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Chapter Eight
The Rabbi’s Son
During the months following the apparent loss of our treasure, I gained something I was told was far more valuable than gold cups and plates. It’s true that I had made two close, though unlikely, companions, Boaz and Jonah, and because of tragic circumstances, Uriah would return to our house as a full time friend. But I had made big plans with my portion of the treasure. I still dreamed of taking the gold objects to an Arab shepherd and having him sell them in Jerusalem for me. I was a little embarrassed to be seen playing with a boy who looked like a girl and another lumbering half-wit twice my size. For a small fortune in gold the Lord had blessed me with a strange pair of friends. The gloom that came with Uriah’s appearance also put a damper on our fun, especially with Mama running back and forth to Joachim’s house. She had become a full time nurse it seemed. In a fit of rage, we were told, the rabbi suffered a stroke. Mama’s list of patients—Elizabeth, Samuel, Nehemiah, Uriah, and Reuben—now included Rabbi Joachim, himself. Such blessings I didn’t need!
Looking back over the years, with my pen poised over
another scroll, I feel a recurrent stab of guilt. What had the great Paul said about this in his epistle to
the Corinthians? “When I was a man I put away childhood things.” For love of a horse and my own childish
greed, I was delighted in the knowledge that there was still treasure not far
from my house—treasure I no longer had to share with my brother or my
friends. It was there for the
taking. After all, Boaz and
Jonah didn’t care about the loot.
What did I care about Jethro and Obadiah, who occasionally paid us a
visit but remained critical of my families eccentricities, which now included
my association with a bandit’s son.
I didn’t need such fair weather friends. Tomorrow, if they let slip they had
been in that unhallowed place, Boaz and Jonah’s might be forbidden to come to
my house, which left me but one friend—Uriah, and I would, of course never tell
him. Uriah would never understand
my frame of mind. Today, as I
recall his curiosity at not being allowed into our house, I can understand
Uriah’s thinking on this matter.
Unless fever had softened Joachim’s views, Jesus would always be a
heretic in the rabbi’s eyes. My
family had always been quite peculiar in its protection of orphans and
widows. What would Uriah think if
he knew Reuben was staying in our home? What would he say if I told him that, with a bandit’s
son’s help, I had hidden stolen treasure in a pagan shrine? Here I was holding the darkest secrets
for myself, and I pretended that all was well, when in fact I was the greatest
heretic of them all.
Back then we were suppose to confess our sins openly
amongst fellow Nazarenes, which is why many folks stayed away from synagogue at
such times. Ironically, in many
ways Joachim, the rabbi, was a great sinner himself. Jesus taught his disciples that they didn’t need a priest or
rabbi and to pray quietly and confess their sins privately to God. Had I that comfort then my soul would
not have been in torment. Because
of his probing eyes, I avoided Jesus’ gaze, for I still believed he could read
my mind.
For obvious reasons, we couldn’t let Uriah stay with
us while his home was in turmoil nor could we tell him the truth about why he
couldn’t come into our house. The
story about the twins’ illness had become transparent to many of Papa’s
friends, who now shunned us as he allowed Reuben to convalesce in our
home. It was time, my parents
decided, to confide our secret to Samuel, in the hopes that the old man would
allow Reuben to stay there until he got on his feet. I followed along behind them ostensibly to visit Samuel
myself, while the rest of my brothers stayed at home fearful that our parents
would dare ask Samuel for such a thing.
Fully intending to eavesdrop on them so that I could report back to the
others at home, I found my parents motioning me into Samuel’s chambers in order
to greet our old friend. After
exchanging greetings with the old man, I stepped back politely into the hall,
listening to their conversation.
It’s hard for any of us to recall the ill-tempered
Pharisee as he once was. The old
Samuel might have flatly refused our request and notified the other elders
immediately of this impropriety, but the crotchety, nearly blind old man who
listened to my parents plea, nodded his head, smiled, and broke into cackling
mirth.
“Ho-ho, this is worth more than gold to my fading
wits,” he hooted wildly and slapped his knee. “Reuben’s back. After all these years haunting, as a
phantom, our little town—the mere mention of his name bringing terror to our
hearts—you’ve taken this blackheart in and made him a new man. And your asking me to hide him, while
you nurse Joachim back to health, after all that man’s done to sully your son’s
good name. That’s beats everything
Joseph! I don’t know what act of
charity is worse. Your wife Mary
is an angel and living saint!”
“Joseph must take much of the credit,” demurred
Mama. “None of this would’ve happened without his iron well.”
“And your heart is of purest gold,” Samuel coughed
and wiped his eyes. “The question is, of course,” he said with a frown, “will I
agree to such an outlandish request?
Ho-ho, you have some nerve Joseph—some nerve indeed!”
“Yes,” Papa’s voice quivered, “you have done much
for our family. I’m sorry to
burden you with this problem, but we’ve come to the end of a long lie. I don’t think anyone believes the twins
are sick anymore.”
“Don’t worry,” Samuel waved dismissively. “You had
to tell them something. I’m glad
you’ve told me the truth. I
wouldn’t worry too much about the townsfolk. You folks have a reputation for eccentricity. Unless one of your sons tells, no one
can prove Reuben’s in your house.
Your friends and neighbors will just shrug it off. Ho-ho, what’s Joseph’s crazy family up
to now?”
Mama smiled tolerantly as Papa bristled at his
teasing. A mischievous gleam
twinkled in Samuel’s dark eyes. I
couldn’t blame him for not wanting to hide Reuben in his house. What I didn’t like was the way he toyed
with my parents. For several
moments he enumerated the many things Joseph and his family had done that
rankled the townsmen, including harboring a witch, assaulting a rabbi, and
encouraging Jesus in ‘dabbling in the black arts.’ What would they think if they found out Papa talked him into
moving Reuben into his house? Not long
ago Papa had complained that the old man was getting senile. Occasionally, he gave Papa riddles to
solve or played silly word games.
Once, during her weekly visit, Samuel forgot Mama’s name, asking her
what she was doing in his house.
But Samuel was eighty-one years old, Mama also told us—what did we
expect?
