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Chapter One
Moment of Truth
I
would sit on a rock in our yard and watch Jesus, my oldest brother, nurse an injured
bird or other small animal, while James, Joseph, and Simon, the second, third
and fourth oldest sons, assisted him with little splints and poultices made of
cooking dough or clay.
Occasionally, I would look on with alarm as they force fed little creatures
or applied herbal medicine to their wounds. I didn’t understand why Jesus didn’t play normal games with
us and why I was always left out.
Had it been my age that kept me from participating? Had it been that spark of rebellion I
often showed when confronted with Jesus high-handed ways? Perhaps he sensed my disbelief and
hostility toward him. Recently,
Jesus had given my brothers nature lessons. I tagged along at times but remained in the background,
wishing they would pay attention to me.
As I stood in the background, he would show his brothers nests filled
with birds eggs, burrows of mice and rabbits, an assortment of insects,
intricate spider webs, and countless bushes, flowers and trees that caught his
eye. For each plant or animal he
had a name, which was a miracle in itself. Even now, with everything I have learned about my oldest
brother, I wonder how a child, even Jesus, knew so much.
I had been too young at the time to understand what
happened in Jerusalem, but I remember the commotion among the pilgrims leaving
the city. After eavesdropping many
times upon my parents’ conversations, I learned, among other things, of Jesus
exploits in the Temple. It
appeared as though he discussed aspects of the Torah with a group of priests
and scribes and comported himself quite well. A witness, who joined our procession home, told us about a
little tow headed boy with blue eyes, who confounded the holy men. My parents knew who this prodigy
was. Where had he learned the
names and habits of creatures when he was so young? How could he, a mere child, discourse with the learned
men of Jerusalem? Who had told him
these things? As a mere child,
Jesus knew more than I would learn in a lifetime, and yet, in my childish
ignorance and arrogance, I grew to hate my oldest brother for always being the
center of attention.
It would have been different if Jesus had been like
the rest of us. Many times, as he
began talking strangely or stopped to stare up at the sky, we would wait until
his mood had passed. Often this
tried our patience, so we shook him until he tumbled back down to earth. Until Jesus began treating sick
animals, James, Joseph, and Simon often made fun of him during such
lapses. Though they pretended
otherwise, we, his mortal brothers could not understand him. There were times our father and mother
were, themselves, totally mystified by Jesus actions. Many of our neighbors thought he was deranged.
He wasn’t normal. He could never play hide-and-seek or any of the other
childhood games, as other children did.
This was, it was explained to us by our father, because Jesus couldn’t
tell a lie. When it was his turn
to hide like everyone else, he would immediately show himself when the seeker
called his name. The “let’s
pretend” games of Israelite versus Philistine and Roman versus barbarian we
children played, for that matter, were too devious for Jesus, since they
required pretended stabbings, playing dead, and making shrill, warlike
sounds. Because of his
sanctimoniousness, none of the children wanted Jesus on their teams. When exploring the countryside, he
would lag behind us, wrapped in his thought, and then appear suddenly in our
midst to keep us out of harm’s way.
He would not allow any daring-do or mischief in his presence and might
tattle on anyone who broke the rules, such as trespassing in neighbors’ gardens
or picking their fruit. He would
never bear false witness, cheat or cause another’s pain, and yet he always
seemed to ruin everyone’s fun.
Self-righteous and, sometimes it seemed, without apparent fault, he
nevertheless made us feel inferior, even sinful or wanting, in his
presence. Was this not wrong? Was his role as spoil sport and
tattletale not a sin?
And now this, I told myself, as memories of Jesus
played in my head—Jesus, the animal doctor! When he was around, the children of Nazareth shunned
us. Because of this ritual each
day, I was deprived of my brothers’ companionship. Those play times I was not with my friends at the rabbinical
school, doing as we pleased and sneering at Jesus’ antics, I would sit on my
rock witnessing, without realizing it, a prelude of what would happen that
incredible day.
The list of God's creatures treated by
Jesus and his brothers, I observed, included everything from the family goat to
various birds, rats, and mice.
Once when they attempted to treat an injured dog, our father returned
from his carpentry shop and drove the poor beast away. James, Joseph, and Simon, however, in
utter disobedience, treated the dog anyway and searched Nazareth until they
found it a home. Jesus, who wished
to do no wrong, had been torn by this duplicity.
I
still remember that day, with mirth, when Papa scolded Jesus and my other
brothers for disobeying him and Jesus’ response when he threatened to beat all
four of them if they ever did it again.
“I must tend to my Father’s creation,” Jesus had replied
cryptically. Even now, with all my
years of reflection and greater understanding, I am amazed at his
boldness.
