The First Book of Lazarus

By Ron McWhorter

WHAT IF LAZARUS, THE MAN JESUS CHRIST ROSE FROM THE GRAVE, NEVER DIED AGAIN? HOW DOES HE CHOOSE TO SERVE GOD, AND WHAT MUST HE DO TO FIGHT EVIL?

Father Johann greets a man at a New York City church who wishes to confess. Instead, the old priest hears an incredible story from Lazarus, who walked from the grave at Jesus' co

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798890415578

Ron McWhorter

Ron McWhorter is a retired geophysicist who loves history and writing. Crawling over Roman ruins in Libya, where he spent six years as a kid, began his preparation to write this story fifty years later. Ron is a member of The Woodlands Methodist Church in Texas. He wants readers to walk with Lazarus to discover the mercy and love of God.

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The First Book

of Lazarus

The FIRST OF THREE BOOKS

Ron McWhorter

Trilogy Christian Publishers

Tustin, CA

Trilogy Christian Publishers

A Wholly Owned Subsidiary of Trinity Broadcasting Network

2442 Michelle Drive

Tustin, CA 92780

The First Book of Lazarus

Copyright © 2023 by Ron McWhorter

Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.TM Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.TM.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For information, address Trilogy Christian Publishing

Rights Department, 2442 Michelle Drive, Tustin, Ca 92780.

Trilogy Christian Publishing/ TBN and colophon are trademarks of Trinity Broadcasting Network.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Trilogy Christian Publishing.

Cover design by Leo Brown, Bahamian artist.

Trilogy Disclaimer: The views and content expressed in this book are those of the author and may not necessarily reflect the views and doctrine of Trilogy Christian Publishing or the Trinity Broadcasting Network.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 979-8-89041-556-1

ISBN 979-8-89041-557-8 (ebook)

To Cindy, Kelly, and Sean

with all my love

Acknowledgments

I first thought about writing this book over forty years ago when I took an elective course in medieval history at Texas A&M while pursuing a geophysics degree. The professor told us about how Pope Leo the Great met Attila the Hun, but no one knew what happened between them.

Even then, I think the Holy Spirit guided me toward writing this story. Over the years, I wrote a lot of other things, all the time knowing that the efforts made me a better writer, preparing me for Lazarus.

Finally, when I retired last year, I could devote my time to writing this story. The first draft of The First Book of Lazarus took me six months. Often, I found it wasn’t me who was writing; rather, the Holy Spirit guided me. Each session of writing began with a prayer, recognizing that this book is for the glory of God. Therefore, I do emphatically acknowledge God for this book.

My friends and family have always encouraged me. My wife, Cindy, who has always served as the best editor I’ve ever had, couldn’t have supported me more than she has. My daughter, Kelly, and my son, Sean (who also provided key critiques), as well as their spouses, Bryan and Dylan, inspire me every day in ways that are just a glimpse of the full love of God. My sister Becky was the first to read my first draft, offering many suggestions.

During the research for this book, while I was still working at Kinder Morgan, I enlisted the help of a high school student named Ayden Rosas-Nguyen. His mother, Lymari Nguyen, was a coworker of mine. Ayden did a remarkable job of finding tons of information on different subjects I needed for this book. I especially enjoyed his insights on the various research topics. I look forward to future opportunities to employ him as my research associate.

I also owe gratitude to Laurianne Collange, an excellent guide who led me through Marseille one day. Her encouragement continues to inspire me.

In recent years, as a member of The Woodlands Methodist Church, I have gained a tremendous amount of knowledge of God’s word, truth, and grace. Sunday school, led by Larry Blews, a disciple group led by Tami Benge and Stephanie Bowie, and our home group have all contributed to this book in ways I hope that they can see. Mark Sorensen, the church’s senior pastor, has also inspired me.

I have participated in many writing groups and conferences in the past, but writers and friends Pete Wessner (who also provided editing of this book), Donn Taylor, Chuck and Linda George, Melissa Herpel, Stella Pinson, and Tish Williams have always acted as mentors and guides. I owe them much.

I wish to thank Leo Brown for his friendship and for providing the painting that has served as the book’s cover. I will always enjoy visiting his gallery at Port Lucaya on Grand Bahama Island.

I truly believe God led me to Ryan Christopher, acquisitions executive at Trilogy. Thank you, Ryan, for your efforts. I also enjoyed working with Allison Dyer, Trilogy project manager, and the editor.

Finally, I want to thank the late Mrs. Crawford, my high school English teacher. She contributed more to my love of writing than anyone else. Thank you, Karen Colbert, for your mother.

1 DEAR FRIENDS IN MASSILIA: This letter is from Lazarus, the one returned from death by Jesus Christ our Lord. ²Yes, I am the one whom God Himself chose to fulfill the prophecy that His Son, Jesus Christ, did come upon us to heal us from sin, even from death itself, and to show his love for each of us, my brothers and sisters.

³I spent many years among you in the city of Massilia, praying with you. I have told you all that I know of Jesus Christ, the words he spoke, and the miracles he performed. I have told you of his grace and sacrifice.

⁴I pray that God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ will bless each one of you and show you the miracle of his love. Who among you knows more about that miracle than I?

⁵When my sisters, my wife, and I left Bethany to travel first to Cyprus and then to Massilia, we faced many trials. Through prayer and faith in Jesus Christ, through his boundless love for us, we arrived here safely. You welcomed us, fed us, and sheltered us. ⁶You also believed in what we revealed to you about Jesus Christ our Lord and how everyone may be redeemed by his grace and love.

⁷Others have spread the word of our salvation, and I have read their letters and their messages of good news to all who may listen.