I held my breath as Mama now came to the point.
“Samuel, please don’t tease us—will you help? We have nowhere else to turn.”
“Why are you nursing Joachim?” He grew querulous.
“That man hates your husband and tried to turn everyone against your oldest
son. And why would you bother with
a rogue like Reuben? Explain to me
how he came to be in your house?
I’m sure he didn’t just walk up to your back door and beg
admittance—after once wanting to kill Joseph and burn down your house.”
“There’s much you don’t know.” Papa stepped forward.
“Reuben is not the beast we thought he was.”
Mama looked dreamily into space. “I believe he’s a changed man.”
“Bah!” Samuel tried to rise up. “Does a leopard change
its spots?”
“There-there.” Mama eased him back down. “We didn’t
come here to upset you. You’re our
friend. That’s why we help each
other.” “Now it’s your turn again,” she said stroking his matted hair. “Reuben,
whose appearance is not the same, would be spirited to your estate in the dead
of night. No one would see
him. Now that I must help Hannah
nurse her husband and Joseph is so busy, we can’t watch our house closely. What with my sons new friends and Uriah
lurking about it seems unreasonable to expect James and Joseph to shield our
house, and remember, Samuel, Jesus can’t lie.”
“All right, I’m thinking about it.” Samuel’s
toothless jaws moved to and fro.
“But I want to hear everything, including how Reuben wound up, after all
the Romans’ protection, in your house.”
I knew that moment why they let me come along and
listen in, for this was my story.
I had no intention of telling them about the treasure and the pagan
shrine, but when Mama motioned me forward to speak I gave him a careful account
(with careful deletions) of when Simon and I and our friends Jethro, Obadiah,
Boaz, and Jonah stumbled upon the abyss where poor Reuben lie bleeding to
death. From this point, I took
great pains to spread the credit or blame to all of us but could not hide the
fact from Samuel, when he asked, who first discovered the path. I didn’t tell him about the
inscriptions on the walls below the path nor what lie beyond, yet, with
dramatic flare, explained the deathly look on the man we drug out and carried
to our house. Samuel’s jaws
continued to work as if he was chewing on something as I told him about the
miraculous healing in which Mama applied her medicinal herbs and what I
believed was Jesus part in Reuben’s cure.
Samuel nodded at my suggestion that Jesus personal prayer was a
factor. That our prayer circle may
have played a part went unsaid when I recalled the mean spirited attitude of my
other brothers and myself.
“Now,” I concluded, gazing into his black pupils,
“he doesn’t look like Reuben anymore.
He doesn’t act like him. . . and it isn’t him. We found out that he speaks Greek and has a sister in
Joppa. He’s even changed his name
to Bartholomew, the name of an uncle now dead. He’s sorry for his past life and promises to make
amends. He is, as my mother
believes, a new man.”
Samuel clapped his hands in delight. “Come here boy,” he cackled, reaching
out to ruffle my hair. “With your memory you’ll go a long way.” “But tell me
the truth,” his tone changed suddenly. “Do you believe that man has changed?”
“Yes,” I answered dubiously, “he’s trying very
hard.”
“He’s a murderer and thief!” Samuel looked
accusingly up at me.
“Reuben’s not a murderer,” Mama said, hovering
nearby. “He never killed anyone himself, and he’s never been a very good
thief.”
“And how do you know that?” Samuel demanded. “Did
Reuben tell you this?”
“I
can look into a man’s eyes and tell if he’s telling me the truth,” Mama assured
Samuel.
“Do
you believe this man?” He looked over at Papa.
“Yes,”
Papa said quietly.
Turning
his gaze back to me, Samuel’s raptor eyes belied a generous soul. I knew what he would do. He would never let us down. Taking my hand in his, he smiled
crookedly and inclined his head.
“You
also have saved that man’s life,” he decided with a faint nod. “You led your
friends down a forbidden trail to save your family’s enemy. Because of this selfless but foolish
act, a whole chain of events unfolded.
Your mother’s medicine and, I’m certain, Jesus’ prayers brought Reuben
from death’s door, and it appears that your family’s charity inspired him to
change his ways. In spite of the
dangers of protecting such a man and offending his friends, Joseph, your
courageous father, then shielded him in his house. You’re family suffered because of this man. Now, because of my friendship with your
family, I, too, feel compelled to help this man—one more event in the chain
that will not end until Reuben is gone once and for all from our lives.” “. . . . But without your brave deed,
Jude,” he added with great respect in his voice, “Reuben would have died.”
My
fear for Samuel’s state of mind vanished after that burst of words. I was certain that my parents felt the
same. The complement he gave me
should, of course, be shared with my father and brothers. I hadn’t been brave that day; I had
been curious, perhaps even stupid.
After hearing Reuben’s plea, I fled in terror from that dark hole. Only after coaxing from Mama, did I tell
her what I heard. The rest is
history. The question was, I
thought with bated breath, had Samuel just given us his nod? My certainty that this was what he
meant grew as he squeezed my hand and then patted my cheek, whispering faintly,
“You, too, have a great destiny Jude.
I’m sure of this now. Has
Jesus ever told you this?”
“Yes,
. . . I think so.” I searched my memory. “Once he said my memory would serve me
well and something else. . . dreams, he called revelation—a word I still don’t
understand.”
“Ho-ho, he said that?” Samuel laughed gently. “I was thinking of your character. Two exceptional sons in one family.”
“We must talk about this sometime,” he said his eyes traveling to my parents,
who approached as supplicants to the bed.
“Samuel,
. . . Samuel, ” Mama broke into his reverie, “can we take this as a yes? ”
“Of
course.” He sighed, reaching over to ring the servant’s bell. “We must do this
quickly before I lose my
nerve. I don’t fear for
myself. What could the townsfolk
do to my withered carcass? I fear
for you, Joseph and Mary. It’s the
movement of Reuben across town that worries me. This is a small town, filled with suspicious and
superstitious folk. As soon as he
steps out of your door into the darkness a passerby may spot him. What if he runs into someone carrying a
lamp? Even in disguise, his
appearance at such a late hour will alarm people on a night errand or peeking
from their homes. He will be safer
in my large estate than he would be in your small house, but you must not
forget our town is subject to unscheduled visits by Cornelius’ men. What if one of your enemies reports
their suspicions to the next Roman arriving in town? . . . Or worse, what if a
band of cavalrymen spots Reuben themselves? All of your efforts will prove disastrous if his capture
leads back to you.”
