CHAPTER 18

A HOUSE DIVIDED

Who was Joseph? Modern people who have encountered nativity scenes all their lives tend to imagine Joseph and Mary as impoverished peasants who naturally made their abode among farm animals. They also imagine the couple as twentysomethings—young adults just starting out in life with little money to spend but plenty of love to console them in their poverty. Their penniless phase of young marriage is imagined as a time of challenging yet joyful deprivation. In reality, however, this wasn’t at all how the ancient church remembered the man Joseph.

For starters, Joseph wasn’t ever depicted as extremely poor. The Bible gives us a hint of Joseph’s financial situation when it tells us that Mary’s postpartum cleansing sacrifice at the temple was the lesser of two possible choices, “a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons” instead of a more expensive lamb (Luke 2:24; Leviticus 12:8). From this, it is often deduced that Joseph was impoverished. But all that the lesser sacrifice implies is that the worshiper was of modest income, not extreme destitution.

The reality is that Joseph was a skilled worker whose expertise would have been in high demand. Scripture doesn’t identify him as a “carpenter,” as is so often assumed, but as a tekton, a Greek word that means a craftsman and builder who probably worked with stone more than wood. Israel at that time was more of a stone-shaping culture than a woodworking one. So we should picture Joseph (and Jesus after him) as a stonemason who probably made a good living from his trade. This recognition provides great insight into the later teachings of Jesus, who so often referred to stones and foundations!

Nor did the ancient church depict Joseph as young. In fact, he was actually described as elderly. The earliest record of Joseph’s betrothal to Mary recounts how the temple authorities wanted to find a spouse for the young girl who had just come into her womanhood and could no longer serve in the sacred precincts due to ritual purity considerations. No doubt there is some legend mixed into the narrative, but even so, the ancient traditions about Joseph are instructive.

They tell us that the high priest, Zechariah, went into the Most Holy Place for prayer. There he was told by an angel to assemble all the widowers of the land so the Lord could reveal Mary’s caretaker by a miraculous sign. When the heralds announced the edict in the surrounding villages and the trumpets were blown, the widowed men came running. Among them was Joseph, “who threw down his adze and went out to their meeting.”

Each of the widowers carried with him a wooden rod like Aaron’s rod that budded in Numbers 17. Though nothing happened to the other men’s rods, a sign occurred to Joseph’s: a dove flew out of it and landed on his head. Then the high priest announced, “You have been chosen by lot to receive the virgin of the Lord as your ward.”

Perhaps we might imagine this caused Joseph to rejoice. But the ancient text The Original Gospel of James tells us exactly the opposite. “I have sons and am old,” Joseph protested when he heard the announcement. “She is but a girl. I object lest I should become a laughing-stock to the sons of Israel.” In other words, old Joseph didn’t want to seem lecherous by taking a teenaged bride!

The high priest, however, didn’t let Joseph off the hook. He cited an Old Testament incident when the earth split open and swallowed up some rebels against God’s will. The priest’s face grew stern: “Beware, Joseph, lest these things happen in your house too!” The chastened Joseph quickly relented and received Mary as his fiancée.

Although determining Joseph’s exact age and financial situation is probably impossible today, these ancient traditions suggest that the marriage demanded a sacrifice from the stonemason of Bethlehem. Being appointed to care for Mary—by whatever means God led him to her, whether miraculous or not—wasn’t something that brought Joseph a great benefit. He had a mature life of his own, a busy career with various obligations and opportunities, while Mary was young and inexperienced. By her own admission, she was humble and lowly. Her main attraction was her upright moral character, not her famed beauty or high social prestige. Even so, Joseph agreed to take Mary as his fiancée. His willingness to do so speaks to his high character, a trait worth emulating by every good man.

In Herod’s palace, by contrast, the mistreatment of loved ones was an almost daily occurrence. The king of the Jews had just compounded his earlier murder of Mariamne—who was by no means innocent herself—by trumping up charges against their two boys and dooming them to strangulation in a gloomy dungeon. Everyone found Herod’s action repulsive, a sure sign that the once glorious king was losing his mind. The boys had been popular and respected, so their loss stung hard. Only a few people celebrated the Hasmonean princes’ demise. Foremost among them was the only legitimate heir left standing: Antipater, the son of Doris, Herod’s first wife. Now the throne of Judea seemed tantalizingly close. Surely the fat, old Herod would die soon!

