“let him cast the first stone at her.”
His words pierced my heart like an arrow. I, who was her own brother, had condemned her. I, who had known her as a child and had married her off to an old man to save our family’s name … was I not guilty of sin?
While his words hung in the air, he stooped again besideMary. Her only advocate, her only protector, he stayed close as the stones fell from the fists of the executioners one by one. I was certain, as the crowd drifted away, that Jesus would have died there with her, defending her, rather than allow her to be harmed.
I stayed close enough to hear. All of them walked away. Only Jesus and Mary remained. Then he stood. His shadow fell over her.
Standing beside her, Jesus asked gently, “Where are they? Does no man condemn you?”
“No man … Lord,” she said, amazed. Ashamed before him, she bowed her head and her tears fell into the dust where he had written.
Jesus waited a moment longer. Then he stretched out his hand to help her stand. “Neither do I condemn you. Now go, and don’t sin anymore.” 1
He did not need her to reply. Her ordeal was over. Jesus turned to go. She started to follow him, but then my sister raised her eyes and saw me standing there.
I did not approach her. We gazed at one another over a gulf. Her shame was great, but his forgiveness was greater.
She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. I saw her lips move. “Forgive me.”
I mouthed, “Mary, come home.”
She did not reply but turned away, following after Jesus.
I did not pursue her.
At that instant, sudden lightning split the sky in the east. A raindrop struck my cheek. And then the rain began to fall in earnest. I saw my sister Mary holding out her hands, receiving it as if it were a blessing, a cleansing.
Chapter 12
I t was Patrick, my barrelmaker, who suggested I again go hear John the Baptizer speak.
Samson and I were in my wine caverns, tasting from the barrels of the latest vintage. He and I sampled the wine from Faithful Vineyard on the first day of every week. The oak had contributed much to the flavor and aroma of the new wine, but there would come a time when I needed to move the contents to clay jars. I did not want to let even an extra Sabbath pass untested, lest perfection be lost.
Since the barrels were his creation, Patrick was equally interested in following the progress of the wine.
As Samson drew out a sample from yet another barrel, I remarked, “I met Nicodemus the Pharisee at the Street of the Coppersmiths yesterday.”
“A good customer and a worthy gentleman, if I may say so, sir,” my winemaker suggested. “Not at all like most Pharisees, if you’ll excuse my bluntness.”
Patrick chuckled as he sipped a mouthful of wine.
“Will he be ordering his usual allotment?” Samson continued.
“I let him sample this,” I returned, then paused.
“And?” Samson and Patrick simultaneously urged, though Samson added, “If you please, sir.”
“Double last year’s purchase!” I concluded triumphantly. “A great success.”
“Congratulations, sir,” Samson praised.
“Congratulations, indeed, but it goes to you and Patrick here. In fact, the only question remaining is how soon we will run out.”
“Very true, sir,” Samson concurred. “Especially after Lord Nicodemus lets his friends try it as well. I believe he is among the leaders in Jerusalem, isn’t he?”
“A member of the Sanhedrin,” I replied. “You are right that he is around the most wealthy and powerful men in the Holy City.” I rubbed my forehead as I reconstructed the conversation. “In fact, I just remembered something he said that I wish I knew more about.”
Samson and Patrick waited patiently for me to continue, as it would be impolite to ask the master to share his thoughts unless he volunteered them.
“Now I recall: it’s said there is a rift between the Baptizer and Jesus of Nazareth. Some other Pharisees say John is envious of Jesus’
His words pierced my heart like an arrow. I, who was her own brother, had condemned her. I, who had known her as a child and had married her off to an old man to save our family’s name … was I not guilty of sin?
While his words hung in the air, he stooped again besideMary. Her only advocate, her only protector, he stayed close as the stones fell from the fists of the executioners one by one. I was certain, as the crowd drifted away, that Jesus would have died there with her, defending her, rather than allow her to be harmed.
I stayed close enough to hear. All of them walked away. Only Jesus and Mary remained. Then he stood. His shadow fell over her.
Standing beside her, Jesus asked gently, “Where are they? Does no man condemn you?”
“No man … Lord,” she said, amazed. Ashamed before him, she bowed her head and her tears fell into the dust where he had written.
Jesus waited a moment longer. Then he stretched out his hand to help her stand. “Neither do I condemn you. Now go, and don’t sin anymore.” 1
He did not need her to reply. Her ordeal was over. Jesus turned to go. She started to follow him, but then my sister raised her eyes and saw me standing there.
I did not approach her. We gazed at one another over a gulf. Her shame was great, but his forgiveness was greater.
She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. I saw her lips move. “Forgive me.”
I mouthed, “Mary, come home.”
She did not reply but turned away, following after Jesus.
I did not pursue her.
At that instant, sudden lightning split the sky in the east. A raindrop struck my cheek. And then the rain began to fall in earnest. I saw my sister Mary holding out her hands, receiving it as if it were a blessing, a cleansing.
Chapter 12
I t was Patrick, my barrelmaker, who suggested I again go hear John the Baptizer speak.
Samson and I were in my wine caverns, tasting from the barrels of the latest vintage. He and I sampled the wine from Faithful Vineyard on the first day of every week. The oak had contributed much to the flavor and aroma of the new wine, but there would come a time when I needed to move the contents to clay jars. I did not want to let even an extra Sabbath pass untested, lest perfection be lost.
Since the barrels were his creation, Patrick was equally interested in following the progress of the wine.
As Samson drew out a sample from yet another barrel, I remarked, “I met Nicodemus the Pharisee at the Street of the Coppersmiths yesterday.”
“A good customer and a worthy gentleman, if I may say so, sir,” my winemaker suggested. “Not at all like most Pharisees, if you’ll excuse my bluntness.”
Patrick chuckled as he sipped a mouthful of wine.
“Will he be ordering his usual allotment?” Samson continued.
“I let him sample this,” I returned, then paused.
“And?” Samson and Patrick simultaneously urged, though Samson added, “If you please, sir.”
“Double last year’s purchase!” I concluded triumphantly. “A great success.”
“Congratulations, sir,” Samson praised.
“Congratulations, indeed, but it goes to you and Patrick here. In fact, the only question remaining is how soon we will run out.”
“Very true, sir,” Samson concurred. “Especially after Lord Nicodemus lets his friends try it as well. I believe he is among the leaders in Jerusalem, isn’t he?”
“A member of the Sanhedrin,” I replied. “You are right that he is around the most wealthy and powerful men in the Holy City.” I rubbed my forehead as I reconstructed the conversation. “In fact, I just remembered something he said that I wish I knew more about.”
Samson and Patrick waited patiently for me to continue, as it would be impolite to ask the master to share his thoughts unless he volunteered them.
“Now I recall: it’s said there is a rift between the Baptizer and Jesus of Nazareth. Some other Pharisees say John is envious of Jesus’
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