Normal
folks might have been alarmed by Samuel’s doubts, but my parents had stuck
their necks out too many times to be upset by one midnight transfer of Reuben
to Samuel’s house. It would have
been much worse if we attempted to do this in the day. After we bid good day to our old
friend, we could see the distress on Samuel’s chamberlain’s face as he stood by
the door. The elderly man had
served the Pharisee for many years and was now being asked to help shelter a
wanted criminal. We talked about
this in muted conversation as we walked home. Papa confessed to Mama his fear that one of Samuel’s
servants might betray him, but Mama dismissed his worries with the wave of her
small hand.
“Samuel’s
loyal servants won’t betray us,” she insisted. “He’s been good and generous to
them. When they see Reuben,
they’ll barely recognize him. The
transformed Reuben we’ve seen will convince them they have nothing to fear.”
Even
as a child I was surprised by Mama’s naivety. Of course, I didn’t know the proper word for it then, but it
seemed to me that she trusted people too much. Her confidence in our neighbors, who shunned us for so long,
had been misplaced. She had kept
faith in Michael’s innate goodness when none existed. For a very long time, she refused to believe that Papa was
becoming a drunk. Michael had been
gone for a long time now, and Papa had been sober for quite awhile. Our neighbors continued to drift back
as customers and it appeared, at least on the surface, after Mama had shaved,
scrubbed and given him fresh clothes, Reuben was a new man. But I think it was a big mistake for us
to trust Samuel’s servants. I was
also not completely convinced of Reuben’s transformation. What if Papa’s suspicions were correct
and all this time Reuben was just pretending? As for the citizens of Nazareth, Samuel was right. All it would take would be one
inquisitive townsman to inform on him, and if a Roman legionnaire came riding
by he would be caught in flight.
I
wanted to talk to Jesus about this as we returned home, but I was afraid he
would look into my mind, as he had before, and see darkness—the workings of the
Evil One. What would he think if
he knew I was hording stolen treasure in a pagan shrine? What if he read my very thoughts and
saw the conniving, deceitful person I had become? After we entered the house, I scampered quickly ahead to
avoid running into Jesus. Before I
could exit the back door, however, Papa reminded me to do my chores. After a request by Mama that Simon and
I weed her garden, I gave them both a hasty nod, ran into the backyard and
began searching for Simon. A
nagging fear at the back of my mine had been that Simon would join my friends
in a hunt for the treasure. If our
parents caught them in the orchard or on the trail, they might mention the
treasure we found in the hills. I
had encouraged them to dig it up and hide it under a bush. I had also moved it, at Adam’s
suggestion, to the pagan shrine.
How could I explain all this without incriminating myself? The answer, of course, is that I
couldn’t. I must avoid Jesus
probing gaze and pray that Simon kept his mouth shut and Jethro and Obadiah
didn’t sneak into our yard.
For just one more day I would have to lie to Uriah
about my sick sisters. I was not
looking forward to trying to fit him into my gang. While Mama looked after his father in the afternoon, I was
suppose to be nice to him and let him join in our games. With so much reeling in my mind, this
was a terrible burden. I longed to
share it with someone else, who would not judge me as a criminal and heretic. Who could that be? Certainly not Jesus! My head felt as if it might explode
when I looked out into the orchard and saw Simon and our friends wandering
through the trees and then, as I began trotting down the path, being informed
by no other than Jesus, himself, that Uriah was at the front door.
“Are
you all right?” Jesus asked, as I shuffled up to the house.
I
kept my eyes riveted on the ground least he read my mind. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” I mumbled repeatedly.
“Jude,
what’s wrong?” He gripped my arm. “Why’re you avoiding me?”
“I
don’t want to play with Uriah,” I said, tears welling up in my eyes. “He whines
constantly and keeps asking questions.
I wanna play with my friends.”
That
moment I heard voices in the orchard: Jethro and Simon were arguing, probably
about the missing treasure. It
couldn’t have been a worse time for me.
Jesus pricked up his ears, as he had all those times he was listening to
God. This time, though, there was
a look of suspicion, not illumination, on his face.
“What
are those boys doing?” He inquired, shielding his eyes from the sun.
“I
dunno.” I shrugged. “Maybe hide-and-go-seek or tag?”
“Why
are they yelling at each other? I
thought they were Simon and your friends.”
“Honestly,
I dunno.” I repeated, feeling myself shrink before his gaze
Suddenly, I felt trapped by Jesus’ question. He knew I was hiding something.
“I
think you do,” he murmured, leading me through the house. “Go speak to Uriah in the front yard,
but later, when we’re alone, we must talk. Tell Uriah to wait outside a few moments, while you fetch
him one of Mama’s honey rolls.
While Mama’s at Joachim’s house and Papa’s in his shop, I want you to
tell me the truth.”
I
did as I was told. I couldn’t
escape my fate. Though what he
asked to do that moment sounded like subterfuge, Jesus could not lie and would
be forced to tell our parents, who would not be as calm as he was acting
now. If the whole truth came out,
they might never trust me again.
Without even greeting Uriah, I reminded him that my sisters were sick
and he would have to stay outside.
His disbelieving face brightened up quickly when I told him I would
bring him back a roll. Jesus
placed his fingers in front of his lips as I re-entered the house and pointed
to the window, then walked over to pull in the shutters in case Uriah was
lurking nearby. As an
afterthought, he tapped on Reuben’s door and, when Reuben peeked out, chatted
with him briefly. Reuben’s quiet
and cloistered existence and nocturnal walks almost made us forget he was
hidden away in our house. Jesus
reminded him that he would soon have more spacious accommodations, which
included Samuel’s extensive gardens.
