesus on the Cross, but he does not seem to be suffering. He wants something. He yearns for it. What can it be? Ned thought about how he and his friends at school often conspired together. That’s it! The carving reminded him of how they liked to share secrets. What secret is this carved Jesus trying to tell me? I can ask the vicar to tell me more tomorrow.

  Chapter 1

  What to Do About Jesus?

  Jerusalem, A.D. 8, during the reign of Augustus, first emperor of Rome

  Caiaphas

  Caiaphas strode across the court of priests in the highest level of the temple, forbidden to all but clerics. The courtyard of priests was where they ritually slaughtered, washed, and cooked the lambs and other sacrificial offerings on the Sabbaths and holy days. Among the structures rising above was the House of God that housed the Holy of Holies, reserved to the high priest himself; and the less sacred but still awe-inspiring Hekal, the worship hall for all the clerics.

  Caiaphas descended a broad stairway to the classrooms. Laymen were only permitted to gaze upon the temple structures above when they came to hand up their sacrificial offerings, but the classrooms were open to all the Israelite men.

  Like the other Sadducee priests, Caiaphas wore a simple ephod as an apron over his white cloak, the hem of which was bordered with a blue fringe. For the task at hand, this would be a sufficient display of his authority. No need to call undue attention to himself. His mission did not require him to display his
role as one of the Sanhedrin, the governors of the temple.

  Annas, the high priest and Caiaphas’s father-in-law, had tasked him with investigating another false prophet. The people’s hunger for deliverance from their Roman overlords was creating an environment in which such charlatans flourished, and lately they seemed to be popping up more than ever. Such thinking could be dangerous. Romans were ready to pounce at any hint of insurrection.

  Usually, Annas sent a junior priest to chase a blasphemer away, but this time he had chosen to send Caiaphas. This would make sense if someone were spewing especially dangerous teachings, but how dangerous could this one be? This had to be some kind of a bad joke. This was merely a boy of twelve.

  Still, Caiaphas would deal with the situation. A few strokes of the whip would correct the boy’s impudence before he could do any real damage.

  Caiaphas turned into the room used for teaching, stood in the back, and listened. He was soon amazed. Learned doctors, men who should know better, were listening with rapt attention.

  The boy was not much to look at, a little tall and thin for his age, but not malnourished. He had an engaging face with a thin nose and lips, smiling and expressive. Locks of medium brown curls flowed to his shoulders and framed his face. His teeth seemed healthy, and all there; it was enough to make him suspect the boy might be the son of a rich family, but the meanness of his garments and the calluses on his fingers belied that notion. He wore only a simple off-white tunic, a prayer shawl, and a skullcap, with a plain pair of sandals on his feet. Well-worn though his clothes were, they were also well mended. His family must be of modest means, but not impoverished.

  The boy certainly knew Holy Scripture; Caiaphas had to give him that. The more he listened, however, the more he caught on to the subtle and dangerous nuances in what young Jesus bar Joseph had to say.

  “We are all called to be in God’s service,” Jesus declared.

  So far, nothing wrong with that.

  “Even as a child I am called to do his will, as the Psalms say. Today in this temple, as this beautiful morning light shines upon me, I am here because of God. There is hope for Israel. We will see the Messiah come soon, out of obscurity and from a poor family.”

  “But how can you assume he will be from humble beginnings?” asked an old rabbi. “We believe the Messiah will be great and powerful.”

  “The Prophet Isaiah said clearly that the Messiah will come from the line of Jesse,” said the boy, “and that a branch shall grow out of his roots. That family is no longer great in Israel. Therefore, it follows that the Messiah will come from obscurity.”

  A young rabbi then spoke up. “With respect, sir, the boy is right. What he says is in the beginning of Isaiah’s prophecy.”

  The boy is clever, but it is dangerous for him to advance his arguments with Scripture. Heretics and blasphemers could twist many passages to deceive listeners. That was why interpretation of Scripture was the province of the highest of the priests.

  “I come today as a messenger from far-off Nazareth. God is God of Love. We must know his love before we can love each other. We must disregard external representations and gaze within. This must be part of our preparation before we can be freed from Rome. We must love even those who are not Jewish, for they too are loved by God—”

  “But young man, we Jews are the chosen people of the one true God,” said a man in the crowd.

  “We are the blessed flock of all nations,” said another older man. “Do you not know that we alone are favored?”

  “But, good sir, consider the words of the prophet Isaiah,” said Jesus. “He says that the Messiah will save those people who have walked in darkness, and that even the gentiles will see a great light—for upon them hath the light shined.”

  The old man was left speechless for a moment. Then he whispered something to the man seated beside him.

  “I fear the whispers of this place,” Jesus said. “People, do not whisper—have faith that we will be saved. We must have hope, and I pray for those who whisper hatred and jealousy. We must know that the Messiah shall be conspired against when he is here, just as the Psalms say, and he will suffer reproach for God’s sake because of this hatred. But then he will be exalted and glorified among all, and he will save Israel from her captors.”

  The young rabbi interjected again to say that Jesus spoke the truth from the book of Daniel.

  The older rabbi shook his head.