Jesus had, he believed, obeyed a higher will, which
seemed to mock his earthly father’s authority. With our mother’s interfering hand, however, all Papa could
really do was sternly rebuke Jesus for setting such a bad example to his younger
brothers and give the four of them extra chores around the shop.
“It is better to obey God than man,” Jesus had
replied, after being handed a hoe by father and told to, in fact, do God’s
work.
Often, because I was so well behaved, Papa would
walk over and pat my head. At the
same time, it was evident to the rest of us that he wanted to strike Jesus at
times, but something always stayed his hand. If it had been James, Joseph, Simon or even myself defying
his will, he would cuff us soundly when mother wasn’t around, but there was
something very different about Jesus back then. That this would prove to be a understatement in the years
ahead, brings a smile to my face...and a frown. Jesus different?
On that special day, which I’ve catalogued as “the Incident of the
Sparrow,” we would begin to see just how different our older brother really
was.
******
As I watched Jesus frantically trying to bring life
back to a dead bird, I shifted uneasily on my rock, partly because of the bee
sting I had received on my rear the previous day but also because I knew this
time Jesus, even by his standards, was going too far. James, Joseph, and Simon thought so too.
It was hot in Nazareth that day. The sky was cloudless and the radiance
from the whitewashed buildings surrounding our small house stung my eyes. As the morning sun brimmed the treetops
and flooded the garden, I was lulled into drowsiness, so I shut my eyes against
the light and troubling spectacle unfolding before me this hour.
“The sparrow is
dead, Jesus,” Simon, the youngest of the physicians, exclaimed, “let us bury it
in our animal cemetery. What you
do is unclean!”
“No, no, this is different than the others,” wept
Jesus. “This one’s still alive. I
can’t fail now. I will blow the
breath of my Father into him. Like
the others, I’ll make him live!”
James, who had been acting as chief assistant, was
taken back. “What do you mean ‘I’ll
make him live?’ We’re a team,
are we not?”
“Yes, Jesus,” Joseph, our father's namesake, rose up
and glared down at him, “you think you’re so special! You said ‘my father’ before when we treated the dog. Joseph, the husband of our mother,
Mary, is our father, is he not?”
“I have two fathers!” Jesus finally confessed, a
troubling expression falling over his face.
“What?
What did Jesus say?” I bolted suddenly off my rock, rubbing my eyes.
I was not dreaming. It was common knowledge that one didn’t feel pain in
dreams. The pain I felt on my rear
end was still quite real, and yet I could scarcely believe my eyes or
ears. Though I was just eight
years old, I knew a blasphemy when I heard it. Fortunately for Jesus, Papa was in town repairing the
rabbi’s roof. Our mother, who
rarely ever interfered with Jesus experiments but would take issue with this,
had not yet appeared. Unlike all
the other times I sat as a bystander and merely watched Jesus strut around, I
decided it was time to take action against my oldest brother. I wanted, as I wanted the last time
when Papa threatened Jesus, to see him beaten soundly for what he did. How could we, his younger brothers, who
were jealous of Jesus, possibly have understood who or what he was? All that we saw was an eccentric,
sometimes entertaining misfit, who was always saying and doing strange things.
That day, however, I was witness to the development of
an immediate rift between Jesus and his brothers: James, Joseph and Simon. I, for my part, was not as jealous of
Jesus as my brothers and even our little sisters were at times. We resented the special treatment he
received from our parents, but since I was the youngest son, our father had
treated me special too. I, alone,
looked like our father and even had, according to our mother, some of his
traits. Perhaps because I was so
young and small, I seldom had many chores other than making up my pallet and
feeding Elijah, our pet goat. It
was our mother who forced our father to treat Jesus in such a special way. Until this fateful day, we didn't
really know why. Now added to my
other brothers’ jealousy of Jesus was fear, but I hated Jesus for his bossy and
sanctimonious airs, nothing more.
That day, after jumping off my rock, I ran straight
to the rabbi’s house. I recall a
certain wicked feeling of self-righteousness puffing me up. I was going to get even with my big
brother now. Jesus was going to
pay! He was going to get punished
severely, maybe even beaten finally for his efforts to bring back the dead
bird. I didn’t care what our
mother thought, and I wasn’t concerned with my brothers’ change of heart. I was doing this for myself. I could just imagine what both rabbi
Joachim and my father would think when I told them what I saw. Did not the rabbi quote Leviticus in
the Torah when he cried out Suffer ye not a witch? Clearly, Jesus, who fancied himself some sort of sorcerer,
was addled in the head. Looking
back over the years, I wonder if the Evil One had not entered me, at least
momentarily, that hour. Yet it
appeared to me, as a bolt of revelation, that the moment of truth for Jesus had
finally come.
