Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem

By Leon Arceneaux

BOOK ONEA TIME TO MORN, A TIME TO DANCE

The New Testament offers only points of truth that Mary told Joseph she was pregnant, for instance; that they had to go to Bethlehem to register for the census but it doesnt include the human drama that occurs between these moments. It doesnt illustrate the challenge a pregnant Mary faced in making a ninety-mile trip on foot and on donkey. It doesnt describe the anxiety of a husband traveling with his wife in her ninth month of pregnancy.

A Time to Morn, A Time to Dance fills these gaps, telling a story that follows Mary and Joseph from their first meeting, through the birth of Jesus, their flight into Egypt, and back into the welcoming arms of their family.

BOOK TWOTHE TRAP

In the time of Jesus, the Sadducees controlled the Temple and the high Jewish council, the Sanhedrin, but had little influence among the common people. They were a conservative political group engaged in a bitter power struggle with the increasingly powerful Pharisees. The Sadducees grew concerned about the well-liked Jesus, fearful he would spawn a popular uprising and cause them to lose control to the Pharisees.

Alphaeus, a rich Sadducee, volunteers to set a trap for Jesus and bring him down. But the plan is complicated when he falls in love with his servant girl, a faithful follower of Jesus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469797236

Leon Arceneaux

Leon Arceneaux is a retired engineer, an ordained deacon in the Catholic Church and a volunteer chaplain at St. Luke’s Hospital in the Woodlands. Since his retirement, he has published five other books. He lives in The Woodlands, Texas with his wife, Marjorie.

Book preview

Contents

BOOK ONE

A TIME TO MOURN,

A TIME TO DANCE

INTRODUCTION

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

BOOK TWO

TO SET A TRAP

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

This book is dedicated to the Holy Spirit who guided me through this project and to my daughter, Lynette Arceneaux for her edit.

Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem,

who kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to her!

How often I wanted to gather your children together,

the way a hen gathers her chicks under her wings,

and you were unwilling

Matthew 23:37

BOOK ONE

37663.jpg

A TIME TO MOURN,

A TIME TO DANCE

INTRODUCTION

The Centurion stood silent, watching the three executions in the distance. He had commissioned a captain to have four men assigned to each cross to carry out the sentence. One hundred soldiers were under his command. Other than these, the rest were assigned to duties in and around Jerusalem.

His brow furrowed as he witnessed his soldiers strip the criminals and throw dice for their clothes. He allowed it because they had a dirty job to do, holding the struggling criminals down as others hammered nails through their wrists and feet, enduring the screams of agony and spatters of blood that regularly stained their own clothes.

In seeing the three crosses raised, he felt good. He had rid the world of three more criminals, three more troublemakers. He was helping maintain law and order for Caesar.

His father had also been a centurion, assigned to this same jurisdiction, and often told stories about his service here. But one mission his father hated to talk of was when King Herod had ordered the killing of babies. That was one assignment of which he had never been proud. He said he did not believe a Roman soldier should kill babies but had to obey orders. And that the pleas and wails of the mothers would remain with him to his dying day.

The Centurion realized these men being executed would have been babies at that time. Too bad his father had not killed them before they had a chance to become criminals.

His father had been an honorable and loyal Roman soldier who died in the service of Caesar. He would have been proud of me, the Centurion thought to himself.

His thoughts wandered to his family so far away. He had joined the Roman Legion because of his father and had been rapidly promoted. But now he wished he were back with his family and friends. He hated this place. It was hot in the day and cold at night. He didn’t like the people and their customs. He knew he was supposed to be a soldier, tough and hard, but he had to admit he was homesick.

Being a centurion, he was allowed to bring his wife with him--a lovely Roman girl. He hated to bring her to this place, but she had wanted to be with him. He loved her with all his heart, but she had died during childbirth. That was six years ago, yet the years did not diminish his loss. She had left him a priceless gift, though: a beautiful daughter, the joy of his life. He didn’t think he could survive this hated place without her. She was a lovely little girl.

