Many in the crowd would have been hoping for better entertainment. ‘Let the messiah, the king of Israel, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe’ (Mark 15: 32). They note the sudden storm-clouds, the reputation of Jesus, and the presence of Lazarus. They assume there’s a good chance of seeing a spectacular reversal, and with luck even a miracle.
Jesus takes three hours to die, which for a crucifixion is neither mercifully short nor proof of abnormal endurance. It is an average, ordinary life expectancy when a body is mistreated in this way.
The influence of Lazarus is evident to the end and beyond. When Jesus stops breathing, the soldiers have orders to confirm his death. ‘But when they came to Jesus and found that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. Instead, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus’s side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water’ (John 19: 33–34).
Jesus continues to improve on the death of Lazarus. Crucifixion, then the spear to make sure. No one will ever doubt that he died.
‘Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he bowed his head and gave up the spirit’ (John 19: 30).
It is finished. For Jesus it is finished, but not yet for Lazarus.
7
1
IN CHURCHES OBSERVING the Byzantine Rite, Lazarus Saturday is a leading religious festival. Bright colours are used for vestments and the Holy Table, and, uniquely in the Christian year, the standard order of service for a Sunday can be celebrated on a different day of the week.
For one Saturday every year, a week and a day before Easter, Lazarus is the equal of Jesus. In the Apolytikion for St Lazarus they sing We cry out to you, O Vanquisher of Death! On Lazarus Saturday the Russians bring out the caviar. The Greeks make a spiced bread called Lazarakia, shaping the dough into a man bound for burial.
Catholics and Protestants are less enthusiastic: perhaps they’re inhibited by the three out of four gospel writers who ignore Lazarus completely. In some ways they’d prefer him to disappear, but Lazarus keeps coming back. The memory of Lazarus is stubborn, and insists on his survival.
In Jerusalem on the Saturday after the execution of Jesus, one week after the resurrection of Lazarus, it is feasible that Lazarus Saturday will become the central day of a newly forged religion. Jesus will be secondary, because Lazarus has vanquished death. He is the survivor, and the only living pathway to god.
2
The evangelist Mark provides the fullest record of Holy Week. He reports on every day between Palm Sunday and Friday’s crucifixion, but he has nothing to relate about the Saturday. For Jesus, at that point, the story is finished. He said so himself.
From Friday afternoon at about three p.m., when Jesus dies, Lazarus becomes god’s representative on earth. Something extraordinary would need to happen to displace him.
Lazarus watches strangers haul his friend down from the olive tree. They fumble the body, a heavy object thumping hard to the ground. The corpse is gathered up again, gently, as if the dead care.
The crowd breaks up, falling away from Lazarus. He doesn’t notice them go, nor, at first, does he realise that someone has come to stand very close beside him.
‘You’re still alive,’ Cassius says. ‘You’re a very lucky man.’
Luck has nothing to do with it, because Lazarus could have foretold this moment, like a prophet. As a child he’d felt special, and without him Jesus was always likely to come to harm. He remembers the amphitheatre in Sephoris, when he’d saved Jesus from falling. He’d never understood how he’d managed to do that.
From inside the city comes the single note of a trumpet, announcing the start of the Sabbath. Stragglers turn away from the manhandling of the body of Jesus: there is a rush to bury him before the sun goes down.
‘You have the rest of your life in front of you,’ Cassius says. ‘The man who came back from the dead.’
No one but Cassius acknowledges the presence of Lazarus. The last witnesses give up their wait for a miracle. Jesus is not the messiah, and therefore none of the stories were true. Lazarus is not true. He can safely be ignored.
‘Only you have vanquished death,’ Cassius says. ‘It must feel like being chosen.’
Lazarus questions his purpose on earth, as he has done every day since he emerged from the tomb. Usefully, he has acted as a distraction to the authorities, allowing Jesus an extra week to preach in Jerusalem. He has consoled Jesus in his last living hours, and that is a wonderful thing to have done. But what is he for next, what is he for now?
‘Someone will have to take up his work,’ Cassius says.
‘Jesus is dead. It is finished.’
‘For him, yes. One messiah at a time is enough.’
Lazarus spends Friday night on the hill, outside the city walls. Golgotha is an area of tombs and quarries, with access routes and steps joining the various levels. The bare olive trees make twisted silhouettes on the ridge line.
He sits with his arms round his knees, and in the night-time the tiniest incidents are possible visits from god. Every breath of wind is a sign, as is the sand chasing its tail over a moonlit rock. He listens for restless demons, for strays sweeping across the empty spaces, and for jackals, wolves, lions. He imagines himself in the wilderness like a lost prophet, waiting for the word of god.
Yanav sits down beside him. He has instructions from Cassius to encourage the notion that only a messiah can come back to life. It is written in the scriptures. He should suggest that a messiah with a genuine commitment to the Judaean people would listen carefully to Rome.
‘Jesus was an interesting man,’ Yanav says. ‘I liked him. What he did for you was miraculous.’
‘I know.’
The two men sit side by side, not speaking. Yanav hates getting involved with religion. He heals the devout and they tell him that god is working through a healer. Which may be true, but the faithful should appreciate that Yanav is an important part of the process. If it weren’t for him, Lazarus would have died months earlier. He’d have muddled the timings of god.
Until today’s crucifixion, Yanav had preferred the coherent thinking of the Romans. He admires them for their trust in observable cause and effect. He has believed, on balance, that the Roman version of progress is preferable to any other. Now he’s not so sure.
The heavy clouds of earlier in the day have cleared. The moon is out, and on its surface is the familiar blurred image of Cain slaying Abel.
‘What does it all mean?’ Lazarus asks.
Yanav picks out the stars in their fixed, impenetrable patterns. He has his instructions from Cassius, but he chooses to disobey them.
‘Lazarus, let me help you. Demons are trickier than anyone can imagine. They’ve possessed you once and they’ll want you again. You’ll need my expertise.’
‘I don’t think so. I came back to life. I don’t feel at risk.’
A shooting star grazes the night sky. The gods are up to something. Yanav saw the signs in Jesus when he heard that Lazarus was sick, and again when Lazarus stumbled from the tomb. Whatever the gods have in mind, Yanav doesn’t trust them to do it without consequences. He does trust them, being gods, to get it done.
‘Don’t stay in Jerusalem, not after this. I’m travelling south. You can be my assistant.’
‘I should stay.’
‘My partner, then. We’ll split whatever we earn.’
‘I can’t. What about Mary and Martha? And Lydia. I have too many reasons to stay.’
‘And one big reason to leave. Cassius has plans for you. He’ll expect you to teach.’