The Death of the Lamb, Part I

The morning was warm and fair, but a strange dread lay on my heart as I walked toward the city. My lamb squirmed in my arms, not liking to be confined. I paused for a moment in the throng and looked up at the sky. I couldn’t put my finger on it; there was just an ominous sense of expectancy in the air, like when you first awake on the day of an unpleasant event. You know it’s not going to be a good day, but you can’t remember why for the first few moments. Today was like that. The sun was shining, but there was something dark lurking around the edges of its brightness.

Today was Passover, one of the most important days of our year. I was walking to Jerusalem both for the afternoon’s Passover sacrifice and hopefully to listen to the Teacher again. I could hardly wait to hear and see Him. I had first seen him three years before, when I was helping my mother at the Pool of Bethesda. We were looking for the movement of the magical waters that could heal her crippled legs. He had made a lame man walk that day, and I had tried to get my mother up close to him in the hope that he would heal her, but of course everyone else had the same idea. The crowd was just too great, and my mother was nearly trampled in all the confusion. I had wanted to follow the Teacher when he left Jerusalem back then, but eventually I had to agree with my mother; I was just too young and she had no one else to care for her.

Jesus had returned to the area several times since then, and last year, with my mother’s permission, I had gone for a couple days to listen to him as he traveled from town to town. I had never heard anyone speak the way Jesus spoke. I can’t describe the feelings that welled up inside me when he looked at me. He made me feel like I was the only one in the crowd, like he was talking to me alone. It made me feel somehow worthy and capable of doing great things for God, like Moses and David did.

The religious leaders said that Jesus was a blasphemer and demon-possessed, but it certainly didn’t seem that way to me. I had seen my share of the demon-possessed. They were irrational, unpredictable and sometimes violent. Jesus couldn’t have been less like that. He was calm, logical and supremely confident, and that seemed to upset our religious leaders. They also said that he was uneducated and a bastard half-Jew. I couldn’t comment on that. I guess it all depends on how you measure a man. It doesn’t seem right to judge a man by his parents. I don’t imagine any man has much say about who his parents are. And I could certainly relate to the part about being uneducated. I am uneducated. Of course, like most boys, I spent several years early on in school to learn the basics of reading and writing so that I could study the Torah as well as do business, but then the demands of learning a trade

stepped in and I had to give up book learning. The same is true of all my friends. So if being uneducated is somehow something wrong with a person, then there is something wrong with me, too, and with virtually everyone I know.

Jesus was the most intense person I had ever seen. During the short time I had spent traveling with him, it seemed like he never wasted a moment. I got the impression that somehow his time was short and he felt that he needed to get on with his work. I didn't understand it then, and I still didn't understand it as we slowly made our way into Jerusalem that morning. He was fairly young, maybe a little bit younger than the age my father would be had he still been alive. Most men Jesus’ age could look forward to at least another 20 years, and sometimes many more than that. Why there was such a sense of urgency about him was a mystery.

Jesus spoke with love, but had no time for those who weren't serious about living lives that glorified God. And it always seemed that he could discern who those people were. Every time Jesus had an encounter with the religious leaders, the tension in the air would almost take your breath away. I had witnessed a few of those confrontations and I remember feeling uncomfortable watching Jesus take these men to task. What he did was turn our ideas about what pleases God upside down. You see, we were taught from the beginning that the sacrifices we made pleased God, and that the keeping of the law pleased God as well as our giving money. In fact, the religious leaders taught us that the more we gave to the coffers at the synagogue, the more God would shower his blessing on us. But here came a man who taught that it wasn't our actions so much as our hearts that God was interested in. He said that our actions would follow as our hearts became more attuned to God's. He said that daily obedience was more important to God than our sacrifices; that loving and serving others was more important than keeping the Sabbath. And that God was more interested in the cheerful heart of the giver than He was in the amount the giver gave. All of which stuck in the craw of our religious leaders. It is one thing to be a nobody like me and have your lifelong way of thinking challenged, but it is another altogether to be a respected religious leader in the same position. Although I was taught to respect our leaders, I never really thought they cared much about us. They were certainly very spiritual though, and it was hard to watch them being embarrassed by the Teacher.

The Sunday before, Jesus had again entered Jerusalem, but this time riding on a white colt amid the joyous shouts of the people. We had all thought that this must be the day of our deliverance. We had suffered under the iron fist of Rome for almost 100 years now. Ever since General Pompey came rolling into our land with his legions. In my more bitter moments, I was gratified by the knowledge that Pompey was murdered by the Egyptians as he got out of his boat on the shores of Alexandria. Betrayed by the very people who had promised to protect him from the wrath of his popular rival, Julius Caesar. Too bad that hadn't happened before he came to Israel. Ever since that conquest, we have been living on our own land, but subject to the pagan Romans. I had difficulty understanding why God, the one true God, would allow this to happen. Why would He allow the worship of idols to go on in the land of His people? Why would He allow the rights of His chosen people to be trampled? And why didn't He answer our prayers for salvation? Like every Jew, I knew that our people had suffered much longer enslaved in Egypt back before the days of the deliverer Moses. But that didn't make it any easier to swallow our present plight. A great number of people thought that Jesus must be the next deliverer promised to us. He certainly had the power of God with him, and the support of the people necessary to begin a revolt. And when he came riding into the city of God that bright morning, he was hailed as the promised deliverer, “Hosanna Hosanna. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” the crowd shouted. Word spread like wildfire all over the countryside that the Deliverer, the promised Messiah, had arrived in Jerusalem. It would be only a matter of time before he would lead us to victory over the Romans and establish the everlasting Kingdom that the prophet Isaiah spoke so much about. The desert would bloom and the lion would lie down with the lamb, and I was sure that in that Kingdom I would eventually be able to gain an audience with King Jesus and he would heal my mother. So we waited expectantly.

But Jesus didn't do anything. All we heard was silence. In fact, after teaching in the temple each day that week, Jesus disappeared each evening. No one knew where he went, and nothing happened. The Roman legionnaires still walked unchallenged through our streets, their coarse speech insulting us and our way of life. Their armour glittered in the sun, boasting the invincibility of the Empire. The people still had hope, however, and they hung on the Teacher’s every word, waiting for him to make his move and send out a call to arms to begin the revolt. I knew with Jesus at the head of our army, with his miraculous powers, we couldn't help but crush the Romans. They didn't have a chance.

So it was with an air of expectancy that I went into Jerusalem that morning. What better time than Passover for Jesus to overthrow our enemies? After all, wasn't this centuries-old annual celebration about God's overthrow of the Egyptians and his deliverance of his people by

the hand of Moses? Jesus had probably been waiting for this very day to make his move. Of course, that was why he had delayed. He was waiting for just the right moment. I was not the only one walking toward Jerusalem that fair morning. Beggars, pilgrims and others like me, wishing to hear the Teacher again or awaiting the expected revolt, made their way into the city. The sound and smell of livestock was strong. Many were leading or carrying lambs as I was. Early this afternoon we would all go into the Temple and with a priest standing by with a bowl, we would sacrifice these lambs to atone for our sins. The priest would catch the blood in the bowl and then sprinkle it on the altar. There were so many thousands of people that we

would have to go in shifts. This commemorated the deliverance of our people from slavery in Egypt so many years ago. I had bought a lamb from the temple stalls last year and it had cost me so much that I decided to buy, raise and bring my own for the sacrifice this year. My little sister had been appalled when I told her why I was bringing the lamb with me this morning, and had run away in tears. Someday she'll understand what the Torah says. There has to be shedding of blood to pay for our sins, and only a spotless lamb, one without blemishes, qualifies to be that sacrifice.

To be continued...