It wasn’t long, though, before Antipater witnessed a scene that sent shivers running through him. Before an assembly of friends and high court officials, Herod brought in his most favored grandchildren—the offspring of Alexander and Aristobulus, and thus the descendants of Queen Mariamne. With tears in his eyes, Herod lamented that he had been deprived of the children’s fathers “by some evil spirit,” taking no personal responsibility for the executions that he himself had ordered. Herod woefully told the gathered officials that pity for the orphans’ terrible plight compelled him to provide for their future. “If I have been the most unfortunate of fathers, I will try at any rate to prove myself a more considerate grandfather,” he vowed.

Herod then proceeded to announce the carefully selected spouses for the grandchildren who would make their futures bright. (Ironically, the same thing was being arranged for the Virgin Mary, but with a much more blessed outcome.) Herod even had the audacity to seek divine favor for the marriages: “I pray God to bless these unions to the benefit of my realm and of my descendants.” He then asked God to look more favorably on the grandchildren than he had on their fathers, as if the two princes had died by the Lord’s decree rather than Herod’s own deranged paranoia. With tears flowing down his cheeks, Herod made all the children join hands as a sign of family unity. After hugging each orphan to his bosom, he dismissed the assembly.

All of this Antipater watched with growing alarm. Just when he had eliminated his two primary rivals, up had sprung a horde of Hasmonean grandchildren to compete for the throne—each with a prestigious future marriage to enhance their aristocratic status! Everyone in the assembly could see the chagrin on Antipater’s face. And it certainly didn’t help that the whole nation hated him. The people suspected sibling rivalry was largely to blame for the deaths of the handsome youths. Eventually, when these orphans grew up, the memory of their noble fathers would loom large. The Jewish nation would want to see legitimate Hasmonean offspring back on the throne.

Antipater knew he had to unravel these misguided marriage plans. Instead of planting subtle seeds of doubt in his father’s head as he normally did, Antipater decided to tackle the issue head-on—a strategy that worked in this case. He got himself in front of Herod and begged him not to do this thing. Antipater claimed these impressive marriages would make it impossible for him to ever rule in safety, for any direct descendant of Mariamne with aristocratic marital alliances would pose a constant threat to whoever occupied the Judean throne.

Though Herod was angered by the pleas of his firstborn son—Did this lad’s slanders have a hand in the princes’ deaths? he wondered—he finally gave in to Antipater’s flattering words and canceled the plans for the grandchildren’s impressive unions. (Even so, one of them would grow up to be a Judean ruler: Herod Agrippa, who imprisoned the apostle Peter and put the apostle James to death.)

Antipater then headed off to Rome with, for the second time, a priceless document in his hand: Herod’s rewritten will that named Antipater as his royal heir. Yet the impatient Antipater, who was in his early forties by now, had no desire to wait for the glory of kingship until Herod expired from natural causes. Antipater and his mother, Doris, had struck up a friendship with Herod’s brother, Pheroras. All three of them stood to benefit if Herod were off the scene. Yet these supposed friends, along with a host of female relatives who were part of the royal family, were plotting against each other even as they collectively plotted against Herod.

The tipping point came when Pheroras took ill and died. Though Herod had come to his brother’s sickbed with tender worry, the doctors couldn’t save the invalid from his deadly disease. Only after his funeral did the truth come out: Pheroras had been poisoned.

Herod now flew into a terrified rage in which no one—whether slave girl, royal clerk, or noble lady—was free from the interrogator’s red-hot irons. Anyone in the palace who might know something was put to the test. Even the innocent were hauled into the torture chamber in case they had valuable information. Too often, they did not, so the frying of their flesh went in vain.