When he asked Reuben if he was hungry or thirsty, Reuben requested some
water and a roll. Uriah began
knocking on the door that moment.
I dawdled awhile in the kitchen in order to delay my confession to
Jesus, but Jesus, always cagey, sat me down on a corner stool and fetched the
rolls, himself. When he returned
from the kitchen, with a mug of juice and a basket containing two large rolls,
he gave Reuben the juice and one of the rolls, then handed me the basket so I
could answer the door. Of course,
I thought grimly, Jesus couldn’t lie.
“Tell
him you’ll be out soon,” whispered Jesus as Reuben retreated into his room.
Nodding
unhappily, I opened the door and handed the basket to Uriah, mumbling hastily
“I’ll be out in a few moments.”
“Are
you in trouble again?” He asked intuitively.
“Yes,”
I admitted glumly, shutting the door.
“I’ll
wait for you,” Uriah shouted. “We’ll play games like we use to.”
The thought occurred to me that, all things
considered, Uriah was probably my best friend and, after today, might be the
only friend I had. I
followed Jesus into the kitchen, which, because the window was shuttered,
seemed dark and sinister as he sat me down on the table bench. Understanding that Uriah might be
eavesdropping outside, we talked in low muted voices, another creepy effect
highlighting my doom. I
immediately broke into tears as he came to the point.
“Don’t cry Jude.” He stroked my hair. “You must tell
me the truth. Why are those boys
in the orchard?”
“You know the answer.” I rubbed my eyes. “You just
wanna make me feel bad.”
“I don’t won’t to make you feel bad,” he said,
rising up and pouring me a mug of juice. “I want to help you. This secret will consume you. It will eat up your spirit as lye. Remember what I once told you, Jude:
the truth shall set you free.”
My mouth dropped in disbelief. Jesus had said this before. These words would one day promise
salvation to the world. In my
current state of mind, however, it gave me no comfort at all. I didn’t want to tell the truth. It wouldn’t set me free; it would get
me into trouble.
“Come on Jude, Uriah’s waiting patiently in
front. While our parents our away
and our brothers are occupied elsewhere, come clean—be free, be pure of
thought.”
I slapped my forehead and gasped. Now I was supposed to be pure of
thought! The entire adventure,
from our discovery of the treasure until its final deposit in the pagan shrine,
was on the tip of my tongue. What
kept the story from pouring out of my mouth was a vision of my parents
pummeling me with slaps and curses once they heard the truth.
“I have an idea.” He said, after studying me a
moment. “I’ll tell you what I think happened and you just nod your head, all
right?”
Responding, with wide, fearful eyes, I braced myself
for what came next by taking a long swallow of juice.
“Adam, who is really Jesus Bar Abbas, has played a
trick on you,” he whispered loudly.
He will come back to your hiding place and retrieve his loot. Has this not occurred to you?”
I nodded grimly for, indeed, the thought had crossed
my mind. Adam, after all, was a
thief.
“You moved the treasure from its original hiding
place, didn’t you? That’s why
they’re trying to find it. You
rascal,” he snickered, gently punching my arm.
Noting my guilty expression, he continued in a
subdued voice. At times I could
barely hear him. With Uriah
standing by the window, Jesus was forced to lean forward and raise his voice
“Is this true Jude?’ Are your
friends upset with you for hiding their gold?”
Dropping my chin onto my chest I answered miserably,
“Yes.”
“Humph, I thought so.” He smiled and frowned at the
same time. Rising up to open the
shutters, he called back discreetly, “Don’t worry, I’ll explain it to Papa and
Mama. You go out and play with
Uriah. Unlike all your fair
weather friends, he wants nothing from you. Papa’s at Samuel’s house. I have to supervise James and Joseph in the shop. If you like, I’ll let you and Uriah
help sand furniture. That’ll keep
Simon and your friends off your back.”
Jesus poked his head out and reached down playfully
to Uriah. “Ah hah—caught you!”
Uriah, who had been eavesdropping, blushed
foolishly, receiving a pat on the head.
I wondered now, as I pondered on the promise Jesus made, if Uriah would
overwhelm me with questions. After
all, I told him I was in trouble, and he had waited patiently for so long. How much should I tell them? I couldn’t tell him the truth. He might tell his father. Should I lie to him? I wasn’t a good liar, especially with
Jesus probing my mind. Hastily,
filled with misgivings, I grabbed a few more rolls, which had been intended for
our dinner, and trotted outside.
The frown on Uriah’s pudgy face disappeared entirely when he saw my
offering. Simple food, not
treasure, worked best on him. Of
all my childhood companions, I recall, he displayed little or no guile. He was and would always be Uriah Bar
Joachim, the rabbi’s son—at times annoying, sometimes boring and unimaginative,
but always a faithful friend.
“Does your Mama have any freshly crushed pomegranate
juice?” He asked, wolfing down a roll.
“Sorry, I forgot.” I frowned, running back into the
house.
“Hey, you got any chopped fruit?” He called after
me. “Later maybe we can pick some ripe, juicy plums.”
Uriah probably felt like he was starving because of
the inattentiveness shown to him at his house. Mama and Joachim’s wife had their hands full with the rabbi,
who was much sicker than they had thought. In the past few days poor Uriah has had to fend for himself,
which is why I was so patient with him this hour. Another reason for my patience was the fact that, after
today, he might be the only friend I had.
Jesus was strolling to the carpenter’s shop and stopped to ask him if he
was eating properly. The plump
little boy quickly recounted his misery at missing breakfast three days in a
row and his mother’s failure to even feed him lunch. Jesus promised him that he would not go hungry in our house,
stopping just short of inviting him for dinner tonight. Uriah danced around happily in the
yard, clapping his hands. Had
Jesus forgotten that we were moving Reuben to Samuel’s villa tonight? What about Abigail and Martha’ alleged
sickness? How would we explain
that? Why had he said such a
foolish thing?
Quickly, as I handed him a mug of juice, I clarified
what Jesus meant. “Tomorrow night, Uriah, we shall have lamb and lentils. Won’t that be great?”
“What about tonight?” He groaned.
