When Jesus Wept (The Jerusalem Chronicles)

When Jesus Wept (The Jerusalem Chronicles)

“Page-turning . . . Set against the political and religious turmoil of the times, the Thoenes’ story vividly reimagines the evolving friendship between Jesus and Lazarus.” — Publishers Weekly LAZARUS—the man Jesus raised from the dead in one of the most extraordinary encounters with The Living Savior in all of Scripture. But the life of Lazarus holds interest well beyond this miraculous event. Living in Bethany, near Jerusalem, Lazarus witnessed many of the most important events of Jesus’s life and ministry. Lazarus owned a vineyard and devoted his life to caring for its vines and fruit. But he encountered another man—Jesus—whose vineyard was the world, its fruit the eternal souls of men. When Lazarus’s story and the story of Jesus’s crucifixion and resurrection touch in When Jesus Wept , we are offered a unique vision into the power and comfort of Christ’s love. Brock and Bodie Thoene’s most powerful and climactic writing project to date, When Jesus Wept , captures the power and the passion of the men and women who lived through the most important days in the history of the world. Bodie and Brock Thoene are bestselling authors of over seventy works of historical fiction. Their timeless classics have sold more than thirty-five million copies in twenty-three languages and won eight ECPA Gold Medallion Awards. Visit them online at www.thoenebooks.com Facebook: Bodie-and-Brock-Thoene Twitter: @BodieThoene When Jesus Wept The Jerusalem Chronicles By Bodie Thoene Brock Thoene ZONDERVAN Copyright © 2013 Bodie Thoene and Brock Thoene All right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-310-33593-1 Chapter One The sun rose over the garden where my wife and newborn son lay in a newly cut tomb. Thirty days had passed since my Eliza had died in childbirth, taking with her all my hopes and joy. Spring had come to Judea. The vineyards were all in bud, bursting with the promise of new life, but in my heart, death reigned. My life had been pruned as savagely as the most severely clipped and seemingly barren vines in the depth of winter. Ironically, today was my thirtieth birthday. By rote I spoke the final words of Kaddish and placed two stones of remembrance before the grave. The official days of mourning were at an end, but as I walked to the Bethany synagogue mikvah to wash away the ashes of my sorrow, I still carried the weight of my grief with me. Near the ark containing the Torah scrolls, a minyan of ten village leaders prayed the morning prayers. They did not look my way or speak to me of Eliza and the baby. There was nothing left to say. Custom declared that this morning was officially the moment for me to get on with living. I accepted their seeming indifference as I stepped into the cool bath and immersed myself, sinking my curly, unkempt hair into the water's tomblike embrace. When I emerged, I still found my thoughts returning to the beautiful woman I had loved with all my heart, and to the baby boy who had lived only three short days. If only ... Did my persistent sorrow show in my face? Did resentment for the brevity of grief permitted me reflect in my eyes? Judah ben Perez, my friend since childhood, greeted me when I had dressed in clean clothes and emerged into the late spring sunlight. Now we were both widowers—he for many years—but I resented and rejected any comparison between his stoic acceptance and my too fresh, too painful sense of loss. "The peace of HaShem is with you, David ben Lazarus, my brother!" His tone was too bright, as if he had forgotten Eliza was gone. His words hurt me like light hurts the eyes when one looks directly into the sun. "And with you, Judah." "Welcome back." He took my arm as though I had been gone on a long journey. "Have you heard the news from Jerusalem?" Being a rich merchant in the nation's capital, Judah was much better positioned than most to receive the news from the wider world. His trading caravans regularly made journeys to and from Petra, Ecbatana, and Alexandria. Amphorae of oil or wine or dates or wheat, each bearing the clay seal of the House of Perez, were frequently seen on the docks of Caesarea Maritima. From there they were soon en route to Antioch, Athens, and even Rome itself. The Roman province called Coele-Syria that stretched from Damascus to the Nile included the Jewish homeland and was rightly called the Breadbasket of the Empire. Pomegranates and sycamore figs grown on my land took their places in the straw-lined baskets of commerce conveyed by Judah's export company. Sometimes it amused me to think that grapes from my Bethany estate, raised under my care, picked at my direction, crushed under my supervision, and transformed into wine of my vintage, made much longer voyages than ever I had done or dreamed of doing. I never cared to visit Rome, but the fortunes of my house were increased every time a Roman senator's wife praised the product of my labor. Therefore, I had always looked forward to Judah's reports. H