Unafraid (12 page)

“Have we not suffered long enough? If we stand and fight, will not the Lord our God fight with us?”

“Fool! Who are you to say what God will or will not do?”

“So we sit on our hands and let the Romans take their provisions from our poverty?”

“We wait.”

“How long must we wait? How long?”

Closing his eyes, Joseph leaned back. He was exhausted from the long trek to Sepphoris and back after a hard day’s work. He was grateful for the denarius he’d received, though it barely stretched to cover the family’s needs. He was grateful for the work God gave him, and even more grateful for the one who shared his load: Jesus.

His arm ached again. His fingertips were numb, but the pain raced up his arm and across his chest. He rubbed his arm and breathed slowly. Tomorrow was the Sabbath, and he could rest.

Joseph looked at his children gathered around Jesus, and it struck him again. The boy he loved most was not his own.
My son who is not my son.
He has grown up in this small village like a tender green shoot, sprouting from a root in dry and sterile ground. He looks like any other boy. He isn’t beautiful or majestic in appearance. People look at him and see a carpenter’s son and nothing more. When he speaks, who but his brothers and sisters listen? And even they don’t understand that Jesus is not one of us.

He is the Son of the one who said, “I Am the One Who Always Is.” God is in him. God is with us!

Will they recognize him when his time comes to proclaim himself to the nations?

Even as the question reared up in Joseph’s mind, Isaiah’s words came rushing in.
“He was despised and rejected—a man of sorrows, acquainted with bitterest grief. . . .Yet it was our weaknesses he carried; it was our sorrows that weighed him down . . . a punishment from God. . . . Yet the Lord laid on him the guilt and sins of us all.”

No.

“It was the Lord’s good plan to crush him and fill him with grief. . . . His life is made an offering for sin.”

Joseph groaned, clutching at his chest.

“What is it, Joseph?” Mary said, suddenly at his side.
“Joseph!”
He felt her arms around him, but he could only look at Jesus and weep.

Joseph felt Jesus lift him while the others were all talking at once, shaken by fear and confusion. “Hush, now,” Mary said firmly. “Don’t be afraid. Your brother is going to help.”

As Jesus lowered him to the pallet, Joseph sensed the struggle going on inside the boy. Had there ever been a time in Jesus’ life when he’d not come face-to-face with temptation and had to battle his human nature and crush it? Joseph saw the sweat bead on Jesus’ brow now. “Oh,” Joseph groaned, filled with anguish. Would Jesus fight and overcome evil only to be killed in the end? How could this be?

The pain in his chest increased, along with his conviction that he was dying. “Come close, my children. Come!” As they knelt beside him, he drew each down, kissing them and blessing them. “Listen to your brother, Jesus. Obey your mother. Trust in the Lord. . . .”

“You’ll be all right, Joseph,” Mary said, receiving his blessing, her eyes tear-filled but fierce. “I know you will. Jesus has only to—”

“Hush,” Joseph said, putting his fingertips over her lips. Should they presume a miracle would be performed just because they wanted it? Should they expect Jesus, God the Son, the great
I Am
, to do their bidding? “God decides,” he whispered. “We mustn’t burden Jesus more.”

Mary looked up at her son, her face pale and strained. Joseph saw how she pleaded with her eyes. “Mary, I must speak with Jesus.”

“Yes, Joseph.” Mary rose quickly.

Every breath he drew was painful. The fingers of his hand were numb and sweat soaked through his tunic. Mary quickly gathered the children and urged them from the room. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at her eldest son. “I know you can help him. Do so. Please. Do so.” She left the room.

Jesus sat close beside Joseph when the room was empty. Joseph smiled at him. Fighting the pain in his chest, he took Jesus’ hand and placed it over his heart. “We don’t make it easy for you.”

“You weren’t meant to.”

Anguish clenched Joseph’s throat. “Soften their hearts, Jesus. The children . . . oh, please. Soften their hearts so they will understand and be saved.”

“Each must choose.”

“Even faith comes from God.”

“Each must choose.”

“But will they choose to believe you are the Messiah? Will they . . . ?”

“Do you trust me?”

Joseph looked into his eyes. “Yes.” He drew a sobbing breath. “I was thinking of Isaiah as you were speaking to the children.” His eyes blurred with tears. “‘As a lamb,’ the Scriptures say, ‘He was led as a lamb to the slaughter.’”