“You greedy little pig!” I growled under my breath.
“Is your Mama really serving lamb?” Uriah eyed me
suspiciously. “I think Jesus meant tonight. Why are you acting so strangely?”
Before I had a chance to sock Uriah in the arm, I
heard Jesus calling my name. While
devouring the rolls and fruit I brought him, Uriah remained in the yard,
blinking stupidly at our house as I settled forlornly on the garden bench. Having done one more good deed in his
blameless life, Jesus invited me into the shop to help James, Joseph, and
himself sand and paint table legs.
My old resentment at Jesus’ high and mighty ways boiled up that moment. I told him that I was suppose to pick
some weeds for Mama, which, in fact, Simon and I normally did at this hour of
the day. Jesus said nothing, as he
turned the corner of the house.
“That sounds like fun,” Uriah exclaimed, jumping up
and down, “I wanna paint too!”
“Shut up, you fool!” I cried, charging from the bench.
Considering the ill feeling in the orchard and the
trouble waiting for me when my parents returned, I felt surrounded by
tormenting factors. I was annoyed
with the pesky Uriah, and I felt guilty for dodging Jesus offer to help him in
the shop. Feelings of fear,
irritation, and guilt, weighed heavily upon as I muffled Uriah’s mouth. Though I was in no mood to entertain
him, I had an excellent excuse for not going into the backyard. Embracing this chance as the lesser of
two evils, I forced a smile for him.
“I’ve got an idea.” I sighed, pointing to the
garden. “Why don’t you help me pick weeds? Afterwards, I’ll find you something more to eat.”
Easily persuaded, Uriah assisted me cheerily in the
task Simon was supposed to do. I
made sure that I was busily plucking weeds alongside of Uriah when Jesus came
to inspect our work. “It looks
much better,” he observed, reaching down to pat our heads.
Afterwards, when I wasn’t paying attention, Uriah
crawled over to the fig tree and took a nap. After clearing several rows of herbs and vegetables, I
paused, slipped into the house while Uriah dozed, and brought out more rolls
and juice. I had to keep him in
the front yard, away from Simon and my friends, and divert his attention from
the carpenter’s shop. When Uriah
politely asked me why I wasn’t eating and drinking myself, I giggled
hysterically without answering, settling heavily on the garden bench. Already I had depleted the entries for
our evening meal. It couldn’t be
grape juice in the pitcher, I swore silently to myself; it had to be
pomegranate, my favorite juice. I
found his gluttonous behavior especially unsettling in my state of mind. I remember watching him stuff himself
with the honey rolls earlier and then guzzle down the pomegranate juice in
practically one gulp. In my long
life I’ve seen many men with bad manners, but I’ve never seen anyone—man, woman
or child—gorge themselves like that.
Swept with revulsion, I wondered, as he wolfed down his second snack,
where he put it all. I would,
after all that food and juice, be visiting the cloaca by now. He prattled on through mouthfuls of
bread about his favorite delicacies, as if I could muster them up for him out
of thin air. I refused to chop him
up some fruit, but I did pick him a ripe plumb, which he gobbled down with
dispatch.
“Thank you,” he said, licking his fingers, “I was
hungry.”
“I’d never have guessed.” I looked away in disgust.
I heard him belch and hiccup at the same time but
forced myself to smile. Once
again, I reminded myself, after what happened yesterday, he was probably my
only friend, which strangely enough gave me comfort those moments. Loyalty was an important thing. Though forbidden to associate with me,
he always came back. In spite of
his father’s bitterness, he refused to turn on me. From the beginning of Joachim’s quarrel with us, Uriah had
been forced against his will to shun us.
Now here he was again, a steadfast mooring to my past. Never quite understanding our childhood
games, he had a forgiving spirit.
Many times, I recalled, at his own expense, he had made my old friends
and I laugh. Though he said many
stupid things, I don’t remember him ever deliberately saying an evil, hurtful
word.
Since Nehemiah was dead and Michael had fled, I
prayed that God would watch over Uriah.
He was all that I had. I
also felt sorry for him now that his father was sick and might die. I wondered, as he sat on the bench
staring dumbly into space, what he would grow up to be. I planned on being a soldier and world
traveler. Would Uriah be a rabbi
like his father? If so, I told
myself giddily, maybe I should kill him right now.
“Are you laughing at me?” He recoiled at my mirth.
“I was picturing you as a rabbi.” I giggled
hysterically. “Can you imagine that?”
“No,” he answered indignantly, “I don’t wanna be
like him. I’m gonna be a Pharisee
like Samuel or my Uncle Tobin.”
“No, I don’t see you as a Pharisee,” I replied,
wiping my eyes, “nor a priest or scribe. You’d be smart if you learned a trade. You could be a blacksmith, like Boaz’s
father, perhaps a wool carder, like Papa’s friend Ezra, or learn to be a baker,
like Jonah’s uncle Jared. You’d be
good at that, Uriah. Remember when
you showed Mama how to make those fantastic rolls?”
“Yes, I
remember.” He nodded slowly. “I watch my Mama cook and bake, but Papa says it’s
a woman’s work.”
“Joachim said Jesus is a heretic and blasphemer. He was wrong about that too. Come on,” I nudged playfully, “let’s go
help Jesus in the shop.”
Though carpentry had been the obvious choice, I had
left it off my list. I was in no
mood to be around James and Joseph this hour nor suffer Jesus’ gaze, but now
that I had picked most of the weeds, there was nowhere else to go. Afraid that Simon and our friends would
appear, I grabbed Uriah’s sleeve, stifling an urge, when he protested, to give
him a swift kick in the rear.
“Why must we work?” He whined pitifully. “I came
over to play!”
“You came over mostly for food,” I said, dragging
him remorselessly across the yard.
“I hate sawdust,” he wailed, “it makes me sneeze.”
“You hate work,” I replied, as we rounded the corner
and I deposited him in front of the shop. “Jesus is going to introduce you to
woodwork.” I smiled at my oldest brother. “Who knows he may one day pay you a
day’s wage.”
