A Man Named Jesus: A Story

By Gayle Rose Calmes

An ordinary family lives in a small community outside ancient Jerusalem. They dont expect what takes place inside the massive walls of the city to have much impact on them or their daily lives. The patriarch of the household is concerned with supporting his family, especially after soldiers destroy work he had completed for wealthy customers, threatening his income and reputation. His wife concentrates on running their home and raising their family. The older children are restless, only concerned with their future. The younger children seem oblivious to all that goes on around them. Caught between worrying about a coming baby and surviving the present, none of them expect that a new kind of life awaits them.

Danger threatens this community and its inhabitants. From the lively rabbi who embraces the rumblings of new teachings to the old women who reject any change around them, everyone in the village faces challenges to their traditions, lives, and beliefs. An unstoppable momentum beyond their control strengthens, and resistance to change forms the beginnings of a new faithbut faith in what? Something amazing has happened, and none of their lives will ever be the same again.

A Man Named Jesus offers a powerful glimpse into what it would have been like to live during the time that Jesus lived, died, and was resurrectedthe beginning of Christianity.

All proceeds from book sales will be donated to the Backpack Ministry at Bethany United Methodist Church, Austin, Texas, providing weekend meals to elementary school students on assistance programs who otherwise would go hungry. For more information, contact www.bethany-umc.org.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Voices
• Release date: Apr 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781462406043

Gayle Rose Calmes

Gayle Rose Calmes lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband, Paul, near their children and grandchildren. They enjoy retirement, travel, and their Bethany church family of thirty years. Gayle writes for the church’s seasonal devotional books.

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Copyright © 2013, 2014 Gayle Rose Calmes.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Inspiring Voices books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Inspiring Voices

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.inspiringvoices.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0605-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0604-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907342

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 05/13/2014

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Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Acknowledgements

In memory of Mama Lee Sottile, my Barnabas and my friend

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INTRODUCTION

I t was 8:40 a.m. I sat in my reclining chair next to the window. I was still in my pajamas, with a prayer shawl made by a good friend around my shoulders. I sat watching birds at the feeders and flowers on the weeds waving in the breeze. On the window ledge beside my prayer chair sat a cup of coffee, a bottle of nail polish, a tube of moisturizer, two small calendars, and the clock. The time and the day registered deep in my heart. It was Good Friday. Tradition says that Jesus’s trip to the cross and crucifixion began sometime around nine a.m. and ended around three p.m. My clock said it was almost nine a.m.

Unlike the date for Christmas, Easter is an accurate date each year because of its proximity to the Passover. Passover is the annual celebration by Jewish people that commemorates the first Passover when they smeared lamb’s blood over their doors, marking them as the children of God, to keep the angel of death from harming them.

The Egyptians suffered the results of their pharaoh’s refusal to free the Jews when every firstborn of Egypt died. This included the pharaoh’s own son, which finally persuaded him to let the people go with Moses. The Passover meal is filled with symbolism and maintains the tradition of orally passing on the history of the Israelite people’s exodus from bondage under Pharaoh and their journey to the Promised Land.

Two thousand years ago, a new lamb’s blood was shed to free people from the bondage of sin. Instead of being placed above the door to our homes, it was placed over the door to our hearts.

I decided to observe the time of Christ’s crucifixion somehow. I picked up my journal to begin my usual conversation with God. I looked at the clock one more time. Then I began to write.

Thirteen hours later, I was still in my prayer chair, in my pajamas, writing. I had barely eaten and had declined going to church for the Good Friday evening worship service. I didn’t need to go. I was already at Golgotha, living it all through the eyes and life of a man who had lived in Jesus’s day. I spent the next several months with him in my mind and writing his words. He lived on the edge of Jerusalem with his wife and children. He was a regular person, an everyman, just living his life as best he could—until he was inadvertently drawn into the drama of Good Friday by a surging mob and normal, human, morbid curiosity. For him, as for all of us—whether we choose to believe or not to believe—nothing was ever the same again.

This book is not historically, theologically, or biblically correct in all details. It is written in today’s language, using regular words and descriptions. Rather than attempting to write only accurate information as to the exact lifestyle and wording used during the time of Jesus, I have left the style as it came to me, in the language that my heart and I recognize.

To anyone disturbed by my fanciful locations, characters, or events, I apologize. It is an imaginary story, but one that might have happened to any one of us if we had lived then. This is how it came to me—to give to you.