******
The main road in Nazareth was filled with Roman
soldiers that day, so I slowed down to a shuffle, since the Romans distrusted
running Jews. Through the dust
thrown up by horsemen, I could see the silhouettes of their helmets and fluttering
capes. What these several dozen
legionnaires were doing in our small town I had no clue, but even the presence
of the Romans could not deter me today.
When I reached the rabbi’s humble house, I saw my father on his ladder,
pulling a rotten log from the roof.
The rabbi, a portly fellow with a long gray flecked
black beard, was this minute explaining to Papa why the Romans were in
town. Except for the admiration I
had for soldiers, I could care less about the latest gossip. I listened for only a few moments
until, after squirming, fidgeting, and signaling my father unsuccessfully with
my hands, I interrupted their conversation with my report.
“Cornelius is looking for brigands who ambushed a
caravan,” the rabbi chatted, while stroking his beard. “They seem peaceable
enough. Now if those fellows
ambushed Romans, they’d be here with blood in their eyes.”
Papa looked down thoughtfully from his work. “I’m
not worried about the Romans, Joachim.
Cornelius is an honest man.
It was much worse the last time they were here.”
“Tsk-tsk, I remember that time.” The rabbi looked
up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “That Judah caused us much trouble. Men hung from crosses throughout
Galilee—some of them from our town.
It was an awful, Joseph.
Many wives became widows in Galilee. I heard they crucified a few women too.”
“Judah was a murderous revolutionary,” Papa nodded,
wiping his brow. “Those men who
attacked the caravan last week killed only Jews. “. . . .Well,” he grunted, holding a nail in place, “that’s
why we need Romans. Don’t worry,
rabbi. They’ll clean it up, just
like last time. Oh it isn’t
pretty—a terrible sight, but those bandits will get the point.” “Then, down the road, a new band of
murderers and thieves will arise and bam!” He crashed his mallet onto the nail.
“More bandits and (bam-bam!) more crosses, until the roads are once again
safe!”
Rabbi Joachim gave him a sour look and shook his
head as Papa hammered in another nail.
What a dreadful subject, I thought, making a face. Though it made me shudder, my curiosity
was prickled. I had never seen a
crucifixion. My parents made sure
we children stayed put at such times.
In spite of their brutality, the fact that Romans were protecting
Galileans seemed important to me.
I, for one, admired soldiers more than the country bumpkins in this
small town. I had heard Papa talk
about Cornelius before and seen the commander upon his great white horse,
galloping majestically down the road.
Nevertheless, time was running out. I had enough of this chitchat. I wanted Papa to catch Jesus in the act.
“Jesus is blowing into a dead bird’s mouth!” I cried
out in desperation.
“What?” Papa looked down from his ladder.
“Oh, hello little Jude,” the rabbi said, patting my
tangled mat of hair. “Now, what is this nonsense about big brother Jesus?”
My father didn’t think it was nonsense. The mallet fill out of his hand that
moment, barely missing the rabbi’s head.
“Oh my Lord,” he mumbled frantically, “he’s at it again!”
“I don’t understand Joseph,” Joachim gave Papa a
suspicious look. “Little Jude is serious about this? Jesus is blowing into a dead bird’s mouth? That is unwholesome, Joseph. Jesus must be addled in his head!”
Papa ignored the rabbi’s rebuke. More nimbly than I had ever seen him
before, he climbed down the ladder and, with my little hand clutched in his,
practically dragged me back to or house.
“Joseph,” Joachim called after us, “slow down.
You’re frightening the boy!”
“I’ll be back soon to finish the repairs,” promised
Papa, forging ahead.
Wincing in pain but afraid to speak, I looked up at
my perspiring father, cringing at the panic my words caused. Guilt for my betrayal of Jesus but also
glee filled me when I considered what Papa might do.
“Are you going to beat Jesus?” I finally asked.
“You don’t understand, Jude.” He looked down after
releasing my hand. “…You’re too
young,” he struggled to explain, “… Jesus is not like you. He’s special.”
“So am I Papa,” I said, my lower lip quivering, “you
said I was your favorite son.”
“I should not have said that,” my father said with recrimination.
“That’s between you, me, and God.”
“Why does Mama treat Jesus so special,” I asked him
as he re-clasped my hand more gently and led me slowly up to the house. “. . .
Jesus said something funny Papa.
He said he had two fathers.
Aren’t you his only father?”
“I think it’s time that we try to explain,” Papa
announced just as mother peeked out of the entrance of the house.
“What’s wrong Joseph?” her lilting voice carried
only minor concern.