And so began Uriah’s first day in the carpenter’s
shop, an occupation we would share for many years. Simon didn’t dare berate me in Jesus’ presence. None of my new friends dare attack me
for Adam’s removal of the treasure.
It would, using a word I didn’t know then, incriminate them. Whether or not they would believe that
Adam was to blame for taking our treasure away to another hiding place was out
of my hands. Nevertheless, I
dreaded confronting Jethro and Obadiah and having to explain why actions to
them. My chief concern, which I
also placed in Jesus hands, was how my parents would react when they found out
I had conspired with a thief to hide stolen loot in a heathen shrine.
******
I showed Uriah everything I knew about carpentry,
including the sanding and finishing of wood. Jesus supervised his learning, even allowing him to paint a
few strokes of stain on a table leg.
James, Joseph, and I thought it was funny when he dripped varnish onto
his toes. Uriah was the clumsiest
boy I had ever known. When the
little fat boy got a splinter in his hand and squealed like a Syrian pig,
Joseph raced into the house to fetch a sewing needle. James held Uriah’s arm steady, while Jesus carefully dug the
splinter out. I’ve never heard
such commotion. After awhile,
Uriah’s caterwauling brought Simon and the others running up the hill and into
the shop area, eyes wide and mouths agape, expecting one of those dreadful
accidents carpenters have. A few
townsmen passing by stopped to gaze with concern but then, remembering our
family’s eccentricities, continued on their way.
It must have looked like he was being tortured by
Jesus and James, but Simon, Jethro and Obadiah, ignored Uriah’s plight and came
straight to the point.
“Where is it?” Simon snarled.
“Yeah, you little thief,” spat Jethro, “it belongs
to us all.”
“Where is what?” Joseph challenged him. “Don’t call
my brother a thief!”
Uriah was sobbing loudly as the splinter was
displayed to him. Jesus blew the
tiny piece of wood off the needle and stuck the needle calmly into his sleeve.
“There, that wasn’t so bad,” he said, tousling
Uriah’s hair.
“What’s he talking about?” James looked squarely at
me. “Why are they calling you a thief?”
“I dunno,” I muttered, staring at the ground.
“Jethro, Obadiah, Boaz, and Jonah,” Jesus looked at
each one of them, “go home and think about what your parents would think if
they knew what you’ve done.”
“We haven’t done anything wrong.” Boaz said
challengingly. “Jude hid the treasure.”
“Yes we did.” Jonah smiled at Jesus. “We took
treasure from a thief—all of us, not just Jude. That makes us thieves too.”
After this disclosure, James and Joseph’s eyebrows
shot up and mouths dropped wide.
“What?” sputtered James. “There’s treasure. Where? Tell us where?”
“What’s he talking about, Jude?” Joseph placed his
hand on my shoulder. “Did you find the Magi’s gifts?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jesus scolded. “Papa told me
where he hid the gifts.” “Are you
boys saying there’s treasure in the hills?”
“No, no,” Obadiah said, shaking his head. “We never
said that.”
“We were playing a game,” nodded Jethro. “Make
believe treasure—pretend gold, that’s all.”
“Uh-uh.” Boaz folded his arms. “It was gold—real
gold, and we found it first!”
Jethro, Obadiah, and Jonah walked away
dejectedly. Boaz followed
reluctantly behind them, looking menacingly back at me, while Simon just stood
there in front of me, a mixture of loathing and disappointment on his
face. I was disappointed in Boaz
and Jonah. Obviously, Jethro and
Obadiah had gotten them worked up over the misplaced gold.
“We’ll talk about this later.” Jesus said to me, as
Papa called suddenly from the road.
“My finger hurts real bad,” simpered Uriah. “It
needs some of Mary’s potion.”
“Has your mother returned?” Papa asked, wiping his
brow. “Don’t tell me she’s still over at the rabbi’s house.”
“Still there.” I sighed, edging close to Jesus.
“What’re you going to tell him?” I whispered as Papa walked up. “Protect me
Jesus—they’re gonna kill me when they find out what I’ve done.
As I think about it, my plea was made to the future
Savior of Mankind. At the time,
however, all I wanted was for my big brother to save me from my parents. Papa had never really been hard on me,
but Mama’s sense of right and wrong was very strong. Jesus said nothing but gave me that enigmatic smile, which
said so very much. When he added a
sly wink and reassuring nod, I wasn’t afraid, because I was certain he would
somehow make it all right.
As we returned to our work in the shop, Papa glanced
at us suspiciously a moment before grabbing up his shaver and returning to his
bench. Uriah continued to whine
about his finger. James and Joseph
cast accusing looks at me, as Simon, angry about his lost treasure, ran back
down the hill. Before Mama
returned from Joachim’s house, Papa asked me to go fetch some fruit and
vegetables from the garden. When I
had begun picking plums from the tree, he appeared suddenly beside me,
startling me out of my wits.
“I’m sorry Papa,” I blurted.
“About what?” He frowned, biting into a plum. “I’m
proud of you for showing Uriah the craft.” “Trouble is,” he said, looking back
at the shop, “I think he expects to be invited to dinner, and we still have
Reuben in the house.”
“What’re we going to do?” I asked, sighing with
relief.
“Reuben will have to eat in his room. I think Hannah expects us to feed her
son.”
“What?” I gasped. “Uriah’s staying for dinner?”
This struck me as ominous. I felt light-headed after all that had happened to me. Papa frowned as I giggled hysterically
to myself. What next? I wondered. Will Uriah become a permanent guest in our house?
“Jude, are you all right son?” He shook me gently.
“Is Reuben happy about going over to Samuel’s
house?” I changed the subject, grinning foolishly.
“Let’s put it this way.” He shrugged and scratched
his beard. “He’ll miss our family, but he won’t miss being kept a prisoner in
that room.”
“Everything’s spinning so fast,” I muttered under my
breath.