Whenever I picked up my pen and opened myself to God, I became this man and his words. Like Mother Theresa puts it, I was a little pencil in God’s hand. This is the narrator’s story, not mine. Yet, even today, this can also be our story—yours and mine—if we choose it to be. It is a common story about finding faith and how hard that can sometimes be. Come, join me on a journey that began long ago and goes on forever.

I am not just a character in a book. I am not just words upon a page.

My lungs breathe air. My feet walk earth. My heart beats life.

I am human. I am you. I am me. I am all of us. I am one of us. I am real.

And so was He.

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Chapter 1

I am a busy man. I don’t have time for religions, politics, or superstitions. Still, the noise coming toward my shop from the city that morning caught my attention. I put down my tool and stepped onto the stone entry to my shop. The size of the crowd I saw surprised me. The multitude moved until it reached just past my shop and then split to line the street. In the middle of the road, three men carrying horizontal, wooden beams for their own crosses struggled to walk forward, prodded and whipped by Roman soldiers on horseback and on foot.

The first two men seemed to be of no interest to the crowd. There was a slight gap in the procession after they had passed, and then I briefly saw the third man stumbling up the street. He kept his sad brown eyes focused on the road in front of him, ignoring the hostile crowd’s verbal abuse. He certainly didn’t look like a madman, which was one of the names the crowd around him shouted. He was bent almost in half, the weight of the wood tied to his shoulders pressing mercilessly down upon him. His lean face was covered in blood, flowing from a horrible crown of thorns pressed into his scalp. His back and sides showed the deep cuts of a lead-strung whip.

The people blocked my view again as they crowded in on him and yelled at him. I hate to admit it, but my curiosity kept me lined up beside the street, watching. Bystanders continued jeering at the bloodied man, and I knew then that the third man was Jesus. Throwing rocks and words at him, people began shouting. You say you’re the Son of God. Save yourself! You’re the Messiah? No! Our Messiah was going to help us, not make things worse!

Jesus fell down over and over and was finally unable to get up. The crowd massed around him, shouting, You seemed so strong during your preaching, but now you can’t even carry your cross. Three soldiers pushed the closest hecklers back toward where I stood, and my view was momentarily blocked.

Standing on my toes, I peered over their heads in time to see a man being roughly pulled from the sideline by the tallest Roman. Two other soldiers untied the beam from Jesus’s shoulders and tied it onto the unlucky man’s back. My heart chilled as I saw the bystander bend with its weight. Even after the beam had been lifted from him, Jesus sagged to the dusty ground.

I recognized the unlucky bystander: it was Simon of Cyrene! He had obviously been at the wrong place at the wrong time during his latest visit to the city with his two sons. I saw his boys clinging to each other, looking terrified at what they saw. They tried to follow their father but were pushed back by a soldier. The youngest boy fell and started to cry. These boys were old enough to understand that their father had no choice when the Romans pressed him into that awful service. They’d seen the results of crucifixions before but not the journey to the crosses. They were young but aware enough to know where their father was headed and what would happen to the shredded man lying in the dirt. Having no other choice, the children began following their father and the crowd to the last place they wanted to be. A soldier pulled Jesus to his feet and pushed him forward, and the procession resumed.

Before I could step out of the way, I became entangled in the crowd and was pushed along. The mob was so thick and single-minded, I could have lifted my feet and still been moved. Perhaps I should have. My sandals were stepped on so many times, I was blistered and bleeding by the time I was able to separate myself from the shifting mass of people. By then, morbid curiosity had taken over, and I continued to walk behind all of them: the two other men carrying crosses to their doom, the crowd, the soldiers, Simon, and the man named Jesus. Farther behind me, two little boys stepped slowly up the trail. They had no place else to go.

I had no desire to watch a crucifixion, yet I felt a sick excitement, and soon I could see three single posts of wood in the distance. I bent my head and gathered my energy as the pathway ascended the hill. By the time I’d nearly reached the top, many people were already heading back the other way toward Jerusalem. Their faces reflected either anger or sorrow.