Irritated by the buzzing of a fly, he brushed it away, snarling, Get away. Go where you can drink blood.

A hot breeze blew across the parched earth, bringing with it a cacophony of sounds and smells. The groans of men in unendurable pain mixed with the laughter and jibes of the crowd. Swirling through and intermingling with the sounds was the stench of death, along with the sickeningly sweet tang of blood. Death and glee, pain and laughter melded together on the edge of the hot wind.

My son! They’re killing my boy!

Turning, the Centurion saw a woman fall to her knees, holding her head. Two men stood beside her. On her left was a large, muscular man. He looked like his hands would be rough and calloused. On her right was a tall, slender man of a more genteel manner. Each stood with a hand laid tenderly on her shoulder. They waited until her sobbing softened, then gently helped her stand.

She looked into the distance and in a faltering voice asked, Why? Why? What has he done? How can they laugh as he dies?

She broke down again, sobbing.

The Centurion intended to ignore the three strangers, but he had a strange feeling about them. He felt drawn to them in some way and decided to find out what was going on.

What is this? he demanded as he approached them. Is one of those criminals this woman’s son?

The large man looked at him, his eyes defiant. Yes, he said, then spat on the ground.

The Centurion chose to ignore the insult. And what was his crime?

The other man answered, He committed no crime.

Well, he must have, the Centurion said, or we would not be executing him.

The Sanhedrin found him guilty of saying he was God’s son, the slender man replied.

Oh, the Sanhedrin, the Centurion said with loathing in his voice. He hated the Sanhedrin. They were self-righteous little men and thought themselves superior to the Romans.

But at that moment, what the man had said sunk in. He was found guilty of saying he was God’s son.

At these words, the Centurion felt a sudden uneasiness and asked, Which god?

The woman looked up, still weeping. The son of the living God, she managed.

When their eyes met, he thought of his own mother and felt sympathy for this woman, even though she was a Jew. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke. Do you want to go to him?

Women were not allowed near the execution. But he was a Centurion and had the power to make an exception.

The woman hesitated, looking surprised, then said, Yes. Please.

Are you sure? the large, rough-looking man asked her.

I’m sure.

All right, then, the soldier said. Follow me.

He started to walk ahead of the others, but stopped when he heard one of the men speak.

Peter, you’re not coming?

It was then the soldier noticed the large man, the one the other had called Peter, remained behind.

I can’t, Peter said, his face lowered. Not after last night.

What? asked the slender man. What do you mean?

Peter looked up, and his eyes were filled with pain. I turned my back on him. I can’t face him now.

The Centurion took a deep breath, beginning to feel impatient. Look, he said to the two men. I don’t care what either of you decide to do. But I’m taking this woman to see her son. Stay or come. The choice is yours.

He turned and led the woman away as the two men stayed behind, deep in conversation for several moments. Soon the slender one joined the soldier and woman; the larger one remained where they had left him.

As the three came closer to the execution site, the crowds milled around them. The soldier ignored their loud laughter and half-heard jokes.

Move aside, the soldier shouted at those in their path. Let us through.

Who is that woman? someone yelled. Women are not supposed to be here. They should stay away.

She is mother to one of the men, the Centurion snapped.

Which criminal did she spawn? another man jeered.

The Centurion’s answer was brusque. The center one. Now move away. But by this time a group of men surrounded them, following them to the crosses.

The one in the middle? someone said. That’s the one who’s supposed to be the son of God.

This was met by raucous sounds of amusement.

As the three approached the crucifixes, someone in the crowd shouted up at the man groaning in agony on the center cross, Hey, if you’re God’s son, come down here and we’ll worship you. Come down.

The crowd joined in with more calls to come down and howls of laughter.

Wait a minute, a man behind them said. If he is God’s son, then that would make the woman one of God’s concubines.

