The Crown and the Cross: The Life of Christ (2 page)

She had gone about her duties with a troubled mind during the next several days. Nothing had happened to her body that she was able to detect, certainly nothing to give her reason to feel that she had conceived. Logic almost convinced her that the whole thing had been a dream, although the scene was as vivid in her memory as on the day when the stranger had appeared, and she still could not forget his convincing manner, or the reverence and respect with which he had greeted her.

Finally, knowing she must answer for herself the question of whether she had really seen an angel, Mary decided to do the one thing that, she was sure, could settle her doubts once and for all. The angel, if such he were, had said that her cousin Elisabeth had conceived. If Mary were to make the several days’ journey to Hebron where Elisabeth lived with her white-haired priest-husband Zacharias, and there found her kinswoman pregnant, as the visitor had stated, she could be sure this strange experience had been no mere fantasy.

As she thought about it, Mary remembered rumors that had been going about of a strange thing happening to Zacharias while he had been serving with one of the priestly “courses” as the groups assigned at intervals to help with the ritual of worship in the temple were called.

Temple service was an honor coveted by all priests of Israel and regular processions of them journeyed to Jerusalem periodically to fulfill the holy office. Zacharias, Mary had heard, while serving in the temple had been selected to burn incense on the altar in the Holy Place. His instructions were to bow down in worship as soon as the incense was kindled upon the coals, and then to withdraw in reverence. But that day, rumor said, Zacharias had remained overlong in the room which contained the altar. When finally he had emerged to take his allotted position at the top of the steps leading from the porch to the Court of the Priests, he had been unable to speak and could only beckon to the others instead of leading in the benediction.

No one doubted that Zacharias had had a divine vision in the Holy Place, but the old priest had been able to reveal nothing of what had happened and had departed to his own village immediately his offices in the temple were completed. There he had remained, still not able to speak.

Mary was able to make the long trip to Hebron in company with a party of friends who were going from Nazareth to Judea. As she trudged along the road with them, she had wondered whether there could be any connection between the strange thing which was said to have happened to Zacharias and her own experience with the angel. Her questions were answered at once when she reached the home of her kinswoman. For Elisabeth, in spite of the fact that she was beyond the normal age of childbearing and had been barren for many years, was far advanced in pregnancy.

Elisabeth’s greeting had confirmed the thrilling promise of the angel who had visited Mary. “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb!” the older woman had said. “But why is this granted to me, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?” Mary told Elisabeth of what had happened in Nazareth and of her own doubts, and how even though she was sure now that her senses had not betrayed her, she could not understand how she, a lowly daughter in the line of David, had been chosen for so high an honor.

It was a question that Elisabeth had not been able to answer. Before her visit was ended, however, Mary’s body had confirmed what the angel had revealed, that she, though a virgin, was indeed to bear a child. The fact of her pregnancy being certain beyond doubt now, Mary straightway traveled back to Nazareth to tell Joseph the story of how she had been selected by God to become the mother of a king.

Several months later, Elisabeth had sent word to Mary that she had given birth to a strong boy who had been circumcised on the eighth day, as was required for all male children born in Israel, and named John. Immediately after the ceremony, Zacharias had found his tongue again and had told how an angel of the Lord had appeared to him in the temple as he stood beside the altar of incense and revealed that his wife would conceive and bear him a son who would, in the words of the messenger, “Go before the Lord in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the just; to make ready a people prepared for the Lord.”

Few believed the story of the old priest, choosing to think that he had dozed as he waited before the Holy Place to burn the incense and had only dreamed a vivid dream. But Zacharias and Elisabeth were happy now. It had been many hundreds of years since a true prophet had arisen in Israel, and they were both proud that here in their house lay one to whom the Most High had promised the spirit and power of Elijah.

Mary had told all these things to Joseph when she returned to Nazareth. With the signs of her pregnancy already beginning to be evident, she was concerned about the talk that would follow when she bore a child which obviously had been conceived before she and Joseph were legally man and wife. Through it all Joseph had been gentle and kind, thinking of her before himself, as he did even now.