“Jesus is starting to know,” he said with a shrug. “
. . . He mentioned his father.
He’s trying to revive a dead bird.”
“Oh
dear me!” she gasped.
Emotion was rarely displayed on our mother’s serene
face. Papa once told us in
confidence that she had not allowed herself to be upset about anything since they
fled to Egypt, so her expression underscored the seriousness of this
event. I know now, with great
reverence, that I was a witness to history. Jesus had been on the brink of performing his first miracle
for us, and all I could think of was the punishment he rightly deserved. I knew almost nothing of the episode in
Egypt except the fact that it had happened right after Jesus was born. Now, in spite of our parents promise to
the Almighty, something the rest of us would find our about later, the truth
was seeping out. Papa and I didn’t
know how serious the matter had become, however, until we entered the backyard
garden area and spotted Jesus crouching over the dead bird. James, Joseph, and Simon were standing
several feet away wringing their hands and shaking their heads as their older
brother continued to blow the breath of God into the dead bird.
“Jesus, stop this at once!” Papa shouted angrily.
“Oh dear me,” Mama kept saying as she wrung her
hands.
Out of nowhere, my twin five year old sisters, Abigail
and Martha, ran to her, squealing with delight at this funny scene. By now, after all the agitation in
Jesus hands, the bird should have been a lifeless, twisted mass, but something
beyond our comprehension happened that would forever change our lives. With the bird cupped in his large
hands, Jesus giggled with delight, looked back up to the heavens, and thanked
his Father, God. That moment my
brothers, sisters, and I believed he was quite mad. In his peculiarly deep, though child-like voice, he said:
“Fly away sparrow. Fly to my
Father’s kingdom and tell Him I know the secret!”
“Secret, what secret? Did you tell him Mary?” asked my father, flashing her an
accusing look.
“I told the boy nothing,” she shrugged, comforting
the twins, whose mood had turned to fear. “Jesus is playing a children’s game.”
Opening his hands now, Jesus held his palms upward,
in a cruciform position. The tiny
sparrow as quickly flew away, its chirp signaling its thanks to its savior,
Jesus, and as faint as distant starlight to the world also signaling Jesus’
future mission on earth. Everyone
except me, the youngest brother, stood there in the garden area in shock. I just felt very tired of all
this. I wanted a fig and some
fresh dates. I wished my older
brothers would pay attention to me.
“That bird was dead!” cried James.
“Nah, it must’ve been unconscious.” Simon had come
to his senses.
I tended to agree with Simon. I was not impressed in the least and
looked up hopefully at Papa, wondering if Jesus would get punished now. James, Joseph, and Simon looked back at
our father in bewilderment and dismay.
The twins, who hugged their mother’s thighs, hid their faces in terror. Mother and father exchanged worried,
though knowing, looks as Jesus watched the sparrow fly out of sight.
“Ho-ho, Simon must be correct,” Papa told us
unconvincingly, “only God can bring back the dead.”
“But he was dead,” Joseph, the third son,
argued quietly. “He died in Jesus’ hands!”
At that point Jesus looked down with a frown. It seemed as if something was about to
escape his lips. “. . . Something
is shaping in my mind,” he murmured. “. . . I see things. . .”
“Don’t say it!” Mama ran to him and cupped his
mouth. “Dear God, you’re only a child!”
She said something else to Jesus we couldn’t hear. When Papa was at his wits ends with
Jesus, she had a way of breaking into our brother’s mental cloud and bringing
him down to earth. Suddenly, as
the oldest brother’s face contorted and he began to weep, we were all reminded
that, in spite of his high-minded ways, our big brother Jesus was not yet a
man. He had only recently turned
thirteen. Despite the traditional
notion that boys were subject to the commandments at thirteen, Jesus was still
a child. But he was also something
else that would dawn on us slowly with each year of our lives.
“Should I tell them?” Mama looked questioningly at
her husband now.
“No, let’s keep it short,” He dismissed her with a
wave. “You and the twins run along and begin our afternoon meal. After I tell the boys our secret, Jesus
and I are going to have a man-to-man talk.”
Jesus wiped the tears from his face and gave us all
a winning smile. His moods changed
like cloud formations, Papa would often say. Three of the younger brothers were both enthralled and
fearful for this secret they hoped to hear. I was disappointed that Jesus would not get into trouble
again, but at least he would be scolded for what he did today.
Papa now sat Jesus on my rock, which I gladly
relinquished. Suddenly the oldest
child looked very small to his brothers—a mere boy cringing under his father’s
glare. Until I dared speak again,
our father remained silent, gathering his thoughts.
“Tell us Papa,” I said innocently, “why does Jesus
claim to have another father?”