⁸My family has now passed into the arms of our Lord Jesus Christ to enjoy eternal life promised toeach of us, yet I remain here. I know that many of you would rather gossip about me, and some have declared that I do not bring good news but, instead, that I bring upon Massilia the wrath of God the Father.

⁹I am only the humble servant of our Lord Jesus Christ, and I do not know what I am to do other than to bring his message to you and to anyone who will open their hearts and minds. To tell of his love to anyone who cannot bear the daily toil of a world so dark and evil. ¹⁰I tell you there is light, but some want to wallow in the darkness.

¹¹I do not know why I continue to live. Do not fear me, my brothers and sisters. I am no one. I am only a messenger. ¹²But if your fear blinds you to the truth of Jesus Christ, then I pray for you. And if I am not allowed to leave this world and instead face trial after trial, then so I shall, with the protection of Jesus Christ our Lord. I do not fear death.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Part 1: Confession

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Part 2: Bethany

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part 3: Kition and Massilia

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part 4: Rome

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Part 5: Masada

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Part 6: Germania

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Part 7: Wanderings

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part 8: Humbling Times

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Part 9: Time of Trial

Chapter 57

Part One

Confession

Then Joshua said to Achan, "My son, give glory to the LORD, the God of Israel,

and honor him. Tell me what you have done; do not hide it from me."

Joshua 7:19

Chapter 1

Apprehensive, I stood at the entrance to the Church of St. Lazarus. For an October evening in New York City, the rain should have chilled me. My long black jacket kept me dry, but I felt warmer than I liked. An unusual tropical hurricane, Elsa, swiped at the city.

I walked up the dozen or so steps to the large wooden door, closed that Saturday evening. After the afternoon’s mass, I expected no one remained except Father Johann, whom I was to meet in a few minutes.

At the door, I escaped the drenching rain. Turning, I looked at the desolate street where only a taxi dared to drive in the storm…and in the neighborhood. Rivers of rain lined both sides of the street, carrying refuse from garbage still untouched during a labor strike.

I opened my leather attaché and looked inside for a very old manuscript. A single page in a binder. I read the Greek softly to myself. Memories flooded my mind of those days so long ago. Now was the time to remember. To remember everything. I shut the attaché.

I opened the door and stepped in. The entrance was dark. Father Johann, holding a candle, stood there, waiting for my confession. I thought it quaint that he used a candle rather than switching on a light. He had an old soul like mine.

He asked in an accent that only slightly sounded German, Mr. Lester?

I smiled. Yes, Father Johann?

He returned the smile and held out his hand. I felt the arthritic stiffness in his fingers. There was nothing unusual about the clothes he wore, just black pants and a shirt with a white collar. His black leather shoes, though, showed scuffs and worn edges of the soles. The priest’s hair was full and white, his face wrinkled and pale. He stood about my height, five feet ten inches, but he wasn’t slim like me. His thick white eyebrows caught my attention the most, not unkempt, but just thick. Mine were still, always, black.

Thank you for meeting with me, Father.

Your request for confession was, let’s say, unusual. Most come to our designated hour of confession on Saturday afternoon. Or should I say those who decide to confess come then; not many do anymore. Come, let’s enter the church.

Although a scattering of electrical candles lit the church well enough, the priest still held his wax candle in front of him. We both stopped when we saw the cross on the altar, with the wooden figure of Jesus in his last moments. Father Johann knelt on both knees and moved his hand in the sign of the cross. I followed his example. When he took a moment to pray silently, I did so too. I thought, Lord in heaven, help me to remember everything I am to say today and to do it all for Your glory. When we rose, he moved at a deliberate but slow pace, his very act of walking a sign of reverence.

I looked around. It wasn’t a big church, as were most in New York City. There were enough pews to handle a crowd of three hundred, but I doubted attendance ever reached capacity. The air was musty and warm. As we walked, I removed my coat, careful not to shake too much water on the stone floor.

When we arrived at the confession booth, I said, Father Johann. My confession will be a long one. Perhaps we can go to your office?

His eyes opened in surprise, and then he nodded. Of course, of course. Follow me this way then.

Through one doorway, we entered a long hall lined with bulletin boards with notices of church activities. I glanced at some of them and sighed. Very few highlighted recent or upcoming events. Prints of well-known Christian paintings in large, gaudy, wooden frames filled wall space beyond the bulletin boards. At the end of the hall, Father Johann unlocked his office door and turned on a light. He blew out his candle.

Please enter and close the door behind you, Mr. Lester.

The office was a small one. Father Johann did not preside over Masses; I knew that much, having researched the church before my arrival. He was a retired priest who was allowed to remain at St. Lazarus to assist Father Roberto Ramos, a young Filipino priest.

The simple light above did not shine brightly. The old desk behind which Father Johann moved to sit held very little adornment except for a new laptop and printer, which I found to be unexpected for his age. I wondered whether he used them much. Books filled the two bookcases to the right of the desk. Some were old tomes with thick leather binding; others were more recent paperbacks and everything in between.

A painting of Mary adorned the wall on the left. It was not a print. I didn’t recognize the painter, but the quality was exceptional. The office had no windows. A worn rug covered the cement floor of the office. The priest pointed to a leather chair in front of the desk.

Thank you, Father.

I sat, placing my damp coat on the floor rather than allowing it to stain the wooden arms of the chair. I placed my attaché on the other side of the chair.

I cleared my throat and said, Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was—

Stop, Mr. Lester. Before we begin, tell me about yourself. Obviously, this isn’t a normal confession, so let’s not begin as if it were. Tell me who you really are…or you can leave.

I laughed. So, the old priest in a little office of the smallest Catholic church in New York City still has some fight in him, eh? I knew it!

Father Johann remained quiet. And then he smiled. I have always had to fight. I was born in East Germany. Being Catholic was not a popular decision for my family, and we all suffered. But we survived.