I could see Jesus emerging from the house with some
of Mama’s ointments to prevent infection in Uriah’s tiny cut. I’m convinced that Uriah whined and
complained for attention he didn’t get at home. As I watched him run up to Jesus, holding his hand as if he
had a serious wound, a revelation swept over me that would, as Papa might say,
tip the scales. Because of
Joachim’s sickness, Uriah would be sent to live with us. I would have to listen to his whiney,
simpering voice day and night. The
great weight of issues I had felt for so long, which had increased greatly in
the past few days, now slammed down.
The thought of having Uriah living in our house, though unsupported by
fact, was the final measure. My
knees suddenly weakened and head swooned as the weight pressed down on me. A strange combination of
light-headedness and heaviness sent me plunging down to the ground. I was aware of a soft landing on a pile
of picked weeds, Papa’s voice, and momentary blackness, but the time from when
Papa carried me into the house and I awakened on the kitchen table was forever
lost in my mind.
“Jude, Jude,” Papa’s voice seemed to echo down a
long, hollow tunnel.
I heard Uriah whimpering in this distant world
“What’s wrong with Jude. Is he
sick? Will he be all right?”
James voice was also filled with concern, “Maybe he
hit his head. Check his pupils
like Mama does. Check his pulse.”
“Maybe there’s a knot on his head,” Joseph offered,
his fingers exploring my scalp.
“He didn’t hit his head.” Papa waved them off. “I
was standing right next to him when he collapsed. We need your mother.
Uriah, go fetch my wife.”
I could see all of them hovering over me now. Nearby, the all-knowing Jesus was
comforting them, “Have no fear; Jude has merely fainted. Bring him water and Mama’s smelling
salts.”
“Wha-a-a happennned?” my tongue rolled thickly in my
mouth.
“Uriah, come back,” Papa shouted belatedly. “His eyes are opened. “Oh thank you Lord.
Joseph,
bring him some water.”
Before
Uriah had ran back into the house, I heard Jesus whisper to Reuben, “He’s going
to be all right. Quick, shut the
door before he returns.” Through
the blur of motion, the first face to become clear in my eyes was Jesus, as he
waved smelling salts under my nose.
“Merciful Lord, what caused this?” Papa wiped his
sweating brow with his sleeve.
“I dunno,” muttered Joseph, “there’s no bumps on his
head. I didn’t see any bites.”
“His eyes are all right,” James piped, “and his
coloring’s good.”
Jesus, who knew better, looked down at me, his eyes
filled with great compassion, the afternoon sun glinting in his hair. “I think Jude’s head was like a pot
simmering on a fire. If there’s
too much broth and too hot a fire, steam will build up and the pot will boil
over. When the pot is taken off
the fire and is allowed to cool, the broth will stop bubbling and the boiling
will cease.”
“What does that mean?” Simon made a face.
“It means,” Uriah offered, his chubby face looming
above, “Jude’s head almost popped.”
My brothers and father laughed, more from relief
than Uriah’s silly statement. With
characteristic sarcasm more than intuition James came close to the truth.
“I know what it means,” he said, tapping my skull,
“its all that guilt inside.”
“Hello demons,” Joseph bent down to whisper in my
ear, “demons come forth!”
Unwittingly, of course, but no less effective, they
offered one possible reason for my behavior at times. One day, as I recall—a memory foremost among his deeds—Jesus
would cure a madman of his demons, a miracle he had also done for Matthias,
Joseph of Arimathea’s son. That
day in our house I was just a boy filled with childish things, and yet once, in
the darkness, I saw the Evil One with my own eyes. Gripped with sudden terror, I considered this possibility. Could that be the reason I had hidden
stolen treasure in a pagan temple and concealed it from my parents. Tears filled my eyes, blurring my
vision again. A sob escaped my
throat as they loomed overhead.
“No-o-o-o-!” I screamed.
“Now look what you did!” scolded Uriah. “Jude
doesn’t have demons. My Papa has
demons!”
“James, Joseph—that’s wasn’t funny,” Papa snapped.
“Your brother’s not possessed with demons. Where did you hear such drivel? I’ve seen a possessed man, more likely mad, raving and
foaming at the mouth. The only
demons I’ve ever seen are at bottom of a wine cup, not someone’s head.” “Jude,”
he whispered, raising me into a sitting position. “Boiling broth makes
sense. What’s troubling you my
son. What terrible things could
bother a child?”
“Nothing,” I answered miserably.
“There are demons in the Torah,” grumbled Joseph.
“Tell me the truth.” Papa leaned down for my
confession. “What’s boiling inside your head?”
Jesus, who disapproved of this line of questioning,
pulled Papa gently away from the table.
For a few moments, as I sat there, I could hear them mumble back and
forth. At one point Papa looked
back at me in disbelief, a sly smile almost lost in his bearded face. It was a reassuring sign. I could scarcely believe that Jesus had
told him what happened so quickly.
Uriah
smiled at me.
“So your Papa has demons.” Simon gave him a playful
sock.
As Papa and Jesus walked back to the table, Uriah
nodded faintly, a simple admission that shored up my faith in him. In spite of everything, he spoke up for
me as a steadfast friend. Now,
with what he said about his father, he showed his solidarity with my
family. Simon, whose loyalty
always returned, stood on the other side of me, as if he had forgotten
completely about the lost treasure.
I’m certain Jethro and Obadiah got him riled up, as they had Boaz and
Jonah, today. If Jesus had, within
such a short time, told Papa what I had done, I prayed silently that it would
all come out smoothly this moment and not spoil the feeling of well being I
suddenly had.
Papa began what I thought would be a long interrogation:
“That Adam was a rascal, was he not?
He tricked you boys into playing his game. All along he must have known he would retrieve his treasure. The fact that it’s hidden in a pagan
temple insures that faithful Jews will not trespass this forbidden place.” “Is this not true, my son?” He placed
his hand on my head, as if in blessing.
“Yes
Papa,” I answered slowly. “. . . Adam was sorry he tempted us with the
treasure. That’s why we put it
where we did, so no one would dare try to find it.”
“I heard it was on a pagan alter.” Papa frowned
severely. “I wonder what purification rite we must perform for this.”
“Where? Where is the alter?” Simon drooping
eyelashes flew open.
James and Joseph, for all their piety, also grew
excited, as they contemplated treasure so close to our house.