After seating Mary comfortably upon the rock beside the road where she could look across the valley to Bethlehem, he tethered the mule loosely so it could graze upon some small patches of dry grass between the rocks. From the pack that contained his carpenter’s tools, he took a small waterskin and, after Mary had drunk from it, relieved his own thirst.

Toward Bethlehem, whose white rooftops were now plainly visible in the afternoon sunlight, a broad ridge gradually rose to form a hill that extended almost in a north-south direction for some distance before turning slightly to the southwest to parallel the road to Hebron, along which the dust kicked up by travelers approaching the city from the south was plainly visible. The back of the ridge was irregular in shape and to the east a lesser slope ended in a small plain between two valleys. Almost atop the ridge, on the lowest of its three elevations, lay Bethlehem.

From where he stood, Joseph could see the gates of the town, where he had played as a child, the northwestern one leading toward Jerusalem, only a few hours’ walk distant for a vigorous man, and the western gate leading toward Hebron. To the south and east smaller gates were also cut into the winding wall that encompassed the town, but they were of little significance since no highroad traversed them.

Turning, Joseph looked to where Mary sat upon the rock, resting her back against the rough stone with her eyes closed. He saw her body suddenly grow tense and her face tighten in a grimace of pain as her hands pressed down upon the rock beside her. Her womb had begun to contract with the pains of oncoming labor about an hour ago and before the night was over, he was fairly sure, the child she carried would be born.

As he looked toward Bethlehem and remembered the promise of the ancient writings that a king of Israel would be born there, Joseph thought again of the story Mary had told when she returned from her visit to Elisabeth and Zacharias. He had wanted to believe her then, but it was all so strange he could not force himself to do so. Loving Mary as he did, he had felt no desire to make an example of her, though what had happened obviously made continuing their betrothal impossible.

He had decided therefore to break the betrothal privately. Though the letter of divorce that was required to sever the betrothal had to be public, it could legally be given to Mary in the presence of but two persons, thus avoiding having to bring her before a court of justice with all the scandal inevitably involved. And yet Joseph had hesitated, for, however unbelievable the story she had told of being pregnant by the Holy Spirit with a child destined to be Messiah and king in Israel, his love and respect for Mary would not let him cause her pain.

Three things had been regarded since ancient times as signs of favor from the Most High, “A good king, a fruitful year, and a good dream.” So when the third of these came to Joseph one night, he took it as the voice of the Lord speaking to him, although with the tongue of an angel.

“Joseph, son of David,” the voice in the dream had said, “do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit. She shall bring forth a Son and you shall call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.” And Joseph, on waking from his dream, had found himself convinced that if the Most High God had chosen his espoused wife as the vessel by which a Savior was to come to Israel, his own duty was manifestly clear. He must cherish and protect her and her child, counting it an indication of the Lord’s trust and favor that so great a charge had been given him.

Joseph and Mary both loved the hill country of Galilee, but they were both from the line of King David and so had to return to their ancestral family city in order to be registered for the census decreed by Caesar Augustus. Bethlehem, where Joseph was born, was the City of David, the greatest king in Israel’s history. A hallowed place, it was eminently suited to serve as a cradle for Him who, Mary had been assured, would one day reign over God’s own people. God had long ago revealed through the prophet Micah that His Son would be born in Bethlehem, saying, “But you, Bethlehem Ephratah, out of you shall He come forth the One who is to be the ruler of Israel; whose goings forth have been from of old, from everlasting.” So it was that in Mary’s final days of pregnancy, they took the required journey to Bethlehem. Joseph took Mary and his few possessions with them, thinking to remain for a while at least to see how he might fare there in his trade.