I began to feel uneasy and thought about turning around. Any idea I’d had that Jesus might do something to stop it all quickly disappeared. I’d heard strange rumors about this man. Obviously that’s all they were: rumors. The crowd in front of me had also lost some of its angry tone. Now I could hear the anguished cries of the prisoners as their bodies were stretched across the ground. I also heard women’s voices, which surprised me. I stopped looking up and concentrated on climbing to the top of the horrible hill without falling. My feet were already a mess. I didn’t need to hurt my knees too.

I stepped over bones as well as rocks as I climbed. I quickly drew my eyes away from the ground when I remembered the name of this execution site: Golgotha, meaning place of a skull. I shuddered as I pictured Jesus’s eyes turning into dark, empty sockets like the skulls lying here and there. Many bodies of the Romans’ victims were never claimed by their relatives. Instead, the wild animals, birds, and relentless heat took care of the remains, until all that was left was what I stumbled over now.

I began to wonder why I was continuing up the hill, but something propelled me on. I was no longer motivated by morbid curiosity. Instead, memories of other stories I’d heard about Jesus filtered through my mind, even though I’d tried not to listen. He had blessed and healed, touched and comforted, and even raised the dead, I’d overheard some say. Yet he couldn’t save himself. That was what I struggled to understand as I finally stood upright at the top of the hill and surveyed the scene before me. I’d made it just as Jesus was being nailed to the cross.

I could hear the other two prisoners—thieves, the man to my left told me. They screamed and begged as the long, thick nails drove into flesh and through muscles, splintering bones. Some days the noise of the shoppers and sellers outside my store would settle down, and if the wind blew just so, I could hear the sounds of the suffering at this execution site. But their cries sounded far away, and I told myself it was only the birds. When criminals were brought down our street, we all turned away and figured they deserved the punishment.

There had never been a procession like this one past my shop, though. I wished the Romans had found a place farther from Jerusalem to do this horrible deed, but that was their point. They wanted us to hear it and see it as we came and went on our travels. They used fear to keep the Jews oppressed and under control. When no one was being executed, the tall poles remained upon the hill, waiting. It was a grim reminder that the next victims could be any one of us. A man didn’t necessarily have to be guilty of a crime to be crucified. Jesus was proof of that. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

The sound of a hammer striking a nail caused me to flinch. Jesus’s face contorted with agony as his second wrist was pinned to the crossbeam. Then both arms were also tied on, in case the nail holding a hand didn’t hold, or the flesh tore. The crossbeam had already been attached to the long pole lying on the ground under Jesus’s body. His tears mixed with sweat and blood, burning his eyes and dripping off his face onto the rocky soil below. To my amazement, I thought he was looking at the soldiers with pity, understanding that they had to do their awful job. That momentarily unnerved the soldiers, especially the younger man. It was obvious that he hadn’t been turned into a merciless man by his fellow soldiers, at least not yet.

There was a tiny moment of silence, except for the thieves’ cries and curses. When the centurion shouted at the soldiers to hurry up, the metallic sounds of nails being hammered and driven through Jesus’s feet into the tall pole beam began. I couldn’t believe it. Jesus never said a word, while the two thieves had begged for mercy.

The dust that was stirred up from so many feet clouded my view for a moment. I edged closer. The two Romans glanced across Jesus at each other. These men had probably done this cruel task hundreds of times; they were efficient and unemotional. I wondered if they were having doubts about the guilt of Jesus and the many rumors they’d heard about him. One put down the hammer, and then they both stood up and grasped the crossbeam Simon had carried. I noticed a small wooden shelf under Jesus’s feet. The Romans didn’t want the prisoners to die too quickly and spoil their fun, so this allowed the victims to boost themselves up and breathe a little, prolonging the suffering. The soldiers awkwardly lifted the cross and dragged it over to a hole in the ground, where they let it go. It smacked into the hole with a distinct sound, similar to a whip, jarring Jesus’s body. This time I expected him to surely cry out, but he didn’t.

The deed was done. Some people cheered, and some spit on Jesus as they walked by, but they soon grew tired of this sport and began leaving. Perhaps their previous desire to see someone suffer had faded and humanity had seeped back into them. Those who were used to watching prisoners suffer—like the soldiers—had long ago mastered shutting away feelings of compassion and instead took pride in being able to inflict unimaginable pain. I watched some of them walking away now that their duty was done.