Amid all the agonized screams and desperate pleas for mercy, the interrogators determined that Antipater’s mother was one of the conspirators. Herod immediately sent Doris into exile, dressed in rags and penniless once again. Yet the rampant torture of the palace staff continued, revealing new aspects of the plot. A deadly Egyptian poison intended for Herod had been delivered to Antipater’s devious hand, but he had passed it to someone who could more easily administer it to the king: Herod’s trusted brother Pheroras. Though Pheroras was now dead from poison too, he had relayed the deadly drug to his wife. Herod summoned the widow into his upstairs chamber and ordered her to produce the toxic substance. She agreed to go get it and started for the door—but then, terrified of the torture chamber, she flung herself over the railing onto the pavement below.

Unfortunately, the suicidal woman didn’t land on her head, so she only managed to stun herself. Herod had her brought back to him and revived. “Why did you do that?” he demanded. “Tell me the truth and I’ll exempt you from torment. But lie to me and I’ll have you torn to pieces without a single limb for burial!”

The terrified widow promptly confessed. “Why should I guard any secrets now that my husband is dead? Should I save Antipater, who has been the ruin of us all? Listen to me, O king, and may God hear me too. He who cannot be deceived will bear witness to the truth of my words!”

Pheroras’s widow then explained how her dying husband had called her to his deathbed. “I’ve been wrong about my brother,” he confessed. “I plotted to kill the very one who loves me and came to my side as I died! Now I am receiving the just reward for my sins. As for you, bring that poison Antipater gave us and destroy it before my eyes, lest an avenging demon accompany me into the underworld.” The widow then explained that she had emptied most of the poison into the fireplace while Pheroras watched, reserving only a little for herself because she feared Herod’s wrath.

“Go get it!” Herod barked.

This time, the woman didn’t attempt an evasive suicide. She went and fetched the box, which indeed had only a little bit of the poison left inside. The corroboration of her testimony sealed Herod’s suspicions of his son.

A short time later, his suspicions were confirmed when one of Antipater’s servants revealed under torture some more damning evidence among his master’s possessions: a backup poison, this one extracted from asps and other reptilian secretions, along with a batch of falsified letters that terribly maligned Herod’s other sons in case they started to display royal aspirations. To cover up the exorbitant fees paid to the poisoners and false witnesses, Antipater had let it be known that he had been splurging on expensive furnishings from Herod’s generous allowance. Obviously, toxins and slander were Antipater’s standard tools of the trade. Now Herod understood that getting rid of Mariamne’s boys hadn’t left him with a suitable heir. Quite the contrary, his firstborn son was even worse than them: a crafty conniver with lies on his lips and murder on his mind.

But far away in Rome, Antipater knew nothing of how his reputation had soured back home. He still assumed no one knew about his nefarious dealings behind the scenes. And since no one liked him in Judea, no one bothered to warn him of the thundercloud gathering over his head.

Then word arrived in Rome of Doris’s dismissal from the royal house without her accustomed gowns and other finery. Worried about such a disconcerting development, Antipater announced an early return to Jerusalem, an idea that Herod warmly endorsed. In order to get Antipater back in his hands, Herod wrote his son cheerful letters that disguised his fury under an affectionate facade. The king promised to drop his charges against Doris as a minor matter that could easily be forgotten.

But when Antipater showed up in Caesarea’s harbor, an eerie silence—“profound and ominous” in Josephus’s words—pervaded the place. No civic officials stood on the wharf to welcome him as would befit the arrival of the king’s son. Instead, the people ignored or even cursed him. Now Antipater knew something bad was afoot. He hastened to Jerusalem to see if he could make things right.

Arriving in the city wearing his royal purple robe, he rushed to the palace, where he was allowed inside, though not with his retinue, whom the doorkeepers wouldn’t admit. When Antipater strode forward with open arms to embrace his father, Herod thrust him away. “To hell with you, impious scoundrel!” he cried. “Don’t you dare touch me until you’ve cleared your name. At dawn tomorrow, I’m putting you on trial for your crimes. Prepare yourself! I’m giving you some time to cook up your usual devious tricks.”

As with the trial of the Hasmonean boys, so Antipater’s trial in Jerusalem was a major affair. A respected Roman official named Quintilius Varus presided as judge over the proceedings. Antipater immediately fell at his father’s feet and begged him to be unprejudiced and open to hearing a fair defense. “I shall, if you permit, establish my innocence,” the desperate man promised.