Engrossed in his thoughts, Joseph did not notice, until the sudden coolness of the approaching winter night penetrated his robe and made him shiver, that a cloud had obscured the face of the sun. As he went to get the mule and bring it to the rock where Mary sat, he glimpsed far to the eastward, through a valley that divided the hills, the metallic-looking surface of the Sea of Judgment, in whose waters which had swallowed up sinful Sodom and Gomorrah there was no life. And a little to the south, on the highest peak in the gradual descent of the hill country to the flat wastelands of the desert, where no man could live without carrying water, stood the great castle which Herod had built and furnished for himself.

At once fortress, luxurious palace, and reminder that an alien instead of any son of David ruled there, the grim ramparts of the Herodeion, as the castle was called, were symbols of an authority based on murder, suspicion, and greed, exemplified in the wily Idumaean who was now king of the Jews. And yet of the child Mary was to bear, perhaps before the sun rose over the hills to the east again, the angel had said, “He shall be great and shall be called the Son of the Highest, and the Lord God shall give to Him the throne of His father David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of His kingdom there shall be no end.”

And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

Luke 2:7

The yard of the inn at Bethlehem, where Elam and Jonas arrived with their pack animals just as darkness was falling, had already filled with travelers and their animals. Most of them were humble folk who had made the journey to Bethlehem only because the Emperor Augustus in Rome had decreed that every man must be listed by the census takers in the place of his birth—recorded for purposes of taxation by both his
nomen
and his
cognomen
—and now the period allotted for the census was nearly past.

Naturally no one stood in the way of Elam as he strode importantly into the building and shouted for the proprietor. Jonas followed his master unobtrusively to learn what place in the stable would be assigned to him as quarters for the night.

“I told you I have but one couch,” the innkeeper was saying when they entered. “The price is two shekels, nothing less.”

Looking at the traveler who was dickering with the innkeeper, Jonas knew at once that the man was not accustomed to taking lodgings, let alone paying any such price as two shekels for them. His robe of rough homespun was almost as torn as was Jonas’s, and the strips of cloth wrapped about his ankles against the cold were stained with mud and torn by the horny bushes that lined the rough paths. Usually travelers such as he did not frequent inns but slept by the roadside under the shelter of the trees wherever night caught them or in the public caravansaries outside the towns.

“I am only a carpenter of Nazareth,” Joseph said with quiet dignity. “But my wife is great with child and her time is near.”

For the first time Jonas noticed the young woman sitting in the corner upon a bale. The quietly radiant beauty in her face made it shine, he thought, like that of an angel. Then she gasped from a sudden spasm of pain and her hands grasped her swollen body.

The look of pain on his wife’s face seemed to resolve the carpenter’s hesitation about the price asked by the innkeeper. “I will pay what you ask,” he said quickly, reaching for the flabby and worn purse at his belt.

Just then Elam spoke loudly. “Did I hear you say you have a couch left for the night, landlord?” he demanded.

The innkeeper’s quick appraising glance noted the Pharisee’s rich robe and his air of wealth and authority. “I have only one, noble sir,” he said, “and this man—”

“I will pay you four shekels for the use of the couch,” Elam interrupted importantly, taking a bulging purse from his girdle.

The landlord’s face brightened. “Certainly, sir,” he said respectfully.

“But you contracted with me for the couch,” Joseph objected. “I was opening my purse to pay.” He did not speak loudly; the
am ha-arets
did not thrust themselves forward in the presence of a man of such obvious importance as Elam. But his tone was firm nevertheless, showing that he was accustomed to standing up for his rights and was well acquainted with them.

“No money changed hands,” Elam pointed out.

“My purse is open.”

“You have not paid the landlord,” Elam said sharply. “Do you claim that you did?”

“No, I had not paid him,” Joseph admitted.

“Then there is no contract under the Law, for no money has changed hands,” Elam said triumphantly. “The couch is mine for the price of four shekels.”

The innkeeper was not without pity. He, too, had seen the young mother’s grimace of pain. Besides, it was considered good luck when a birth took place at an inn. “You were here first,” he told the carpenter. “If you can equal the price of four shekels, the couch is still yours.”