This was met with hooting, more laughter, and a number of unsavory comments.

Filled with anger at these people, the Centurion drew his sword. Now hear this! He had to shout to raise his voice above the commotion. Now hear this! I will run this sword through anyone who disrespects this woman again.

At the soldier’s words, the crowd grew quiet and fell back slightly, many deciding to wander to one of the other crucifixes and jeer at or mock its criminal instead.

The hot breeze subsided and an unearthly calm enveloped the three as they moved closer to the center cross. The scorching sun beat down, burning the flesh of the naked men hanging on the iron nails as if the gates of hell had been opened. The only sounds to be heard were the buzzing of flies attracted by the smell of death and the groans of the crucified men gasping for each breath.

The Centurion saw the woman look down, obviously not wanting to see the state of her son, afraid of what she might see. She visibly flinched at her son’s every groan, as though she too felt his agony. Crimson blood dripped to the parched earth, where it quickly turned to a muddy brown.

The Centurion watched the woman slowly look up, then gasp when she saw her son.

What mother wouldn’t gasp at that sight? he thought.

Strips of skin were torn loose by the scourging, exposing meat and muscle. The man’s face, twisted with pain, was probably almost unrecognizable to her, swollen from beatings and covered with blood from thorns pushed into his scalp. This pitiful piece of humanity hanging above her had been the baby she once held in her arms, the young boy that she nurtured into manhood. The Centurion knew that all of her motherly love and memories were wringing her soul painfully.

She suddenly screamed up at her son, I love you!

He answered, forcing out each word as he pulled himself up for every breath, iron nails tearing against flesh and bone. I … love … all.

One of the other crucified men screamed out a curse.

The Centurion stared up at the woman’s son, shocked. This beaten, broken man is still capable of love? How is that possible?

The next words from the man on the cross filled him with apprehension.

Father … forgive … them.

The Centurion could feel the words as each was spoken. Although he was a hardened Centurion of the Roman Legion, they tore at his senses. Who is this man’s father? Is he the living god that the woman spoken of? Who is this god? Certainly not a Roman god. How can he ask his father to forgive them after all that was done to him?

Until now, he had not noticed the sign nailed to the top of the cross: Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews. How strange, the Centurion thought. Then with a jolt it hit him. Jesus of Nazareth … Could this be the same man, the healer, he had gone to when his daughter was sick and dying? He never would have gone to a Jew for a favor, but his daughter was dying and he was desperate. He had heard talk of a great healer and he was willing to grasp at straws.

He remembered the kindness in the healer’s voice when he laid his hand on his daughter and said she was healed. The soldier’s breath came in short gasps as he realized he was executing this same gentle healer because he said he was the son of a god. And yet, could a mere mortal have healed his dying daughter?

Ominous dark clouds were gathering, and as they thickened, the sky swirled into an eerie greenish blackness. The atmosphere grew thick and oppressive as a mantle of darkness enveloped the land. The sound of a great wind filled the air, but no clouds of dust stirred.

The man on the cross above them groaned loudly, then cried out, It … is … finished. His head dropped to his chest, and his body hung limply from the iron nails like a wilted flower.

At that very moment there was a rumbling from deep within the earth and the ground rolled and shook, throwing everyone to their knees.

The woman let out a loud sob and the Centurion looked up at the man hanging on the cross above him, fear gripping him with cold, clutching fingers.

What have we done? he said in a whisper. He was truly the son of one of the gods.

He went to the woman and lifted her up. I will walk with you back to the road.

The three walked to the road in silence, the only sound was an occasional soft sob from the woman. The Centurion felt as though his body had been drained of energy, overwhelmed and confused at what had happed--at what he had just witnessed. The crowd of people watching the executions slowly and quietly dispersed.

When the three arrived at the road, the Centurion lifted the woman’s face and looked into her eyes.

Ask your god to forgive me, he said softly.