Yes, you did. Your family was killed, and you were the lone survivor. Adopted at the age of ten. Later, let’s talk about that.

Again, Father Johann was silent. He stared at me with eyes, first of surprise, then of hate, and finally of peace.

I said, I apologize, Johann, if I may call you that. This confession isn’t a short one. It will take days, weeks, or even months. And it really isn’t a confession. Since we will be spending time together, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with you.

The priest sighed. Then let’s start with some schnapps. He chuckled and then opened a drawer from his side of the desk and brought out a bottle of brandy, half gone, and two shot glasses. I can’t often share my little passion with others, as you can imagine. It appears this may be a way for us both to get off on the right foot.

I reached over to take my glass, knocking it against his, held in his shaking hand. Amen, Father Johann.

Amen, Mr. Lester.

I sipped the schnapps and recognized it as a plum variety. Allow me to reintroduce myself. I gave my credentials as a young man named Joseph Lester who desired to meet with you at this inconvenient time because I had no choice due to business travel. It was a flimsy but effective ploy.

Effective, yes, and here we are.

I smiled. First, I want to show you an old scroll, written in Greek nearly 2,000 years ago. I understand from my research that you know Greek, and, in fact, you have served the Church for a long time in that capacity. Even the Vatican has called upon you.

Your research is impressive in many ways. Yes, I do know Greek. I know it very well.

I know that you are a modest man, Johann, so your last statement is one of authority, not of vanity. I brought the attaché to my lap and withdrew the leather binder that protected the scroll. I stood and carefully placed the binder on the desk before Johann.

The priest pulled glasses from his shirt pocket and opened a desk drawer to remove surgical gloves. After putting them on, he carefully removed the scroll. First, he examined the paper, smelling it, rubbing its edges carefully, and then holding it up to the ceiling light.

Okay, Mr. Lester or whoever you are. It appears genuine.

Then, he bent closer to the desk to read the scroll. His lips moved quietly. I recognized that he was speaking Greek as he read.

After he read it once, he read it again.

Then he sat back in his chair. An epistle from Saint Lazarus? Very unusual indeed. Are you planning to donate it to this church, the Church of Saint Lazarus? We only have a relic, supposedly a finger bone from him. We could always use another relic to bring more people to the church. For the glory of God, of course.

Of course. You can do whatever you want with it after our business is done.

Johann smiled. You are too kind. May I ask how you obtained this letter? I must also say it is disappointingly short.

I sat back and stared into his eyes. I will tell you exactly how I came upon this letter. You see, my real name is Lazarus ben Joseph, and I wrote it in AD 48.

Chapter 2

You don’t seem surprised, I said to him.

The priest sat back in his leather chair on wheels and rolled side to side. You see, whoever you are, I have heard so many confessions. It’s not unusual to hear a crazy story. People come to confess for any number of reasons. Not just to confess their sins and crimes and receive absolution. I take my role seriously as one who acts in the person of Christ and with the authority of Jesus to listen, offer guidance, lay out penance, and speak a few words of absolution. I wish those who come to me were as serious.

But—

Silence! Father Johann shouted in anger and stood. His thick eyebrows were furrowed over intense brown eyes. How dare you come in here. You are a charlatan, and I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’ve had enough. If you want absolution, then say seven Hail Marys and be gone. You’re absolved!

I looked at him and smiled. And waited. And he waited until he finally sat down again.

I pointed to the new laptop on his desk. Do you know how to use that thing well? Are you a fast typist?

Yes, I am proficient. I may look old, but I do know my way around a laptop. What does this have to do with anything?

I will get to that in a minute. First, it is true I am Lazarus. The Lazarus. Well, I mean the Lazarus in the Bible, who was brought back to life by our Lord Jesus. But my saying it can’t prove it to you. So, I will tell you a story that should, at least, make you question your disbelief.

He sighed. I will listen.

In 1957, a ten-year-old boy was alone in East Berlin, brought to the city after his mother was imprisoned and killed. His father died many years before that. Sound familiar?

Father Johann bowed his head and nodded.

This boy was placed in an orphanage run by the state. An awful place. Cold, gray, hard.

The priest removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. He nodded again.

I continued. Fortunately, he didn’t stay there long. A bureaucrat arrived, a young man who told the orphanage that the state had determined the boy was very good at languages, including Greek. The bureaucrat took the boy to a small town, Görlitz, where he grew up with a caring Catholic family. In university, he studied many languages, including Greek.

You know much about me. What does this have to do with you?

Tell me why you studied Greek.

I received a stipend for the sole purpose of studying Greek.

But how did you get a stipend for that?

The priest opened his hands to him. I don’t know.

Later, with that knowledge, you decided to serve the Catholic church, did you not? And the rest is history?

Yes, yes. So what?

Johann, I gave you that stipend.

You? Ha!

I smiled and relaxed in my chair. The priest’s eyes stared into mine. I enjoyed the tension leading up to my next statement.

Johann, think back. Do you remember the young bureaucrat who came to the orphanage?

Yes, yes.

I stood and put on my coat. I then pulled an old black fedora from my attaché. I played with it to take out the creases and put it on my head. I did this all in a deliberate way to increase the tension.

Johann, that man was me.

No! the priest said. It can’t be.

Remember!

The old man slumped in his chair. He squinted and stared at me. His head began to shake in disbelief. I…I do remember.

Herr Müller, I am that man. I saved you.

The priest began to sob. He wrapped himself in his arms and shook. It’s not possible!

By the mighty arm of God, it is. Praise the Lord, I said. I walked around the desk and brought him to his feet and held him in my arms. He held me tight and continued to cry.

We remained like that for a long time. Even I began to cry.

I asked, Shall I pray?

I felt his head nod against my shoulder.