He
sighed raggedly, whistled under his breath, and reached down and patted Jesus’
head.
“You don’t mind me telling them, do you?” he asked
Jesus gently.
“No sir, I don’t,” he brightened, a strange
exaltation in his blue eyes.
“Of course you don’t,” Papa murmured through the corner
of his mouth, “you just couldn’t keep it to yourself, could you?” “…. All right, it’s like this,” he
began, looking around at us all. “Jesus did have another father—”
“Who? Who?” James, Joseph, and Simon cried.
“Uh, that’s a secret,” he replied dubiously.
“A secret Papa?” I looked at him in disbelief.
“Yes, Jude, I adopted Jesus when he was just a
babe.”
“What does ad-dop-ted mean?” Simon made a face.
A Galilean fisherman would have said that Papa was
in troubled waters. I sensed his predicament
at a more elemental level. As
young as I was, I knew Papa was lying.
A secret about a secret; that’s what it amounted to. It was absurd! As everyone else, I had always sensed
that Jesus was odd. Often our
mother and father treated him differently than their other children. Jesus had seemed to hold a special
place in their eyes. Papa’s words
filled us with suspicion, and yet I sensed that he was hiding an even greater
secret….What could it be?
“Children, there are many reasons why parents adopt
children,” he tried to explain.
“Name one,” I challenged, searching Jesus’ face.
“Well, adultery is one of them,” Jesus offered
artlessly, gathering together his medical paraphernalia.
Papa’s mouth dropped and eyes popped wide. He could scarcely believe his ears.
“Oh, I heard the rabbi say that in the synagogue,”
Jesus said calmly. “A man may marry a woman to protect her reputation,
especially if she was raped.”
“Jesus, shut up!” Papa whispered now, but with my
precocious ears I heard his words and drew close.
“I don’t understand.” I looked back and forth
between Papa and Jesus accusingly. “Why did Papa ad-dopt you? What does adultery mean, and what is
raped?”
“I think it’s time for Jesus and I to take a walk,”
Papa announced lamely taking Jesus’ hand.
James, Joseph, and Simon didn't know what to think,
and like me, stood there shaking their heads as our father and Jesus walked
away. I, for my part, was greatly
disappointed. Once again Jesus had
not been punished. When they were
out of earshot, James whispered something to Joseph and Simon and the three
crept after the pair, while I sulked a moment on my rock.
“We’re going to find out what’s going on,” James
explained simply, motioning for me to come along. “Keep your mouth shut Jude. If Papa sees us eavesdropping, he’ll whip us good!”
“He never whips Jesus,” I snarled.
“Yes,” whispered Joseph, “and we’re gonna find out
why!”
******
Our
father had taken Jesus into a small clearing near the olive grove. On a nearby hillock covered with
mustard bushes, we planted ourselves.
We were able from our vantage point to see the two speakers as well as
clearly hear everything they said.
“Now
tell me Jesus,” Papa said firmly, looking squarely into the youngster’s blue
eyes, “what exactly do you remember of your past?”
“Why
have you lied to us?” He looked at Papa accusingly. “You say I am adopted and
I’m not your son?”
“Yes,”
Papa studied Jesus carefully. “. . . You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know
what?” Jesus pressed. “What is the secret you don’t want us to know.”
“Wait
a minute,” our father waved off his question. “If you didn’t know about your
adoption, what was all that nonsense about your two fathers?”
After
studying the blank look on Jesus face a moment, Papa sighed with relief it
seemed, bent forward and kissed Jesus’ forehead. A surge of jealousy now filled me. Had Papa lied about this too? Was Jesus, not I, his favorite son?
“Forget
it, my son…” He spread his palms. “You’re too young…You wouldn’t
understand. Believe me, God does
not want you to know—not yet. You
must finish your childhood. It’s
not yet time.”
“Time? What time?” Jesus looked at him in
disbelief. “…. I have these dreams.
I don’t understand them.”
“I
have had dreams too,” Papa reached out and embraced his eldest son. “Once, long
ago, He told me that I must believe your mother, and I have believed her ever
since…. The Lord shall be obeyed!”
“What
dreams Papa?” Jesus looked up through Papa’s beard. “What did he tell you and
mother?”
As
I watched him look down at Jesus, we, his younger brothers, held our
breaths. To my shame now, I felt
only jealousy at that point, and I sensed that James, Joseph and Simon were
jealous too. Though we failed to
comprehend then, the great secret between our parents and the Almighty was at
that moment almost unveiled.