She whispered, He will.

The slim man gently took the woman by the arm.

Oh, John, she said, grasping the man’s hand. My son was so full of love.

They were met by the large, burly man who had been with them earlier--Peter. He approached the woman and John, and the three held each other, weeping.

Not quite ready, or willing, to walk away, the Centurion remained, watching the trio.

Peter gave him a suspicious look and, in a low voice, said to John, Let’s go into the city. The others are afraid and in hiding.

The woman wiped away her tears, took a deep breath, and said haltingly, The scripture tells us that there is a time for everything under the sun. A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance.

She was silent for a moment, then took the hands of the two men beside her. Now is our time to weep and to mourn, she told them. Someday, though, someday we will laugh and dance.

She released their hands and turned once more to where her son had died. The crosses could not be seen from where they stood, but it didn’t matter. She was looking at something else, something far away that only she could see. When she spoke, her voice was soft. It feels as though my heart has been pierced with a sword. It is torn and bleeding. But I remember. I remember everything … how it all began.

She looked at her two companions. So I’ll hold these memories close to my heart, and I’ll cherish them until I see him again.

John placed his hand on her shoulder and, accompanied by Peter, gently led her toward the city.

The Centurion had not moved. He watched the three walk slowly away. The woman’s anguished words repeated, reverberating, in his head. He roughly wiped his face before anyone could see the tear on his cheek.

PROLOGUE

Mary continued on the dusty road with John and Peter. Hot breezes now and then swirled clouds of dust around them mixing with her tears and leaving dark lines on her face.

We’ll go back and take care of the body, John told her.

Mary nodded, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Her body was weak from the ordeal of witnessing her son’s execution. Her mind struggled, trying to make sense out of what had just happened. She had heard of her son’s joyous entry into Jerusalem, where the people lined the street and placed palm branches before him. And now, just days later, those same people who had welcomed him turned on him and killed him. She felt a sorrow that was beyond anything she had ever felt before. If it were possible, she would have taken her son’s place on the cross.

Oh, Joseph, she thought. If only you were still alive, you would have helped me through this ordeal.

But the words she said earlier to John and Peter had not been spoken in vain. In spite of her anguish, she knew that one day this deep sorrow would be lifted from her soul. She knew she would laugh once more, yet she would have to wait to be with her son again. For now, although she didn’t understand, she placed her trust in God.

She was tired and her feet dragged. She felt as if a great weight was on her shoulders. They may have taken my son, the light of my life, but they cannot take away the memories that I hold in my heart.

Once they had returned to Jerusalem and found the house where the disciples were hiding, Mary stood silent by the window. The copper sun hung low in the sky as she watched two little girls laughing, playing catch with a seed-filled leather ball.

She felt the wrinkles on her face. It didn’t seem so long ago that she had been a little girl, laughing and playing children’s games. Her thoughts drifted back to that happier time, a time where it all began. She remembered a Passover and a special Seder supper. She remembered that day well, like it was yesterday. She was young then. Her world was young and she was filled with hopes and dreams.

It was a different time--for so many.

CHAPTER ONE

Mary hummed as she helped her mother make the unleavened bread for the Seder, preparing enough for the first two nights of the Passover. There would be the bitter herbs, the haroseth, and all the things that would tell the tale of the Exodus from Egypt. She loved to hear the story of how her people were freed from bondage, then wandered in the desert for forty years before coming to the Promised Land.

At that moment, the sacrificial lamb, held in a pen next to the house, bleated loudly.

Poor little lamb, Mary said.

Don’t be silly, said her mother. Besides, we were saved by the blood of the lamb when God told our people to mark the door post with it, telling the angel of death to pass over us and leave our first-born sons to live. Her mother added more flour to the dough she was kneading. We have been offering God the blood sacrifice ever since so we would never forget.

I know, said Mary. I understand. She, too, added more flour to her dough, along with a measure of water. "I just love this