Heavenly Father. Today I revealed myself to this man, Johann Müller, your servant, to fulfill a purpose long in coming. Your mercy and love are without limits, and for that, I will always be grateful. Thank you for opening his eyes to the truth. It will not be an easy truth. Give us both strength in what is next to come with the unfolding of my story. Amen.

The priest pulled himself away and plopped back into his chair. He looked at me and asked, You are Lazarus?

I am.

Then whose finger do we have in the relic box?

We both laughed.

I think we both need some more schnapps. Shall I pour?

His hand was less steady than before. We clinked our glasses together, and both drank the schnapps in one gulp.

Father Johann, you will require much more information before you fully believe that I am the man I say I am. My story will, at times, seem unbelievable. But everything I tell you will be the truth.

But why me?

Why did I come to you tonight?

No, why did you save me so long ago in the orphanage?

I had to prepare someone to listen to my story tonight.

But—

In time, you will understand. And you will have choices to make, Johann. But first, let’s get started.

He looked at me. I could see concern in his eyes, but I also saw excitement. I smiled to show him that, as for that moment, all was well.

He opened his laptop and began a new document. Shall I write it in Greek?

I laughed. No, English is fine.

Where does this begin?

My name is Lazarus ben Joseph.

Part TWO

Bethany

Because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit who gives life

has set you free from the law of sin and death.

Romans 8:2

Chapter 3

My name is Lazarus ben Joseph. My story could start in a dozen places, but I’ll begin when it counted. I’d turned twenty, and the Season of Rejoicing was nearing. I planned to walk from my home in Bethany to Jerusalem to prepare for trading opportunities during the week.

Where are you going, Lazarus? my sister Martha asked, forcing herself between me and the main door of our large house. She put her hands on her hips and stared at me with a large frown. When Martha smiled, she lit up the world. I think I was always happiest, growing up, when she smiled. But since Father died when I was twelve, Martha took it upon herself to do everything. And I mean everything. She ran his trading business, using me as a proxy. She looked over the vineyards and olive groves the family controlled in the area of Bethany and elsewhere. She maintained the household with its handful of servants. And my sister, my glorious, faithful sister, cared for the poor and hungry who passed west through Bethany on their way to Jerusalem, on the other side of the Mount of Olives. Martha’s smile was a rare thing in the last seven years.

I smiled, or at least I tried to smile. I was in trouble. My dear sister, I’m going to Jerusalem to make plans for the feast. Business will be very good during the week.

And will this business include meeting with Cassius?

My smile disappeared, and I looked down. Yes, I will be meeting with Cassius. He’s a well-connected trader. He can help me…us.

Since when has he ever helped us? A Roman? That evil man was Father’s enemy in Jerusalem. Father was a shrewd trader and did his business following the Law. He never cheated anyone. Cassius hated him for his success.

I was young then. All I know is that now Cassius is a gracious man, offering to help me. Maybe he has changed, Martha.

He is Roman. An evil Roman at that. I warn you, Lazarus, nothing good can come from this.

There it was. Rage had left her voice, and I felt a hint of relenting.

I put my hand on the side of her face and smiled. I love you, sister. Trust me. I’m twenty now. It’s time for me to do more. And the more I take care of business, the more you and Mary can take care of the poor.

At that moment, my sister Mary opened the door and pointed frantically outside. Martha, we have more than a dozen people begging for help. I need you!

Beautiful, sweet Mary. Hers was a passion for loving people and caring for them. I loved my sisters more than anything. They’d raised me from the time I was born, when my mother died from birthing me. Father never forgave me. I had my mother’s beautiful brown eyes, from what Mary told me, and my father could never look at my face without turning away in sadness and anger.

I looked at them both. My sisters, God calls you to help the poor! Go do it! And, Martha, when I return late tonight, I will tell you about the success I achieved today.

Martha surprised me when she embraced me tightly. Lazarus, be careful.

I will, I said and kissed her head.

I put on my sandals, my best ones, and headed out the door. The walk wasn’t long, but it had its ups and downs. I waved to people I knew along the road. Most of the time, they waved back and shouted, Good morning, Lazarus! Other times, they looked and then whispered to each other. I could see in their eyes a common look among those who knew my father. It was one of two things. Sorrow for how my birth had killed my mother and broken my father’s heart. The other was a sense of curiosity. Who is this Lazarus who has not married and has two sisters who also never married?

I had grown used to it and smiled nevertheless. I wasn’t worried about the gossip. After all, I was still a young man.

The road was dusty. People had already begun to arrive in Jerusalem for the Feast of Tabernacles. Some carried large bags of grapes, figs, and other produce. Others carried earthen jars of olive oil and wine. Carts pulled by men and by donkeys also crowded the road. All this activity made the traverse a noisy and very dusty one.

Before long, I was in the valley looking up at the Valley Gate. I quickened my pace to climb the hill. I ignored the Roman guards at the gate and proceeded to the square where I was to meet Cassius.

It was a sunny and warm day, not unusual for autumn. Romans, dressed in togas and fine tunics, stayed in the shade that the periphery of the square offered. I looked around and saw Roman eyes taking notice of a young Jew in their midst.

Lazarius! I turned to see Cassius calling me. For some time, he had used that name for me since it sounded more Roman. It didn’t irk me; rather, I was flattered.

With him were two young men who were undoubtedly his slaves. I hadn’t seen them before. Cassius traded in many things, slaves being only a small part of his business. The one on his right was a tall young Nubian, very dark and athletic. He wore only a plain yellow tunic held tight by a simple leather belt. His short, curly hair was dyed blond. The other slave was a Germani. I’d seen only two Germanis before; both were centurions. This Germani was small and bald, and he wore a red tunic and a more ornate leather belt. The Nubian kept his eyes focused on the ground, but the other slave looked at me and at Cassius, the latter with adoration.