“Two would have emptied my purse,” Joseph admitted. “The Pharisee is right about the Law; rent him the couch.”

Elam was counting out the four shekels importantly, making certain everyone had a chance to see how fat his purse was. “This pays for a place in the stable for my servant, of course,” he added.

“The very best space, beside the manger,” the innkeeper assured him. “All the others are already filled.”

“See that the animals are well cared for, Jonas,” Elam directed. “We must leave very early in the morning.”

The carpenter had gone to where his wife sat on the bale and was now helping her to her feet. “We will find a place somewhere, Mary,” Jonas heard him tell her as he followed them outside into the inn yard.

The woman tried to smile, but just then another spasm of pain made her cry out. Moved by pity, Jonas said to Joseph, “My master purchased space for me in the straw of the stable. Your wife may have it if you wish.”

“But you will have no place to sleep.”

“I am used to faring for myself,” Jonas assured him. “Besides, one of the other men will probably share his place with me.”

Joseph was still doubtful and Jonas could understand his concern. A stable was a poor place for a child to be born, but at least it was a shelter and a measure of protection from the biting wind. Nor were they likely to find anything better tonight, with so many people on the road.

“The pain is great, Joseph,” the young mother said. “I am not afraid to bear my child in a stable.”

“We accept your offer then,” the carpenter said gratefully. “But you must let me pay you.”

“The poor stand together, friend Joseph,” Jonas said with a smile. “I have slept in many stables and the space beside the manger is always the best. Secure it quickly now for your wife and let no one argue with you about it.”

The child was born about midnight. Through it all, the mother bore her suffering with quiet courage, not once crying out even in the final agony of birth. The baby was well formed and strong, and when Jonas saw the look in the mother’s eyes as she held it close to her body, he felt well repaid for giving up his own space beside the manger to her, even if he got no sleep for the rest of the night.

There was no heat inside the stable, and with the wind seeping beneath the eaves the temperature had fallen rapidly with the coming of night. Now it was only a little warmer inside than out, and those who had rented space to sleep burrowed into the straw for warmth and cover. Joseph and Mary had not expected the baby to be born so quickly upon their arrival at Bethlehem, they told Jonas, and had not had time to purchase swaddling clothes in which to wrap Him. Few of the other travelers carried more than the clothing they wore on their backs, and even if they had, the rough fabric would have been far too coarse for the tender skin of the newborn babe.

Mary was trying to warm the child with her own body but, worn out from the ordeal of birth, had little warmth to give it. When Jonas came to look at the babe and receive her thanks for giving up his place, he saw that her teeth were chattering and her lips blue from the cold.

“We need a blanket to wrap the child in,” Joseph said. “Is there anything in your master’s bales I could buy, Jonas?”

Elam carried only rich cloth for making fine robes. Jonas knew the carpenter would not be able to afford even the smallest piece and, with the markets of Jerusalem so nearby, there was no point in asking the Pharisee to reduce the price. But there still was a cloth in which the baby could be wrapped, a fabric far softer and warmer than anything the carpenter could buy. Jonas was carrying it, there within his own robe.

His brief conflict with himself ended when the baby began to cry. As he drew the cloth from his robe and removed the coverings from it, he did not dare feel the smoothness and softness of the fabric with his fingers or look closely at its snowy whiteness lest he weaken and decide to keep it for the temple tomorrow.

“Wrap the baby in this while I make a place for it in the manger.” Jonas handed the cloth to Joseph. “The wool will keep him warm and we can use the straw to cover your wife.”

Joseph rubbed the cloth between his fingers. “This is a fine piece—”

“It was not stolen,” Jonas assured him. “I wove it with my own hands from scraps of wool that had been thrown away.”

“You could sell it in Jerusalem for a good price, much more than I can pay.”

“The cloth was to be a gift for the temple, but your child needs it more than the priests. Wrap him in it quickly before the warmth from my body is lost.”

“Yours is the first gift to the baby,” Mary said gratefully as she wound the soft cloth around the child’s body. “Surely it is the worthiest of all He will ever receive.”