Simon and Uriah moved aside, so that Papa could loom
over me and Jesus could stand by my side.
My other brothers stood behind me mumbling excitedly, as Papa asked me a
series of questions.
“Did you know it was a temple to the old religion,
an abomination to our faith?” He gave me a stern look.
I chewed on my lip a moment. “. . . . I wasn’t
certain what Adam was up to . . . but I knew when we entered that it was very
old—an unclean place where I shouldn’t be.”
“Where is it?”
Joseph now asked eagerly. “Is it far from our house?”
Another hysterical giggle escaped my throat, as
James and Uriah asked the very same thing.
“Don’t answer that question!” Papa turned and gave
them a menacing look. “You know what you did was wrong, even dangerous,
considering the person who led you there.
Promise me that you’ll never go back there and this will between you,
God, Jesus, and me.”
“And us!” Joseph glanced at Uriah and James.
“I promise,” I said, hanging my head.
“Jude’s been defiled,” Uriah announced, clasping his
forehead. “He will have to see a priest!”
“No priests,” Papa spoke with distaste. “In His own
way, God spoke to Jude. When he
awakened on the table, I forgave him for his childhood stupidity. So did God. You should too.”
I know Papa was speaking to everyone present, but
Uriah thought Papa was talking to him personally and, with a contrite
expression, gave me a hug.
“I forgive Jude for his heresy and blasphemy,” he
exclaimed, looking around for recognition.
Papa snorted irritably, Joseph shook their head, and
Simon rolled his eyes.
“He’s his father’s son,” James snarled.
“He means well,” observed Jesus. “More than mere
words, you must look into someone’s heart.”
“Uriah’s my faithful friend,” I said so faintly that no one,
even Uriah, heard.
The truth was, of course, I still had misgivings
about him. Papa now gave me a
short lecture on trusting people.
I had trusted Michael, and he had tried to steal from us. Adam, the son of a bandit chief, had
been much worse, and yet I had trusted him too. Now, because of my mischief, one of my friends might slip
and tell their parents about this stunt.
Above all, I should never have trusted Caleb’s sons! We didn’t need any more scandal. When would I learn? Far from upsetting me, Papa’s words
gave me comfort, because he had already forgiven me. I could see it in his eyes. I expected to be punished and scolded again by Mama, but I
was content with his rebuke.
When Mama finally returned from Joachim’s house, she
had good and bad news for us. The
good news was that Joachim wasn’t going to die. The bad news was that Joachim’s distressed wife asked us to
take in Uriah for awhile.”
“I knew it!” James gave a wounded cry.
“How long is awhile?” growled Joseph. “What if the
rabbi dies? What if his wife runs
off, leaving her daughter? Are you
going to adopt her too?”
“Huh?
What? What did she say?”
Simon, who had been dosing at table, came alive.
My revelation was correct. My thoughts mirrored Joseph’s concerns. As the three brothers murmured
anxiously amongst themselves, Papa told Mama about my lapse of judgment. I expected her to be angry with me, but
she was much too exhausted to show it.
There was, we all knew, much more important business tonight. Papa and Jesus had prepared dinner for
us, which allowed Mama a chance to relax as Simon, the twins, and I served our
meal. Before the blessing, Mama
looked at Uriah, and receiving a nod from Papa, revealed our secret.
Without telling a falsehood and cause Jesus dismay,
she said very simply, “Uriah, you haven’t met our friend Bartholomew, have
you?”
“Father Abraham,” I groaned.
“She’s going to tell him. She’s going to tell him,” Simon whispered fearfully to me.
Since it was decided that Reuben would be given a
new name, this was an acceptable subterfuge for Jesus. Had not Abram been given a different
name in the Torah, signifying a new beginning with God? Bartholomew, though once a brigand, was,
as Abraham, reborn in the eyes of God.
Jesus would one day incorporate the concept of rebirth in his doctrine
of salvation. Back then, of
course, he had meant only that Reuben was physically and mentally changed from
his old self. When he brought him
out for inspection, we could see no recognition in Uriah’s face.
“Hello Bartholomew,” he promptly greeted our guest.
“Greetings Uriah, friend of Joseph, my kinsman, ” he
responded quickly.
Jesus recoiled at this exaggeration, yet Papa smiled
at Reuben’s nerve. I couldn’t see
Mama’s reaction, but James, Joseph, and Simon giggled like jackals, almost
giving him away.
“What’re they laughing about?” Uriah turned to me.
“I dunno.” I shrugged, glancing angrily at my
brothers.
All of them, including Jesus, found Reuben’s
statement outlandish, and yet a warm smile spread on Mama’s face.
“Please sit down and sup with us.” Papa came
forward, directing our guest to a seat at the table. “Ru-er-Bartholomew is
visiting us from Joppa,” he announced dubiously. “He plans on visiting his old
friend Samuel tonight before returning home.”
Uriah nodded thoughtfully. In his trusting gaze, we knew he had accepted this
falsehood. “Samuel?” he chattered innocently. “My father hates Samuel, but I
know he’s a good man. I’ve never
been to Joppa. It’s a big city
like Jerusalem, is it not?”
“Ho-ho, not as big as our holy city,” Papa replied
good-naturedly.
For several moments, Uriah prattled amiably with Bartholomew about the ships that sailed in and out of Joppa, some traveling to distant lands. My heart leaped at the thought, for I hadn’t given up my desire to be a world traveler, perhaps as a soldier of Rome. As Papa gave the blessing, which included a prayer for Bartholomew’s safety, I realized that he had carried their fabricated story straight to God’s ear. I hoped the Lord had a sense of humor. With our family’s eccentricities, He needed one. As we ate a simple dinner of stew, biscuits, and chopped plums, grapes, and figs, we paused at times to toast, our mugs filled with the juice Uriah had not drunk, to Joachim’s health, for the comfort of his wife Hannah, and the safe journey of Bartholomew back to Joppa. Secretly, as I sipped my juice, I drank my own toast that my friends would one day forgive me and that I would someday find the Magi’s gifts to replace the treasure now out of reach.
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