I remembered Simon again, trudging up the road with blood smeared across his shoulders, hands, back, and head from where Jesus’s broken skin had pressed against the wood. Sweat had slid down Simon’s face and dripped pink liquid onto his shirt. I wasn’t certain whether Simon had been blinking his eyes because of the salty sweat, blood, or his own tears. I’d turned away from looking at him before I could really tell.

I looked back at the crosses as I heard another loud ping of a mallet striking a nail; but this time the nail was being driven into wood, not flesh. The sound was different. A soldier stood on a ladder, nailing a sign onto the cross above Jesus’s head. I couldn’t see what it said, but one of the soldiers snickered.

Someone had carried Jesus’s robe and placed it near the foot of the cross, but far enough away that it wouldn’t get blood on it. I wondered who had brought it, since Jesus was naked now. Several soldiers sat down and began a game in the dirt. I realized that they were gambling for the robe. The man wasn’t even dead yet, but they seemed to be in a hurry for some reason. Then I remembered that the Jewish Sabbath began at sundown, and the soldiers didn’t want to upset the local people by not allowing Jesus to be buried before then. I overheard the centurion discussing ways to hasten the deaths of the prisoners so the Jewish Laws could be followed and the attending Jews wouldn’t start trouble. There had been enough of that already.

I felt sick. I knew that it often took days for people to die on Golgotha. Prisoners’ loved ones sometimes kept them company. Family members could do little except swat away biting flies that further tormented those on the crosses. But this didn’t happen often. Men who were truly guilty had usually broken ties with their loved ones.

I couldn’t help but admire the strength of the soldiers who had to lift the crosses with the additional weight of the men hanging on them. I realized that they were all young, and that was helpful, I was sure. That they were so talented in causing the worst possible misery was probably not limited to any age group.

I heard someone wailing and looked over to see a few women grieving upon their knees in front of Jesus. A man stood with them, watching what the women couldn’t stand to see. I asked someone near me who they were, and a woman behind me said, The older one? That’s his mother.

His own mother was here? She was watching her own beloved son die the worst possible death? That didn’t seem likely, but I realized that many other mothers had probably done the same thing for years. Awareness dawned upon me as I stood there. Never again would I be able to hear the sounds upon that hill without reliving what I was witnessing. Heaviness settled upon me, almost as if I was carrying a cross. Even these criminals, I realized, were also human beings, maybe even with wives and children—like me. All of them had mothers.

The mother’s name is Mary, continued the woman, startling me. Wondering how she knew, I turned around to look at her, but the woman partially covered her face with a dirty, brown cloth. Her hand clutched the fabric so tight that her knuckles were white under the dust. She doesn’t want to be recognized, I realized, and I remembered I hadn’t heard her taunting Jesus like so many of the others. Her dark, brown eyes were bloodshot from the tears cascading beneath her lashes and onto the cloth, which was dark with stripes where the moisture had dampened it. Earlier I had noticed her lips moving without sound, and now I realized she’d been praying. She turned around and walked away, blending into the crowd that now moved quietly down the hill.

I looked again at the women near the cross. Mary. His mother’s name was Mary. Suddenly, Jesus spoke. He’d done so before, but I hadn’t been able to understand his words over the sounds of the crowd. His voice cracked from thirst and pain, but I clearly heard him tell his mother that the man standing behind her was now her son. Then he told the man standing with the women that now Mary was his mother and he was to care for her.

The man nodded slightly and bent to try to lift Mary so he could lead her away, but she wrenched free and refused to leave her son, her precious baby boy. The man stood back up slowly, as if it hurt him to do so. He looked down at her briefly and then clasped his hands in front of his waist and looked back at Jesus, whose face was frozen in an expression of suffering.

I thought about my own children. What if it were one of them on the cross? Would I be strong enough and have enough love to stay with them for their final moments as Jesus’s mother was doing? Jesus was suffering, and yet he was thinking about his mother. I was touched by their love for each other.

I realized Jesus’s crucifixion was a tragedy! I felt struck throughout my whole body—heart, mind, and soul—as though mighty hammers had hit nails into my own flesh instead of the prisoners’. My very marrow literally buzzed with a charge similar to what I felt when lightning struck nearby. My body shook as if thunder was rolling over me, and I felt weak. I wondered what have I done, coming here to watch this horror?