He searched Jesus’ eyes and saw in them infinite love and compassion. The boy Jesus was only fifteen years old, but Joseph saw in him the Son of Man of whom the prophet Daniel had spoken. Joseph had seen the strength in him from birth and sensed the unending battle that went on around him. Not once in all his days had Jesus weakened and given in to sin. Not once had Joseph seen a sword in Jesus’ hand, even when other boys his age played Zealot or King David. Not once had Jesus given in to the human desires that plagued everyone who entered the world. Who but God could withstand the onslaught of constant temptation?

“He was led as a lamb to the slaughter.”

Weeping, Joseph closed his eyes. “You will take our guilt and sin upon you and be the offering. That’s why you’ve been given to us, isn’t it?” Joseph was overwhelmed with love for this boy he had reared from birth but never dared call his own. And he was torn by grief for what he feared would happen to Jesus. “They’ll reject you.”

Jesus said nothing. He merely laid his hand gently on Joseph’s brow as Joseph held the other over his heart.

“I love you, Jesus. Save my children. And your mother. She doesn’t understand.” How could she, and still be in such a hurry to press him on?

“Don’t worry,” Jesus said. “I’m with them.”

“I am so weak.” Should he doubt God now?

“Rest,” Jesus said softly. Joseph closed his eyes again and thought he heard Jesus whisper, “You have been a good and faithful servant.”

The pain lifted as his children entered the room and gathered around him again. Mary knelt beside him and took his hand tightly in hers. Joseph smiled, but he had no strength to speak. He wanted to tell her she had been a good wife, a good mother, but he’d said those things to her many times before. She knew he loved her. Still, he saw the confusion in her eyes, the fear, the appeal when she looked at Jesus.

Joseph tried to speak. She leaned down, putting her ear near his lips. “Trust. Obey.” When she laid her head upon his chest and wept, he looked up at Jesus. The only one they needed stood silent near the door, tears running down his cheeks as he obeyed the will of his Father, and did nothing to keep death away. Strangely, Joseph was no longer afraid. He sighed, relieved.

Closing his eyes, he entered his reward.

“Joseph!” Mary cried out when he stopped breathing.
“Joseph!”
She pulled Joseph’s shoulders up and held him in her arms. How could this be? She looked up at Jesus. He was weeping. “Why?” she sobbed.
“Why?”
She knew he could have healed Joseph! She knew he had the power. Hadn’t he healed Anne with a brush of his hand? Hadn’t he multiplied their loaves of bread, filled their cruses with oil? Why had he allowed Joseph whom he loved to die?

Because he doesn’t care. Because it serves his purpose.

No. She refused to believe it. She could see the sorrow in Jesus’ eyes. She knew he loved Joseph. How many times had she seen them laugh together as they worked side by side in the shop? or seen them with their heads close together as they read Scripture?

And now your son just stands there and watches him die. He does nothing. And now you’re alone—a widow with seven children to feed and no man to provide for you. Is this the way God takes care of you?

No! She would not think such evil thoughts! She would not allow doubt to slither into her mind and sink its fangs into her, spreading poison.

“Jesus.” She moaned. “Jesus!”

He was beside her at once, his hands upon her shoulders. “I am here, Mother.”

She wept as she eased Joseph’s body back onto the pallet and touched his face tenderly. How would she go on without Joseph’s strength, his wisdom, his encouragement and love? Hadn’t God spoken through him and guided them to Egypt, then back to Israel, and then here to Nazareth? And Joseph had been faithful, quick to obey when God spoke.

The children were all crying, confused, frightened, grieving. She understood how they felt, for she was caught in the same feelings, drowning in them. She tried to think what to do. Reaching up, she gripped Jesus’ hand resting on her shoulder. As firstborn, he was now head of the family.

“I have no money to buy spices,” Mary told her sister. How would she prepare Joseph’s body for burial?

“We have spices, Mother.” Jesus rose and went to the box Joseph had packed in Bethlehem that night so long ago when they had fled after the angel warned them Herod would try to kill Jesus. He opened it and took out the alabaster jar.

“What is that?” Mary’s sister said.

“We can’t use that,” Mary said.

“Use it.” Jesus held it out to her.

“But it was a gift to you, my son.”

“A gift?” Her sister looked between them. “Such a jar? Who would give such a gift?”

“It is mine,” Jesus said, “and I can give it to whom I choose.” He placed it in her hands and left Mary alone in the room with her sister and the body of her husband, Joseph.

Weeping, Mary held the jar reverently. Removing the seal, she opened it and the room was filled with the sweet scent of myrrh as she obeyed her son.