“…I
cannot say,” Papa said finally, looking down into his face. “….Please trust us, Jesus. Your mother is a simple woman. For a long time, I thought Mary had
forgotten what happened to her and only I was burdened with memories of those
events. But much of those details
are a blur to me now too. It’s as
if the Lord has done as the baker in town, who places his best loaves in the
back room to cool, then forgets them as he continues to bake more bread.”
“Bread,” Joseph whispered with a snarl, “now he’s
talking about bread.”
“I
get it,” James murmured. “...The bread is our thoughts!”
“But
what does all this mean?” I muttered in bewilderment. “Why is he talking about
bread?”
Jesus
grew exasperated, as did we. “What
Papa?” he asked in a constricted voice “What is in the back room?”
I began to wiggle from boredom. At that point Simon whispered in my ear “There’s bread in the room!”
“What donkey droppings!” Joseph muttered to himself.
For a moment,
as we whispered amongst ourselves, we thought we had been overheard. Papa seemed to look quizzically up at
the hillock and mustard bushes in which we hid, but then his attention was
drawn back to Jesus’ face.
Suddenly, to our amazement, Jesus eyes seemed to blaze in the sunlight
and his face glowed as if from inner heat. Papa drew away, made the sign to ward off the evil eye and
pulled his cloak over his face, a custom we Galileans picked up from the Arabs
in our land. I would understand
Jesus’ “magic” clearly in later years better than James, Joseph, and Simon, but
his behavior during this period had mystified me. I had no patience with my oldest brother. If it had not been for James grimy hand
on my mouth, I would have broken into giggles at such a sight. It seemed to me that Papa had grown
frightened of Jesus’ spooky appearance.
Mama would have scolded him for such superstition. This struck me as humorous, but I saw
no amusement in James, Joseph, and Simon’s eyes. They had made the sign too. When the effect faded and the shadow of a sudden cloud
rolled overhead, Papa scanned the sky in disbelief. At that point, I made the sign to ward off the evil eye
myself.
“It’s
the Evil One,” we could barely hear Jesus say.
“There
were no clouds in the sky today,” my father declared in a constricted voice. “
Jesus, I know you can’t lie. Why
did you call upon your Heavenly Father today?”
“Heavenly
Father?” I whispered into James ear. “What does this mean?”
James
frowned angrily, his hand clamping back onto my mouth. Jesus took several moments to formulate
his reply. Joseph had to go to
relieve his bladder, and Simon was so afraid he would get caught he was
whimpering to himself. Just when
the four of us had decided that we had heard enough, Jesus answered our father
and was asked one more question that would haunt us all for years to come.
“I
remember flashes, like lightning—on and off,” he explained, pressing his
temples as if in pain. “These thoughts frighten me. I don’t know why I called upon the Heavenly Father. It just flashed into my head.”
“All
right Jesus.” Papa signaled him to stop. “I’ll have to be satisfied with that
answer, but I need to know something, my son. . . . Did you really bring back
that dead bird?”
“Yes,
father,” he looked unwaveringly into Papa’s eyes, “through my Heavenly Father,
I brought him back.”
“So
it’s true,” Papa said, raising his eyes to the clouds. “…. It has begun!”
The
dark cloud passed on and, in fact, soon evaporated in the sun. We backed away slowly from the crest of
the hillock and ran swiftly to our house.
******
This
day of discovery, which made us even more confused, brought we, the four
younger brothers, closer together.
James, Joseph, and Simon had taken me into their confidence and seemed
to respect me more for making a stand.
At least this is what I wanted to believe. As we ran back to our home from the clearing, we felt a bond
that we had not shared before—I especially, since I had always been excluded in
the past. James, Joseph, and Simon
had decided, against my arguments, as we scurried into the yard and took up
positions of workers instead of eavesdroppers, that our brother was a magician
or sorcerer, who did not know his own powers. His confusing answers to our father had proven this. This apparent ignorance on his part
made him even more strange and dangerous in our minds. We now feared him and wondered what our
father, for his part in the mystery, was keeping from us now. The very notion that Jesus was the Son
of God and, for that matter, the Messiah had not yet occurred to us. Such revelations are difficult enough
for adults. We were children, not
Pharisees, rabbis or Sadducee priests; Jesus’ ambiguous relationship to his
heavenly father, was too complex for us to comprehend—too complex, in fact, for
even Jesus precocious thirteen year old mind, and yet we sensed that there was
something far more serious about this than the legitimacy of Jesus’ birth.
This
we knew for sure: Jesus was either a clever trickster or he had great powers.
“When
Papa returns with our older brother,” counseled James, “he will see us
sweating.” “Let us be working like
so,” he made motions with the rake.
“Mother’s herb garden can be one our chores!”
“I
will find the hoe,” cried Joseph.
“I
will fetch the shovel,” Simon exclaimed.