  It seemed to Caiaphas that the boy was not only using Scripture to advance error, but also that he meant to advance the cause of the rebellious zealots. Allowing such teaching in the temple would bring down the wrath of the Romans. Caiaphas nearly raised his voice to silence the boy, but his curiosity made him hesitate. He leaned forward to hear what else the boy had to say.

  “The Messiah will bring love to all. He will be the salvation of Israel, sent by God, who is his father, as the Proverbs say. The Son will look to the Father and gain insight into his mission of saving this land. I am still a boy, and I struggle with growing and understanding. I only wish to become a better servant to God, so that I may glorify him. I wish all of you peace in the Lord.”

  What is that about the Messiah being the son of God? That was dangerous blasphemy. And the boy’s words of peace only deepened Caiaphas’s concern. His words of love can easily hide from the ignorant the danger in his teachings, just as the sweetness of wine can hide poison dissolved within the same glass.

  Suddenly, an old man and a woman in peasant garb burst in. The man’s sudden entry was odd enough, but it was the woman who caused everyone to look up in astonishment. Not only was it unheard of for a woman to enter these rooms, but she had not even bothered to cover her head. The woman appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties—certainly old enough to know better.

  “We’ve been sick with worry!” she said. “We’ve been looking for you for three days!”

  So, these must be the parents—the carpenter and his wife.

  Caiaphas crept closer to hear. She had regained some sense of propriety, lowering her voice to keep what she said to the boy between her and him.

  The boy raised an eyebrow and sighed audibly as his mother kept talking.

  What impudence! The boy had caused his parents such grief and worry. He should be begging their forgiveness. Under the laws of Leviticus, a disobedient son might suffer death.

  The mother paused for breath.

  “Why were you looking for me?” the boy said. “Would you not know that I would be about my Father’s business?”

  The mother began to weep at her son’s words. Was this just the emotional release from the stress of the last three days, or did what the boy had said mean more to her? No one else in the room seemed to catch on, but to Caiaphas there was no mistaking the intention of the boy’s words. He was talking of God as being his own father. The boy thinks of himself not only as the Messiah, but as God’s own son. What blasphemy! Now Caiaphas understood. Annas was right to entrust me with this task. This boy is dangerous far beyond his years.

  But Annas had instructed Caiaphas to investigate and report back—nothing more—and as the parents led Jesus away, Caiaphas thought it best to let them go. I could have the boy whipped, but what good would that do? It would only make the little devil’s blasphemy more subtle. No, Caiaphas would report back as instructed, and Annas would certainly appreciate his wisdom in recognizing the danger the boy posed.

  Most Pharisees served in the synagogues around the country, and the Sadducees served in the temple. The two sects were rivals, but there was common ground between them when it came to the danger of blasphemy and incitement to rebellion. Caiaphas would write to the Pharisee rabbi in Nazareth, asking him to keep an eye on Jesus.

  Mary

  After the family’s return to Nazareth, life seemed to return to normal. Joseph found work in Sepphoris, the great city of Lower Galilee. Jesus was now old enough to be a real help to him, so except for Sabbath days they awoke before dawn to make time fo
r the long walk to work.

  Mary was always the first to rise to get the daily bread ready. Jesus would be next, joining Mary on the rooftop. With Jesus off with Joseph through the long day, Mary loved this all-too-short early morning hour that Jesus spent with her.

  In the predawn hour, the darkness served to heighten the senses, and the rooftop was a world of sounds and smells—the chattering of the women on nearby rooftops, the dusty aroma of the desert carried on an easterly wind from over the horizon, and the scent of dung wafted by a local zephyr from the flocks’ hillside pastures. In the birthing season, the interludes of stillness would be broken by the cries of the newborn lambs, but now Mary heard only the sound of her fist punching down the risen dough. As she punched it down, the dough released the subtle scent of yeast, something that her nose was trained to search out in the darkness.

  In the first rays of dawn, she saw the mess of windblown flour all over her hands and clothes. It was no matter; the breeze would soon carry it away.

  Jesus smiled to see her covered in flour. “Good morning, Mother. What can I do to help?”

  ”The dough is already formed,” she said. “We have a respite to give the loaves a chance for the second rising.”

  They needed to put little into words as they waited.

  After the second rising, as they moved the loaves to the oven, Jesus managed to dust himself a bit, too. He was too old now to cradle in her arms, but the flour on his face gave her the excuse to touch him as she brushed it away, and then he returned the favor. Mary easily could have washed her face and hands with water from the cistern, but she would sooner have dusted them both even more.

  The surrounding landscape emerged now in the gathering light. They saw the Jezreel Valley, the breadbasket of Galilee, and the highlands devoted to the raising of sheep and goats that ate from the tough grasses and shrubs that grew there. Nazareth was situated on the high part of the ridge, broken by the gullies and sharp ravines eroded away in seasonal flooding that left little moisture behind. The land even in the dry highland was good; the shepherds would have thrived, if not for the burden of taxation. As a woman, Mary knew little of politics, but she could not miss the sight of distended bellies among the villagers, and Jesus often told her how he blamed the Romans for the suffering of the people. Fortunately, Joseph earned enough as a skilled carpenter to provide well for their needs, and Mary had the good sense to husband every coin he earned.