Good day, Cassius! I said, and before I knew it, the large man embraced me. I smelled a perfume that was too strong to bear. Fortunately, he let me go, and I saw those eyes of his that always looked at anyone with fascination. That gaze was his most disarming quality, other than his sycophantic tendency to make one feel important at first and then, if in his presence too long, cautious and nervous.

We parted, and I saw that he wore white powder on his face to hide wrinkles, I presumed. The powder was not present, however, on his large bald head. I recalled from others that he’d used white soot.

Lazarius, how are you? Have you come to talk with me about business we may do together? You know your father never did business with me. Because I was a Roman, I suppose. We missed many great opportunities!

I smiled. Yes, I’m here for that…at your invitation, as you recall, Cassius.

He laughed and looked at his slaves. Ah, yes. This Jew is funny and sweet. Isn’t he, Ahren?

The short slave looked at me and then to his master and said, Yes, very sweet.

Cassius then put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Come, let’s go to my villa to talk more, where we may enjoy some wine. And figs? I do hope you enjoy figs.

Yes, I do.

The slaves followed us out of the square, down a road that wasn’t too busy, into the Roman quarter. Soon, we arrived at a large villa. The wall around it and the outside walls of the limestone villa were painted red. Two guards, each in a tunic like that of Roman soldiers, with their hands on swords, nodded to Cassius as we entered through the gate.

Inside his house, beautiful floor mosaics of Roman gods and heroes greeted us. Painted murals of men dancing in circles covered the walls. A floral incense filled the house—it was almost too much to bear. Two slaves, both men, brought out wine, cups, and a plate of figs.

Come sit, Lazarius. He showed me pillows on the floor around a polished cedar table. He dismissed everyone and waited for me to sit. Then he took a seat next to me, spreading his legs to the side. He cinched his large tunic to expose his fat, hairless legs.

He took a fig from the plate and handed it to me. These were brought from the north. Please have one. Then he poured wine into two cups, handing me one.

The fig tasted like it had been pulled yesterday. The wine was rich, easily the best I’d ever had. Very little water was mixed with it.

You are too kind, Cassius.

It’s my great pleasure. So, tell me, my young friend, how are things in Bethany? Your two sisters are well, I hope?

We are fine, thank you. We are very busy, especially in preparation for the Feast of the Tabernacle.

You Jews have so many feasts. It’s a wonder more of you aren’t fat.

God blesses us, Cassius.

Ah, yes, this invisible god of yours. He has indeed blessed your family. I mean, except for your mother and father.

I never knew my mother. Father was a good man and very shrewd.

Cassius laughed and reached over to put his hand on mine. You don’t have to tell me! He stole a lot of business from me over the years! I didn’t hold it against him.

He removed his hand from mine and rubbed his hands together, looking at the many rings on his fingers. You can see I’ve done very well over the years. It’s not up to the standards of Rome, but it is very nice for Jerusalem.

I’m curious, Cassius, what business do you think we may have in common?

Aha, just like your father, straight to the point!

I wish I could talk to my father about Cassius. I frowned. I would have liked to talk with my father at any time. He rarely spoke to me. Anything he needed to say to me, he said through my sisters.

I felt Cassius’ hand on mine again. Did I say something to upset you, Lazarius?

No, I’m sorry. I’m fine. We were talking about trading opportunities?

Well, yes and no. First, I’d like to get to know you better. And then we can discuss things much, much more.

I was disappointed. Being young, my eagerness made me expect more out of a meeting like this. His interest in doing business with me did flatter me, and I foresaw that patience with Cassius could work in my favor.

I agree, I said. I was reaching for another fig when he rose, slowly, from the pillows.

Very well, my young friend. I must tend to some business now. Please let me know when you can have dinner with me. Perhaps on Saturday?

That is our Sabbath, and then there’s the feast, of course.

Oh my, I don’t think I’ll ever understand your religion. Very well, I will send a messenger soon to arrange a date. It’s so good to see you.

Again, he smiled the kind of smile you felt honored to receive, but, instead, I felt the sting of anger by his easy dismissal of me. He led me to the door. As I left, I looked back and heard him yell into the house, Bring me Shakalah to my quarters!

***

Frustrated, I picked up a rock and threw it into a field not far from Bethany. I accomplished nothing by meeting with Cassius. I’d felt uneasy the entire time. I could see why a man like my father wouldn’t like dealing with the Roman trader.

I took a deep breath and realized I was glad that Cassius excused me from our meeting so quickly.

The other frustration—and fear—I now felt had to do with the Nubian slave, whom I presumed was named Shakalah. That Cassius was using him was obvious. I supposed I felt protective of the man, of anyone treated so despicably.

I also felt guilty for not joining my sisters in helping the poor and sick more and for not taking on more of the business from Martha. Finally, I had begun to do that, but perhaps Cassius was the wrong way of going about it.

My sisters never married, solely because of their passion to help people. Both were lovely, inside and out, in their own ways. I didn’t want to be like them, to have no one. Yet, having a wife was the least of my concerns right now.

These thoughts filled my head to the point of aching when I returned to our house.

***

Lazarus? Are you feeling all right? Mary asked when she ran to me from the street outside our house. Two families were sitting against our house wall, in the street, eating food my sisters provided to them. Probably bread and some olives and some soup Martha made that some swore could restore the dead. She wiped the children’s faces with a damp cloth.

Mary, I smiled when she brought me back from my thoughts. You are wonderful.

She laughed. What are you talking about? Are you drunk?

No, but Cassius tried to get me to drink too much.

She said softly, I don’t like him at all, Lazarus.

I smiled again. I will go inside and work on some accounts.