“And
I will use the spade,” I said, looking down and searching for weeds.
As
Papa and Jesus entered the garden, Jesus frowned at the four of us but said
nothing. We understood immediately
that he knew, but our father, who smiled with pleasure at our endeavors, gave
me a pat on my head, as he often did, and returned to the rabbis house to
finish repairing his roof.
I
was his special son again, and yet I distrusted Jesus even more after what
happened. Let my superstitious
brothers believe what they want.
For me, he was a trickster.
When Papa was out of earshot, Jesus walked over to where I sat pulling
weeds and handed me the spade. My
father had made this tool for us.
It was fashioned especially for our small hands. I did not believe Jesus’ act was
another miracle, even though he appeared to bring the spade out of thin air.
“Tell
us,” James paused in his raking to ask, “are you a sorcerer?”
“No,”
Jesus laughed softly as he sat down on my rock, “I’m not a sorcerer.”
“A
magician then,” Joseph leaned thoughtfully on his hoe.
“No,
not a magician,” Jesus delighted in their awe.
“What
exactly are you then,” challenged Simon. “Did you really bring that bird back
to life?”
As
they continued to interrogate our oldest brother, my rage at this puffed up
braggart reached its peek
“You’re
a liar!” I shot up to my feet. “You’re no different than us. You just want everyone to think you’re
special, but your not. You’re not! You’re not! That bird wasn’t dead, and you were hiding the spade behind
your back! I hate you! I hate
you! I wish you would go away!”
“Someday
I will.” Jesus eyes blazed and face seemed to radiate with that same inner
heat.
“He
did it again!” cried both Simon and James.
“Our
brother Jesus is possessed!” Joseph concluded, making the sign to ward off the
evil eye.
Five signs in
one day was all I could take. I
ran from the garden and our house and continued to run past the Roman soldiers
riding down Nazareth’s main road. The
soldiers did not bother me as Papa had warned, and yet I grew fearful of my own
flight and slowed down when I reached the stone bridge. Where did I think I was going? I was only eight years old. I looked down into the dried creek,
distracted by this marvel: a beautifully constructed Roman bridge in the middle
of nowhere, which is where Nazareth seemed to be. Right now I needed such a distraction to slow the pace of my
mind. I stood there my head
pressed forlornly against the smoothly worn handrail, peering sadly down into
the dry creek bed below.
My father had once said to me that Rome’s roads and
bridges were her strength; once established in one of their provinces such as
Judea and Galilee, they restrained and enslaved the inhabitants, since Roman
legions could march freely throughout their conquered lands. But why would they bother with this
corner of the earth? Why in this
dusty, out-of-the-way outpost, had they build this beautiful bridge? As an eight year old boy, I could not
understand the grand design of Rome nor could I yet grasp the subtleties of
nationalism nor the passion of our faith, but I had my own secret desire to be
a soldier like the legionnaires I had seen marching through our land. I did not know much about Rome then,
except for the armored legionnaires who rode past us on the road. I would never have admitted it to my
parents or brothers but I admired them very much. I also wished I could travel to far off lands.
It was at this moment of reflection that one of the
great events of my life occurred on the bridge. The shadow of a horseman fell over me as I stood there
looking down from the handrail into my thoughts. When I reeled around, prepared again to run, I saw the
silhouette of a mounted Roman warrior against the sun. I could not make out his features yet
until he shifted in his saddle and I caught the glint of armor and sparkling
dark eyes. Soon I realized that I
had nothing to fear. My eyes
focused into the shadows upon a familiar visitor to our town. It was none other than Cornelius, the
commander of the Galilean Cohort.
My father told me that he was an honest and likable Roman. He had learned Aramaic, our language,
understood our customs and, unlike many soldiers, treated us with respect. I often thought about him when the
subject of being a soldier entered my mind, and yet I had never met him until
today.
Here he was in the flesh!
“Ave,
little Jude,” he called down in my tongue.
“Hello
sir, I’m sorry I ran,” I blurted, feeling tears well up in my eyes.
“Why
do you flee?” he asked, dismounting quickly from his horse.
I
didn’t know how to answer this question.