With the excitement over, the other people in the stable began to settle down for the night. Finding no place to sleep among them as he had assured Joseph he would and thinking to lie down outside with the animals and gain a little warmth from their bodies, Jonas went out into the courtyard.

At first he thought it must be the light of the full moon that was bathing the inn and the town around it with such a warm glow. Almost blinded by the brilliance, he looked for its source and saw that the light seemed to come from a star hanging low in the sky above the inn, a far more brilliant star than he ever remembered seeing before.

Instinctively feeling himself in the presence of some power not of earth or man, Jonas dropped to his knees and his lips moved in a prayer he had learned as a child. He did not pray from fear, for the light seemed somehow friendly and warm—like the smile of the young mother in the stable as she had looked down upon her child.

“You there, little man!” A rough voice close to Jonas’s ear startled him. “Why are you saying your prayers here in the middle of the night?”

Jonas stumbled hurriedly to his feet. Two men stood near him, travelers who obviously had been sitting late in the wine shops of the town and were now loud of voice and unsteady upon their feet.

“The—the star,” Jonas stammered. “I was blinded by the star.”

“The sky is full of stars!” the man said roughly. “I see no star that would blind a man.”

Jonas looked up quickly, thinking the star might have grown dim while he was praying. But it was still there, its warm brilliance undiminished.

“There it is,” he said pointing. “Hanging in the sky over the inn.”

“Leave him alone, Asa,” the second man urged. “The poor fellow must be possessed by an evil spirit; he sees things that do not exist.”

“The star is there!” Jonas cried. “I can see it!”

The men hurried toward the inn. Everyone knew, when a man was possessed by a demon, the evil spirit could escape into the body of anyone who came near.

Jonas felt a chill colder than the winter night settle upon him. Madmen, he knew, often saw things others could not see. There were such in every village, shunned by the people lest they send the devils who possessed them to trouble others. If the men who had just left told of seeing a little man kneeling in the courtyard and babbling about a star no one else could see, everyone would think him a madman. Elam might not take him back home to Hebron and he would be condemned to wander through the countryside, seeking shelter, wherever he could find it and with nothing to eat except what he could steal or whatever scraps kindhearted people might throw him.

Jonas decided he would say no more about the star to anyone. And since the men would hardly mention his peculiar behavior before he had departed early in the morning with his master, no one else need know. Feeling somewhat better, now that his secret did not seem likely to be revealed, he lay down on the ground beside the animals.

Strangely enough, he felt the cold no longer, for the soft radiance of the star seemed to bathe his body in a warmth like the rays of the sun. Once he was almost certain he heard faint music like the sound of harps and voices coming from some place in the sky. But he kept that to himself, too, and enveloped by the soft, warm, protecting mantle of the star’s light, he soon slept.

Elam was up early for he was anxious to reach the bazaars of Jerusalem with his bales of cloth soon after the shops opened for business. Later in the day, when more merchandise had come in, prices would be lower, but since it was only a few miles to the Holy City, he planned to be among the firstcomers and thus be sure of a good price.

Word had gone through the inn that a child had been born in the stable during the night. With a good night’s rest behind him and the prospect of a handsome profit on the sale of his goods, the Pharisee was in a good humor when he stopped by the stable to give his blessing to mother and child. But as he looked at the sleeping baby, he gave a muffled exclamation of surprise. Reaching down, he took a corner of the swaddling cloth between his fingers and for an instant a look of astonishment showed in his eyes, to be quickly replaced by a crafty gleam.

“This fabric is too fine to be wasted as a swaddling cloth,” he said casually to Joseph. “I will give you a good price for it.”

“I cannot sell the cloth.” Joseph glanced quickly at Jonas, who had come in to tell the family good-bye before leaving.

“Why not sell it?” Elam demanded of Joseph. “You could not bid against me for the couch last night. You must be poor.”

“We have no other swaddling cloth for the baby,” Joseph protested.