After Father died, Martha handled all accounts until I was old enough to learn about them. I was a bright kid, but Martha handled business matters exceptionally. Slowly, over time, and when she trusted me enough, Martha handed more over to me, but not enough to make a difference in her busy life.

I sat at a table where several parchment scrolls were scattered about. I brought a pen and ink closer to me from the corner of the old table, one that Father always used.

Lazarus.

It was Martha. Ah, my sister, I see you and Mary have no shortage of wanderers to help.

It will be a busy week with the feast. But that’s not why I came in to talk with you. First, what happened with Cassius?

I met with him at his villa. He shared some wine and figs with me. We talked about the possibility of doing business…someday.

That’s all? She had the marvelous ability to arch her right eyebrow. My sisters cared for me in every way when I grew up without our mother. That eyebrow stopped me from any further mischief on hundreds of occasions.

Not the eyebrow! I said, laughing. But she didn’t smile. I said, Very well. Nothing more than that. He dismissed me after a short time and said he’d invite me to dinner another time after the feast.

You know how I feel about him.

"Martha, as usual, you have always made clear your feelings about him. I will be cautious. The meeting made me realize how much I need to remain cautious."

Martha held my arm. What did he do? What did he say?

I smiled. My smiles always reassured her. But not this time. Really, everything is fine.

She let go of my arm. I will prepare dinner soon. Mary is finishing with the families outside. But, first, I have some exciting news.

I looked at her. She was smiling, and a tear formed in her eye. Whatever news it was, it greatly affected my sister.

Well, what is it? I asked.

She knelt beside me and looked into my eyes. The travelers we received today gave us news of the Messiah.

The Messiah? The Messiah?

Yes, yes! He has healed many, and they say he speaks with authority.

Where is this man? Is he a rabbi, a Pharisee, a fighter?

Lazarus, open your heart. Jesus is not any of these. A rabbi, maybe, because he has a following. They say he came from Nazareth and has traveled all around the Sea of Galilee and will come to Jerusalem soon. He even went to Samaria!

He is a brave man, then, or a foolish one.

Lazarus, stop it! He is the one. I can feel it in my heart.

Perhaps you and Mary can invite him and his followers to our house. I said that in jest because our house was the preferred inn for everyone heading to Jerusalem.

Martha jumped up and clasped her hands. Yes, Lazarus! I must tell Mary right away!

I hadn’t seen her so giddy in ages. Wait! In fact, I never had.

***

A little more about me before I go on. My studies consumed me for most of my young adult years. Yes, I did interact with the other Jewish boys in my classes, but I never felt like part of the class. So, I studied all the time. I found I had an affinity for language and writing. I mastered Hebrew and Greek quickly. As for writing, I enjoyed poetry, songs, and stories the most. My sisters and I, in the rare moments we had time to enjoy each other’s company, would often act out one of my stories. Otherwise, our lives were spent conducting the family business and caring for the poor.

Later that night, Martha answered a knock at the door. She and the messenger spoke, and then she said, waving him in, Please come!

She introduced the man as Jude. He wore a simple tunic held together with rope. His sandals were worn, his feet dirty. Mary knelt before him to clean his feet.

Please, you don’t have to do that, he said. I’m only delivering a message from Jesus.

Mary continued without hesitation. I said, I’m Lazarus. My sister serves God in many ways.

Jude smiled and nodded. Jesus is looking for people like her!

Martha asked, clasping her hands, Jesus sent a message?

Yes. He has heard of your hospitality and wishes to stay two nights with you during the feast. He has many plans in Jerusalem, but he prefers to stay outside the city walls when he can.

Martha clapped her hands. Yes, I understand! Our home will be his home! Tonight? Tomorrow?

In two days. He will be alone.

Mary, I said, please pack some food for Jude.

Mary finished washing his feet and ran to the kitchen. In moments, she returned with a small bundle wrapped in light cotton strips.

Thank you, he said, looking at each of us in turn.

Jude, you are always welcome here, I said.

After he left, my two sisters started jumping up and down, holding onto each other. I laughed. If Jesus could make them this joyous, maybe he was indeed the Messiah.

***

I returned to Jerusalem early the next day. My first goal was to avoid Cassius. He controlled a network that extended over the entire city. It wouldn’t be easy to escape his net if he intended to catch me. My secondary goal was to visit the markets. We’d hired workers to harvest our vineyards. Soon, we’d have wine to sell after the feast. However, some of the grapes could be sold this week. We also had a press. Many clay urns needed to be filled with olive oil. We hired others, mostly from tenant farmers, to handle that. I needed to find out about the latest demand for our products this week.

Father’s reputation greatly helped us to keep our business going. New generations of friends and allies came to know the three of us. Times were good.

I traveled from one market to another and saw a crowd beginning to run to the north wall of the temple. I stopped someone by grabbing his arm.

What is happening?

A stoning! He broke free to catch up with a group of young men. As men, old and young, headed to the north wall, I saw a contingent of Roman soldiers coming my way. I wasn’t surprised. Jewish law demanded stoning as punishment. It wasn’t the Roman way of doing things. Most of the time, the Romans broke up these spontaneous stonings, but this one must be particularly scandalous given the crowd. Normally, they allowed the Jews to kill one of their own rather than fight a large crowd.

I decided to march to the temple wall, forgetting about discussing business with anyone.

The closer I got to the north wall, near the Sheep Gate, I could hear the words of what everyone was yelling. To the temple courts! Stone the woman! Adulteress!

I trailed behind the procession of men, young and old, heading to the temple. One young man gave me a rock.

You’ll need this! he said, smiling.

He turned and ran off with his friends. I dropped the rock and continued to follow. Those not going with the crowd quickly disappeared into homes and down narrow roads.