Was it simply because I was angry with Jesus and my parents? Had I been ashamed of my actions or was
I merely confused? I wasn’t
sure. As we faced each other north
to south, instead of east to west, the shadow disappeared and I beheld the
tallest and strongest Roman I had ever seen. His well-muscled arms were bare, displaying battle scars
here and there, and he had a long jagged scar on his cheek. He wore mailed armor on his chest and a
red cape around his neck. His
breaches also had armor plating, as did an iron band on both of his wrists. His helmet, which impressed me
most of all, had a red plume running down its center, which indicated his
rank. He was, I had been told, a
prefect, who commanded an entire cohort of men. With his short sword slung around his neck and a dagger in
his belt, he seemed ready for combat, and yet a warm, friendly smile broke his
chiseled face. He told me that I should
go home and not worry my good father anymore. He handed me a silver denarius, with (I found out later)
Caesar Augustus stamped on one side, enough to buy a week’s worth of pastries
from the baker’s shop. But I would
never spend this coin. I would
treasure it always, hiding it with the other curios and artifacts picked up
along life’s way. I could not know
the role Cornelius would someday play in Jesus’ life or what the coin would
mean to me someday. Though I did
not have a word for it then, the strength and countenance of this Roman, even
reckoned at my tender age, made him seem noble, even god-like, to me. While Jesus would be admired, though
feared, by his brothers and sisters, I would grow to admire Cornelius, Prefect
of the Galilean Cohort.
Though my father had talked about the Legionnaires
to us at times and had pointed him out to me as he road by, I had never met
such a warrior before. I walked
back to our home, still upset about my brother Jesus, but with something new
and inexplicable boiling inside my head.
I did not want to be a rabbi as my father expected Jesus to be or a
scribe as James and Joseph wanted to be.
I was going to be soldier just like Cornelius. I would someday go to far off places that they would never
know, . . . perhaps even Rome!
******
When
I approached my home, everything seemed to be back to normal. Papa was back working on the rabbi’s
roof, and I was sure my mother and sisters were baking and cooking for our next
meal. As I passed through the gate
and into the garden in front of our house, however, I could hear my brothers
arguing in the backyard, so I ran to the corner of our house to eavesdrop, my
heart hammering in expectation, freezing in my tracks as I stood at the edge.
“So,
you don’t deny that you are possessed?” James said accusingly.
“.
. . I’m possessed by the Holy Spirit,” Jesus searched for words.
“Holy
spirit. What spirit is that? God? Are you saying you’re his son? You’re mistaken, Jesus!” Joseph said with scorn. “Admit that
you are a magician. We can accept
that. Don’t try to make yourself
out as holy. You’re our brother,
born from our mother. I don’t care
who your other father was!”
“Can
you turn bread into gold?” asked Simon with a grin.
I
couldn’t help laughing at their words.
Simon was half serious.
Both James and Joseph could accept Jesus being a magician, even a
sorcerer but they would never accept him as having a heavenly father as he
claimed, especially if that made him the Son of God. I, for one, accepted none of these possibilities, for I
believed that our eldest brother was a fake and charlatan, who was also quite
mad. I didn’t believe he had
brought a dead bird back to life.
I had seen how he put little splints on small animals legs and fed them
various gruels. Many of them had
lived, but many of them had died.
The dog he had saved had merely been starving, until my brothers fed it
and found it a good home. As Jesus
tended the garden, swept out the carpentry shop, and fed a stray cat, my
brothers followed him around, asking him one question after another (Can you
change water into wine? . . . Can you make it rain? . . . Why don’t you turn us
into blocks of salt like Lot’s wife?).
Jesus wouldn’t answer this time.
After suffering my brothers’ interrogation, he fled into the house into
my mother’s arms.
“Jesus,
what’s wrong?” I heard her coo.
“They
hate me,” he wept. “Why am I different Mama? Why can’t I be like other children? All I wanted to do was save one little
bird.”
“Ah
but Jesus,” we heard her reply softly, “soon you’ll be a man. Someday, when the time is right, God
will tell you what to do.”
This
was too much for me. It appeared
as though Mama, like Jesus, was soft in the head. As James, Joseph, and Simon stood there craning their ears,
in various stages of astonishment, I yawned with boredom, picked up a stone,
and tossed it at a bird flying overhead.
In barely an hour, I watched my oldest brother bring a dead bird back to
life, learned that he was adopted, and met a Roman commander on a bridge. I decided, after meeting Cornelius,
that when I was old enough I would run away from this backwoods town, perhaps
even join the army, in order to see the world. That nonsense about Jesus being God’s son was just too
fantastic to believe. There was
just so much information I could digest.
One of the most important episodes in Jesus and his family’s lives,
which I recorded reverently in later years—the healing of the sparrow and the
revelation of Jesus’ true father—had been dismissed outright in my childish
mind. Perhaps, with the help of
the Evil One, himself, I had convinced myself that he was a trickster and fake. Deep down in my heart, however, in that
place Papa called the back room, I knew the truth. I would spend much time trying to escape it, including those
flights of fancy that took me to places far away from home, but Jesus would not
give up on me. He had planted the
seed. Like it or not, it would
grow slowly in my soul.
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