I felt dirty and hot and, without thinking, I looked up at Jesus. Our eyes met and held. Peace rushed through me! My heated body cooled, and I stopped shaking. His agony was real and showed in his eyes. Gnats bothered all three of the prisoners and tried to enter their noses. As long as there was breath, they’d be kept away, but after that, the gnats would win. Yet Jesus’s eyes conveyed peace, calm, and love. I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. My mouth fell open in surprise as I realized this. At that moment, Jesus looked away, and I couldn’t stand it any longer.

I turned around, recognizing the covered woman already halfway down the hill. She and others were staggering quickly over the debris of death. I saw her stumbling, until a man beside her caught hold of her arm and helped her walk the rest of the way. I felt the urge to hurry and began walking quickly down the hill with the others.

What were we rushing away from? Was it the blood and violence? Was it the suffering and cursing or the weeping of the women and the laughter of the soldiers? I became filled with a sense of urgency, foreboding, and fear. Were we running from the truth? Who—and what—was Jesus? What did the sign say that had been nailed above his head?

Later I learned that the sign said, Jesus, King of the Jews. A customer told me days later it had been placed there by order of Pilate, who had publically washed his hands at the end of the trial, releasing himself of responsibility for what he probably realized was a travesty of justice. Even he suspected Jesus was innocent.

I stopped once and looked back. I could still distinguish the form of Jesus on the cross, the kneeling shape of Mary at his feet, the man and other woman with her, the Roman soldiers, and a few others. Then someone bumped me from behind, and I fell to my knees, scraping them and my hands. My right hand landed on a skull, glowing white in the brightness of the sunlight. I drew back my hand as if I’d been bitten by a snake.

I began to hear faint thunder. A sound came to me, like that of locusts feasting in a field, and I sensed I was about to pass out. I managed to stagger to a large rock and sat upon it, which probably saved me from being trampled by the others leaving the scene. I couldn’t breathe, and wondered if that was what Jesus was feeling. I looked at my feet and saw that they were white with dust and red with blood, like Jesus’s now were. A burning knot traveled quickly up my throat as my eyes caught on fire with bitter tears. I almost gagged on the dust and fear. I had to get home!

I stood quickly, almost fainting again. The ringing in my ears sounded like evil laughter, as if some demonic joke had been successfully carried out. I crushed my ears with the heels of my hands, trying to block out the noise that came from within. Watching only the ground, and no longer looking at anything around me, I carefully walked on. I ignored the bones and skulls and told myself they were just stones and rocks. I didn’t look up until the ground became level again.

Removing my hands from my ears, I surveyed the normalcy of the scene before me. I was standing at the edge of my neighborhood again. People were thronging through the streets, shopping or greeting one another as usual. I noticed a few of them glance toward Golgotha and then quickly turn away. I understood.

I saw that I’d left the door to my shop open. I felt as if I’d been away a thousand years. I ran through the front doorway and out the back to the cistern behind the shop, needing water like a man dying of thirst at Jacob’s well.

The ladle shook in my hands when I tried to hold it. I threw it to the ground, thrust my hands into the water, and brought up the clear, cool water, over and over again. The cuts on my hands began to sting, and I tasted blood and dirt with the water. I splashed my upturned face and lifted my hands above my head to pour water over me. I told myself I was just hot and thirsty and in shock, and that was why I shook so. The grime washed down my face, trickling through my beard onto my robe. I felt dirty, inside and out. I wanted to plunge my entire self into the water. Only concern for my family stopped me from doing so, as I realized that I would be wasting the water, and going to the well for more was no easy undertaking.

I spotted the large, wooden bowl my wife used for washing clothes. I remembered how our babies had looked when they were small enough to sit inside the bowl. Oh, how they loved splashing us and themselves! I’d often wished we lived closer to the sea so they could enjoy it as they grew, but my business was here, and we had to stay. I never told them I’d wished that for them. Maybe I should have. Maybe I still could. I realized my mind was wandering.

I saw how badly I was still shaking when I reached for the bowl and knocked it off the shelf and onto the ground. I’m just chilled from being wet, I rationalized. That’s all. I’m shaking because I’m cold. But I didn’t feel cold. Instead, I was burning with shame, and the heat outside was relentless.

I grabbed the bowl, a short stool, and sat down beside the stone jug. I picked up the ladle from the ground and remembered building this very stool with my oldest son years ago. It was his first job of carpentry, and we were both very proud of how well he’d fitted the pieces together without using a single nail. Nail. That word stuck in my head, and the ladle in my hand now froze in the air between the water and the bowl. I shuddered involuntarily, and then began ladling water out of the jar into the bowl. I badly missed my target and cursed myself for wasting the water. I concentrated hard on not spilling the next several scoops.