It was a sunny day, cool and crisp. I could smell fresher air than we’d had in days, as though God had cleansed Jerusalem to prepare us for the feast to come. The crowd stopped outside the temple, north of the Beautiful Gate. I moved about on the periphery until I could see what was going on.

The crowd formed a circle around a woman kneeling on the ground. Her clothes were torn, and her head was uncovered. She was sobbing into her hands, but when she looked up, dirt and tears streaked her face. She looked at her accusers, and then her eyes met mine. To my shame, I looked away.

A Pharisee, not old but not young, entered the circle and made the woman rise. She stood but continued to cower. The Pharisee yelled at a man, Rabbi, this woman committed adultery! The Law of Moses commands us to stone her. Now, what do you say?

I looked at the teacher. He was about my height, wearing a simple tunic. His beard was full, and his hair long. The man looked around at everyone, but he said nothing. Instead, he squatted and brushed the dirt on the ground.

The crowd was silent. Hands were holding firm to rocks. The Pharisee smiled and looked at other Pharisees who stood to the side. They weren’t holding rocks.

The man the Pharisee called rabbi began writing in the dirt with his finger. He took his time. I approached him, making my way through the crowd to see what he wrote. Those closest to him laughed at his scribblings in the dirt.

The Pharisee said so that everyone could hear, Rabbi, why do you hesitate? Do you disagree with the Law?

The man continued to slowly write something in the dirt. The other Pharisees grew restless. Finally, the Pharisee standing by the woman said, This rabbi has nothing to say! I say this woman should be stoned! Israel, what do you say?

The crowd yelled in affirmation, raising their hands to show the stones prepared to be thrown. The woman dropped to the ground again, covering herself.

Then the teacher stood and spoke, raising his hands above him. Silence gripped the crowd. You ask what do I say? I say, let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.

His voice wasn’t loud, but everyone could hear what he pronounced. He looked at the crowd, turning around, before he knelt again and wrote in the dirt. As he did, he looked up at me and smiled. I felt the air leave my lungs, and I grew faint.

The Pharisee looked at what was written. His eyes grew large. Looking at the other Pharisees, he lifted his hands for help from them. But none was to come. The older Pharisees turned away and went through the Beautiful Gate. The younger ones whispered to each other and followed.

The rest of the crowd slowly dispersed, dropping their rocks where they stood. A couple of men pushed by me, shaking their heads. One said, Who does Jesus think he is?

So, this was Jesus. I stood where I was and watched him go to the woman to help her stand. I drew closer to hear his words.

She looked at him and sobbed, kissing the hands that held her. Jesus asked her, Daughter, where are they? Has no one condemned you?

The woman sobbed again and then took a deep breath. She looked into his eyes and relaxed. She finally answered, No one, sir.

Then neither do I condemn you, Jesus said. Go now. Leave your life of sin.

Someone from a small group of men nearby, perhaps with Jesus, came over with a blanket and wrapped the woman with it. Then she left.

Jesus turned to the man. Thank you, Simon.

Before they left, Jesus turned to me. His eyes looked into mine. I couldn’t move away. He said, Lazarus. I will see you tomorrow.

He smiled gently, but his eyes were sad. And then he turned and left with Simon and the other men.

I didn’t move for a few minutes. I felt the sun at my back, warming me. I looked around. Everything had returned to normal. Jesus. The Messiah. Tears came to my eyes. Nothing was normal ever again.

Chapter 4

Lazarus? Father Johann interrupted.

I rubbed my eyes. It was getting very late. Yes, what is it?

What did Jesus write in the dirt?

I smiled. I didn’t know what it was, but I remembered the letters in another language I didn’t know. In fact, two languages.

And now you know? The priest leaned forward over his desk.

Yes. Jesus wrote, in both modern English and in modern German, the name Father Johann Müller.

The priest’s jaw dropped. Wait, really?

I looked at him for a moment and enjoyed the suspense. No, not really.

I laughed. He looked at me with confusion and then slapped the desk. He shook his head and began to laugh with me. You son of a . . .

I do wish I’d looked, but by the time he’d turned away, I realized he’d swept the dust away. Nothing remained.

But everything else you’ve told me is true?

Yes, Johann. I will always be honest with you in telling my story. I do like a joke now and then, but don’t let my sense of humor take away from my story.

He leaned back in this leather chair. Lazarus, I don’t know what to think. It’s too incredible.

Am I going too fast for you?

No, no. I captured everything. Later, I may have to check grammar and spelling, but I feel very sure I got it all.

Be sure to save it often. The story will be long enough without having to redo any of it. Also, I’m afraid that will be all for tonight.

Father Johann looked at his watch. Oh my, it’s three in the morning. When can we resume? This isn’t everything, is it?

Oh, no, Johann. I have much more to reveal to you. Tomorrow is Sunday. A day of Sabbath. Let’s begin again on Monday morning. Will that suit you?

Yes, yes!

We won’t meet here next time. Bring your laptop with you. We will meet at the tea shop two blocks away that you visit often.

He shook his finger at me. You are a devious man, Lazarus. Your research on me has grown bothersome.

I rose. Monday morning, Lana’s Tea Shop, 9:00 a.m.

I turned but then faced him again. One other thing. In a way, this is a confession. As such, this is between you and me. Tell no one of our discussions or my identity.

He nodded. Of course.

And then I left.

The weather was still very wet. I looked up and down the street. No one. Good. I planned to attend a church service on Sunday. I clutched my jacket closed with one hand and held the attaché in the other. The old fedora felt good and familiar on my head.

***

Monday morning’s weather heralded a much nicer day. I left the room I’d rented for my visits to New York City. A simple room, but enough to provide a safe place to sleep. It wasn’t near the tea shop. I suppose I could have taken a taxi, but instead, I walked. The front that’d pushed out the tropical storm brought with it more typical weather. A bit of a cold breeze felt good to me. Perfect for a walk.