“Shut up!” Herod barked back, then turned to the judge. “That you, Varus, like any honest judge, will condemn Antipater as a lost cause, I am completely certain.” Herod then began his prosecution. He excoriated Antipater as a “foul monster, gorged with the benefits of my forbearance,” an ungrateful wretch who had spurned his father’s countless affectionate gestures and grand provisions. Returning evil for good, Antipater had plotted to kill his half brothers and steal his father’s throne, through violence if necessary.

Herod then warned Varus to be on his guard. “I know this creature and foresee the plausible pleading, the hypocritical lamentations that are to follow . . . . When I recall, Varus, his knavery and hypocrisy on each occasion, I can scarce believe I am alive and marvel how I escaped so deep a schemer. But since some evil demon is bent on desolating my house and raising up against me one after another those who are nearest to my heart, I may weep over my unjust destiny, I may groan in spirit over my forlorn state, but not one shall escape who thirsts for my blood, no, not even if the conviction should extend to all my children!”

Upon making this shocking threat, intense emotions took hold of Herod. His genuine belief in his own innocence and his corresponding outrage that his sons kept betraying him overwhelmed the king so that he could not continue. He signaled for his adviser, Nicolaus of Damascus, to take over the prosecution.

When Nicolaus finished entering the evidence, Antipater offered an impassioned defense. He proclaimed not only his absence of ill intent but, in fact, a deep love for his father that everyone could see. “All of Rome is a witness to my filial devotion,” Antipater cried with puppy-dog eyes. “And so is Caesar, the lord of the universe, who often called me Philopator—‘lover of my father.’ Here, behold his own words!” Antipater showed the court a supportive letter from Augustus, then begged Herod to regard it higher than the warped testimony gained under torture. “Let the fire be applied to me instead!” Antipater suggested. “Let the instruments of torment course through my very guts! Do not spare my bloodstained body. For if I am to be judged as a father-killer, I ought not die without being tested for truth.”

Herod glanced around the room. Clearly, Antipater’s tearful pleas and gushing blandishments had had a powerful effect. Everyone had been moved to compassion, even the stoic Varus. But Herod remained resolute. No moisture gathered in his eyes; no spark of pity glimmered in his heart. It doesn’t matter what he says now. I know the evidence against him is true. He’s trying to kill me!

It was Nicolaus, a good and faithful servant, who turned the tribunal back to Herod’s side. With the dispassionate tone of a careful prosecutor, avoiding irrational emotions and appealing instead to hard evidence, Nicolaus reminded the judge and his assembly about the facts of the case. The warm feeling toward Antipater, the sense that he was an innocent victim of a suspicious father, slowly drained from the room. Herod smiled as he saw the jury panelists come back to their right minds.

And what were the facts? The deaths of Alexander and Aristobulus were directly attributable to Antipater’s secret schemes. He had also corrupted the king’s brother Pheroras by convincing him to attempt fratricide. Each of Nicolaus’s accusations was supported by proofs. Even the poison that Antipater had purchased was brought into the courtroom and given to a condemned criminal, who drank it and immediately keeled over dead. So devastating was the evidence against Antipater that when Varus called upon him to make a formal defense, all he would say was, “God is witness of my innocence.”

No, he isn’t, Herod thought. God is a witness of your crimes! Antipater had expended all his energy on his only line of defense: an emotional plea that tugged on his listeners’ heartstrings. When it came to an actual rebuttal of hard evidence, Antipater had nothing to offer. His own actions condemned him. Everyone could see it clearly now.

In the days after the trial, more evidence came to light. Antipater had also schemed against Salome, Herod’s sister, misrepresenting her to the point that the king had almost put her to death for imaginary crimes. What a tragedy that would have been! Herod felt relieved that he hadn’t been so rash. To correct the matter, he called for his will and rewrote it a third time, assigning lavish bequests to Salome. He also changed his successor to Herod Antipas, his son by Malthace, instead of Antipater, who had proven to be a constant source of discord and mayhem.

But before Herod could determine what should happen to his imprisoned firstborn son, he took ill and delayed the decision to another day. Death was lurking everywhere in the royal palace. Who it would claim next was anyone’s guess.