When the bowl was finally filled with a few inches of water, I replaced the ladle on its hook and sat back down upon the stool. The water swirled and sparkled in the sunlight, making the bowl almost like a wavy mirror. I remembered making the bowl out of beautiful cedar from Lebanon as a wedding present for my wife. I was a good carpenter, and I had enjoyed teaching my son the craft. Maybe someday he would take my place in the business or start a business of his own, as I had. A thought drifted in unbidden. Wasn’t Jesus a carpenter too? My mind visualized his face on the cross.

Oh, no; please stop, I whispered, pleading with my scattered thoughts. Who or what was I pleading to? Was it God? Was this prayer? Was there even a God? If so, how could he let people kill each other and die in such awful ways? How could this man Jesus be God’s son, as some bystanders had called him? Who was Jesus?

My thoughts trailed off once more, like those of my elderly mother-in-law, who often forgot my name but always smiled and said she loved me. She was old, that was why. I was … what? Distraught! Could that affect my mind? No, I was just hot, that was why, and dirty. So, why was I shivering? My thoughts went around and around and made little sense, even to me, as the water swirled in an ever-slower circle in the bowl.

I became aware that I was staring at my feet. I saw the dust everywhere except where the straps of my sandals had been. I saw the blood. At least this was my blood, not Jesus’s. Again I wondered why Jesus had had to die. What was he bleeding and dying for? He was like the sacrificial lambs in the Temple. Often their feet were bound too. I remembered seeing them years ago when I had gone there with my father.

The lambs’ eyes had always reflected their fear at first. Then they would usually calm down, as if knowing they were powerless and resigning themselves to their inevitable slaughter. There had been no fear in Jesus’s eyes, but neither was there resignation. His eyes had showed something like surrender, but he had also conveyed an attitude that he was the one in control, powerless only because he allowed himself to be.

I slammed my fist down upon my right thigh, creating a reflex reaction that caused my foot to jump forward and bump the bowl, not quite knocking it over. The anger felt good, much better than the other feelings I was having. I couldn’t even identify them. I felt so weary! I shook my head and found myself praying again, something I hadn’t done since I was a small child. God, please help him, whoever or whatever he is. Then I remembered that I didn’t really believe in God anymore. I felt foolish and looked around to be sure no one had heard me. I was still alone.

I gradually heard the sounds around me, as though I was coming out of a trance. I felt a sudden sense of urgency. I didn’t want my children to see the blood. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this or to know where I’d been. I carefully slid both feet into the water so none splashed out. The water both soothed and stung my battered feet. On both sides of the bowl was one of my sandals. I didn’t even remember taking them off. I picked one up, turned it over with the sole up, and rubbed it hard in the dirt to remove any blood I had shed on the worn straps. I repeated the action with the other shoe.

The water felt cool and relieved my burning feet. I gently scrubbed at the dried blood and torn skin and splashed some on my knees where they too were skinned. Some blood had already hardened, though, and would take rubbing to remove, so I stood up and reached for a rag on the line. I threw a second cloth over my shoulder to later dry my feet with and sat back down. I scrubbed with the first rag, painfully cleaning my feet.

Again, I felt concerned about my children seeing the blood, now floating dark within the water in the bowl. I looked up and searched my surroundings to be sure they weren’t around. Then I poured the dirty water out onto the garden behind my stool. I refilled the bowl carefully, so I wouldn’t waste any more water than I already had. I continued cleaning and scrubbing and wincing, grateful that my discomfort distracted me from my memories.

This time, there was mostly grime, and the little bit of blood remaining on the washcloth was mixed with the familiar grey-brown of dirt. My feet weren’t really as scraped as I’d feared, which was a relief. My wife would not be happy when she saw them and heard whatever feeble excuse I might come up with. I wouldn’t be surprised if they bruised later from being stepped on by so many people. As so often happened, as soon as I thought of her, my wife appeared, like magic.