When I promptly arrived at the tea shop, an old, quaint street-level shop, Father Johann waited at a small table in the back. His laptop sat on the table.

I nodded at the older woman, perhaps Lana, after whom the shop was named, who greeted me and pointed to the back to seat myself.

Good morning, Johann. What would you like to drink?

It is a blessed morning. English tea with milk.

The woman came to the table with a pad to write our order.

I asked Johann, Did you get enough sleep?

He chuckled. Not hardly. My mind raced all night, thinking about our discussion.

Then let’s continue, if you will. I picked a good out-of-the-way spot for today’s session.

Excellent. You had concluded telling me about Jesus and the adulteress.

I smiled. You remember well.

Chapter 5

The commotion at the temple had subsided. I looked around. It was as if nothing had happened. I went back to the markets to receive orders for grapes and olive oil and for wine after the feast.

Gossip ran amuck in the markets. People talked about the temple event, but I heard stories of other things Jesus had done, like healing a blind man. I cut short my business in Jerusalem and returned to Bethany. I wanted to tell my sisters what I saw and what I’d heard.

On the road home, I faced crowds of people heading to Jerusalem. In the past, I’d observed visitors who came for the Feast of Tabernacles with anticipation, but the excitement in the air this time was far greater. I heard continuous laughter passing between families. Hands were extended to heaven in prayer. I caught the name of Jesus everywhere I turned. The occasional Roman soldiers, in pairs, nervously looked at each other.

A long line of people stood outside our house in Bethany. Mary and Martha passed out bread, grapes, and figs and served soup to those who looked ill. My sisters sweated, even in the cool, dry air. I ran up to them.

Mary, Martha, please rest inside for a bit. You can’t provide for these people if you collapse from your labors.

Mary looked to Martha for guidance, who said, Perhaps you are right. I’ve never seen so many people on this road.

Mary headed inside without hesitation. I told Martha, I’m serious. Send out a couple of servants to replace you. I have brought news. Of Jesus.

My sister smiled, and the weariness in her face disappeared. She skipped to the door and yelled in, Rebekah, Elizabeth, come tend to our visitors!

Two young women, new servants we’d hired, passed by us as I followed Martha inside. We washed our feet. Martha also washed her worn hands and the sweat from her face.

She looked at me and said, Now, what did you hear?

Mary came over, Hear about what?

Jesus, I said. I told them about the attempted stoning and my impression of Jesus.

We heard snippets from passersby, Mary said. I wish we could have been there.

It was no place for a woman, I can assure you, I said. I haven’t told you everything. Afterward, Jesus called me by name and said he’ll see us tomorrow, as his servant Jude had said.

But how did he know you?

I opened my hands. I don’t know.

Martha looked at them with worried eyes. When he comes, everyone will come here looking for him. What are we to do? We are already reaching the end of our resources to deal with the feast crowd.

Martha, do what you can to prepare for his stay. Mary, go to our neighbors for help. I will talk to the vineyard foremen to bring guards to maintain control around our house.

Martha put her hand on my shoulder. Lazarus, I’m proud of you. You are taking charge. But don’t get used to it! I’m still the oldest one here!

I laughed. I understand, my dear sister.

***

Besides preparing ourselves for Jesus’ arrival the next day, I passed along orders to the vineyards and olive groves to be filled immediately to supply our vendors in the markets.

Martha and Mary dismissed the servants in the house. My sisters decided to clean the house and prepare food themselves. Also, I think they didn’t want to share Jesus with anyone else.

Let me put it another way. Martha told Mary that’s what she wanted. I certainly wasn’t going to get in my sister’s way.

In fact, I walked to Jerusalem with a servant and a cart to buy more food for the next few days. Martha told me what she wanted.

The trip to the city was a slow one. The road was clogged most of the way with people, their animals, and their carts. It was hotter than the day before. That, mixed with the dust on the road, didn’t make it a pleasant walk.

I learned to rely heavily on our servant Elisha, an older man who worked for my father. He was blind in one eye, but he was strong, proud, and willing to do anything we asked. Mary, in particular, thought of him as another father, and I observed that Elisha felt strongly about her. He often made things for her by carving wood or creating things from straw, especially when she was young. These days, he sometimes brought her flowers found at our nearest vineyard.

Lazarus, he said, perhaps we should go to the southern markets, away from the temple.

From the vantage point we had on the Mount of Olives looking at Jerusalem, we saw a much larger crowd trying to enter the city at the Golden Gate, closest to the temple. The mob also overwhelmed the less popular Valley Gate. We opted for the Water Gate. That gate mostly served those with herds and beasts of burden because of the plentiful water at the Pool of Solomon, which supplied much of the water by aqueducts to the city.

As we approached the gate, I told Elisha, Good plan! This will be a much easier day.

But I spoke too soon. When we arrived at the southern markets, Elisha and I looked at each other. His bad eye was twitching. He didn’t like crowds, and neither did I.

Well, we’ve made our bed; we need to lie in it, I said.

Yes, Lazarus, but I’m not sleepy.

I laughed. Elisha took things too literally. The sooner we get this done, the faster we will be home.

He nodded and proceeded into the heart of the market with me. Our fruitful efforts to get everything on Martha’s list made me glad we tried this market. However, many of Cassius’ men did their business here as well.

Just as Elisha and I finished, one of those men, someone I didn’t care for, called to me.

Lazarus! What are you doing here? Stealing business from Cassius?

Leon, good to see you, I lied. I’m here to get some things for the house and guests. We felt that the feast crowds would be too much to navigate in the northern markets.

Very well, but we will be watching you! Leon jabbed a finger at my chest.

I sensed Elisha moving close to my side. "I look forward to being the center of your attention, Leon. But shouldn’t you be tending