Sarah and our two youngest children had gone to the marketplace and the well. The children were tired and hot and needed some quiet time in the cooler shade of the mud, straw, and wood roof of our home. They yelled happy greetings to me as their short legs ran up the stairs, not even noticing my strange foot bathing. It seems that children never walk. They always run and jump, unless you are telling them to do something. I smiled, feeling momentarily better as I heard their feet stomping into the house.

Sarah moved around me and put parcels in the small shed attached to the house, saying, I hope the little ones nap. We were always hoping the little ones would nap. Rarely were those hopes fulfilled. Adults drag through the day looking forward to finally getting in bed, while children do everything in their power to avoid going there.

I remembered them sleeping as new babies, helpless and tiny and trusting. My heart was pierced as I realized that Jesus had once been an innocent little baby, too. Could this man be Mary’s own child? Could he have been God’s son? How could that be, anyway? My eyes burned with tears, which I hastily wiped away on the sleeve of my shirt, hiding my face from Sarah. I turned toward her quickly when I heard her gasp. She was looking at my feet. They were still bleeding a little, and the pink water frightened her.

What have you done? she said in a shocked but soft voice that the children wouldn’t hear. I told her. At least, I told her part of it. I said I’d stood in front of the shop when I heard the noise of a crowd. When it reached me, the mob had pulled me with them, and before I could get away, they had stepped on my feet a few times. I told her I was all right, but I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t look in her eyes or she’d know there was more to the story than what I’d admitted to. She didn’t say anything.

She squatted down before me, staring into the bowl. After a few awkward seconds, I realized she was no longer looking at my feet but toward the front street, visible between our home and Jacob’s next door. Her eyes slowly traveled up to mine, showing a sadness that revealed what I feared most: she suspected where I’d been.

Everyone in Jerusalem had known about the event taking place that day, even those of us living on the outskirts. What would Sarah think of me now? I wondered. What kind of horrible man would witness the brutal suffering and death of another human? Was I some sick, demented person who wanted to be a part of the hate, fear, and bloodshed that I’d witnessed?

And what if Sarah believed that Jesus was innocent? Now that I thought about it, I’d heard her mention that name a few times. I sat there on Benjamin’s little stool, caught in my sins like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. I waited for the questions I dreaded, but she didn’t ask them. Instead, she got on her knees and carefully bathed my feet and knees and palms, taking them gently into her own strong hands. It was so kind and comforting, I felt like my heart had split open. I began trembling and again fought tears.

At the well this morning, I heard that one of the servants for Jesus’s Passover meal with his disciples failed to show up last night, Sarah said quietly. No one greeted them by washing their feet. She began gently drying my feet. "None of the disciples wanted to do it, so they just sat down. Jesus—their master, teacher, and professed Lord—stood up, and he washed their feet. She looked up then with tears in her eyes and said, He washed their feet. Sarah shook her head slightly. Yet, when Jesus was arrested later, they all ran away—all of them."

It hit me at once. Her loving foot-washing was like Jesus’s loving foot-washing of his disciples’ feet. My anger at realizing what was happening at that very moment upon a hill barely a mile away gave me strength I hadn’t felt since this morning. I lifted Sarah over the bowl and pulled her onto my lap, no longer worrying about spilled water. We held each other.

After a few minutes, Sarah stood up. She laid the rags over the line and helped me put my sandals back on my feet. Then she reached her hands down toward mine. When I clasped them, she helped me rise. She was a small woman, but very strong, and I was grateful. My legs were still shaky, but they supported me. I helped her empty the rest of the packages and jugs from the cart. I rolled the cart to its place behind the house and leaned it over the garden, allowing any spilt water to trickle down where it might do some good. Later, I would lean it against the back of the house.

While I did this, Sarah poured the water from the bowl onto the garden, washed the bowl out, poured that water onto the garden, and then left the bowl in the sun. It would be dry within a minute, I knew. Looking at each other, we held hands and stood there a moment, as if gathering our strength. Then we began climbing the stairs together, Sarah leading the way.

Miriam stepped out of the door and asked, Daddy, why is it getting dark out? Is it nighttime? I’m not sleepy. We haven’t even had lunch yet. Miriam, who was five, spoke these words in bewilderment as she stood at the top of the stairs beside the house. Behind her the sky had changed from brilliant blue to dull grey. Sarah and I looked at each other in bewilderment as the mysterious weather brought a strong, cooler wind whipping around us.

Go inside, I said to Miriam, speaking with a calm I didn’t feel. "We’ll be right